The Shakespeare Story-Book

Dogberry had finished his string of ridiculous instructions to the band, and had just taken his departure, when two wayfarers came along from opposite directions, and stopped to speak to each other. These were Borachio and Conrade, the two followers of the wicked Don John.

The street was quite dark, and apparently deserted, and as at that moment it began to drizzle with rain, the two men took shelter under a convenient pent-house. Suspicious of some treason, the watchmen concealed themselves near, and thus overheard the whole tale of villainy which Borachio confessed to Conrade.

“Know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero,” he said. “She leans out of the window to me, she bids me a thousand times good-night. But I should first tell you how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, placed and instructed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this affectionate interview.”

“And did they think Margaret was Hero?”

“Two of them did – the Prince and Claudio – but the devil, my master, knew she was Margaret. Deceived partly by the darkness of the night, but chiefly by my villainy, which confirmed any slander that Don John invented, away went Claudio enraged, swore he would meet her as was appointed next morning at the church, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he had seen, and send her home again without a husband.”

Borachio had scarcely finished speaking when the watchmen pounced on the two villains. Surprised by the suddenness of the onslaught, they were quickly overpowered, and, finding any attempt at resistance useless, they had to submit to being led ignominiously away.

“Done to Death by Slanderous Tongues”

Next morning a brilliant company were assembled in the great church at Messina to see the wedding of Count Claudio and the lady Hero. Beatrice, of course, was there with her cousin, and Leonato to give his daughter away. The young maiden, in her snowy robe and veil, stood ready, and facing her was the gallant young Count, in his bridal splendour of white and gold.

“You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?” said the Friar.

“No,” said Claudio.

The bystanders were astonished at this curt response, but Leonato corrected the Friar’s words.

“To be married to her; Friar, you come to marry her.”

“Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count?”

“I do,” said Hero, in a low but steady voice.

“If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, I charge you on your souls to utter it,” said the Friar.

“Know you any, Hero?” demanded Claudio sternly.

“None, my lord,” came the slightly wondering but unfaltering answer.

“Know you any, Count?”

“I dare make his answer, none,” interposed Leonato.

“Oh, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!” cried Claudio, in a burst of bitter scorn. Then, turning to Leonato, he said: “Will you with free soul give me this maid, your daughter?”

“As freely, son, as God gave her to me,” said Leonato.

“And what have I to give you that shall equal in worth this rare and precious gift?” said Claudio.

“Nothing, unless you render her again,” said Don Pedro.

“Sweet Prince, you teach me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again.”

And then Claudio, as he had sworn, in the presence of the whole congregation, brought forth his terrible accusations against Hero, and declared he would not marry her. Stung to fury by what he considered her wickedness and deceit – for the young girl’s blushing modesty and grace appeared to him nothing but seeming – he related what he and the Prince had seen the night before, and how Hero had spoken out of her window with a ruffian. It was useless for Hero to protest her innocence; nothing could destroy the evidence of their own eyes.

Unable to endure this cruel and astounding calumny, Hero sank fainting to the ground. Don Pedro, Claudio, and Don John left the church; the amazed wedding guests dispersed; and Leonato, Beatrice, Benedick, and the Friar were left alone with the unhappy Hero.

“How doth the lady?” asked Benedick, approaching the spot where Beatrice was eagerly trying to recall her cousin to consciousness.

“Dead, I think,” cried Beatrice in despair. “Help, uncle! Hero – why, Hero! Uncle! Signor Benedick! Friar!”

“Death is the fairest cover for her shame that can be wished for,” said the heart-broken father.

“How now, Cousin Hero!” said Beatrice, as the young girl slowly opened her dazed eyes.

“Have comfort, lady,” said the Friar tenderly.

“Do you look up?” said Leonato.

“Yes; wherefore should she not?” said the Friar.

In his terrible grief, not questioning the truth of the story, Leonato declared that death was the happiest thing that could happen to Hero after such dishonour, and that if her spirit had strength enough to survive such shame, he could almost be tempted to kill her with his own hands.

“Sir, sir, be patient!” pleaded Benedick. “For my part, I am so attired in wonder I do not know what to say.”

“Upon my soul, my cousin is belied!” exclaimed Beatrice.

Then the Friar stepped forward, and declared his absolute belief in Hero’s innocence, and his words were so clear and convincing that even Leonato began to think his daughter must be wrongfully accused. The mystery was puzzling, for, as Benedick remarked, the Prince and Claudio were the soul of honour, and were only too terribly convinced themselves of the truth of what they had said. If they had been misled in any way, it must be the work of Don John, who delighted in planning deeds of villainy.

By the good Friar’s advice, it was agreed that for the present Hero should stay secretly in retirement, so that the outside world should imagine she was really dead. Slander would then be changed to remorse, and she would be lamented, excused, and pitied by everyone. For it generally falls out that we do not prize to its full worth what we have; but when it is lacked and lost, then we appreciate its value. So it would fare with Claudio. When he should hear that Hero had died at his words, the sweet remembrance of her lovely life would creep into his soul; then he would mourn and wish he had not so accused her.

“Signor Leonato, let the Friar advise you,” said Benedick. “And though you know my loyalty and love to the Prince and Claudio, yet by mine honour I will deal as secretly and justly in this matter as your soul would with your body.”

So it was agreed, and then the good Friar and Leonato took away Hero to put their plan into execution.

Left alone with Benedick, Beatrice’s rage and indignation found full vent. She was justly furious at the indignity that had been put on her gentle cousin, and though for a moment Benedick won her to a lighter mood by confessing his love for her, yet she speedily returned to the subject of which her heart was full.

“Oh that I were a man!” she cried, her one desire being to revenge Hero, and punish the dastards who had wrought such an insult on her. If Benedick really loved her, she declared, he would take this office on himself and kill Claudio.

“Kill Claudio!”

Benedick hesitated. No, he could not do that. Claudio was his friend… But he loved Beatrice; her generous, whole-hearted sympathy for her cousin could not but prevail with one of Benedick’s chivalrous nature.

“Think you in your soul that Count Claudio has wronged Hero?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes, as surely as I have a thought or a soul,” said Beatrice, with noble pride.

“Enough; I am engaged. I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. Go, comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead. And so, farewell.”

Benedick, the scoffer, the jester, the light-hearted wit of the Prince’s Court, showed in this moment that he was also a high-souled chivalrous gentleman, fitting mate for the brave and noble-spirited Beatrice.

In accordance with his promise, Benedick went to seek Claudio. He presently found him with Don Pedro. The two gentlemen had just had a painful interview with Leonato, who had indignantly reproached them for their behaviour. They felt anything but happy, although they persisted in thinking that they were quite justified in acting as they had done. However, at the sight of Benedick their spirits rallied, and they tried to assume their usual teasing vein of raillery. But Benedick was in no jesting humour. With cold self-possession he delivered his challenge to Claudio, and then he took a dignified leave of the Prince of Arragon.

“My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you,” he said. “I must discontinue your company. Your brother Don John is fled from Messina; you have among you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet; and till then peace be with him.”

“He is in earnest,” said the Prince, as Benedick withdrew.

“In most profound earnest,” said Claudio; “and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.”

“And has challenged you.”

“Most sincerely.”

“What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off his wit!” said Don Pedro disdainfully.

But the self-satisfaction of the Prince and Claudio were soon to receive a severe shock. The watchmen now approached, bringing with them their capture of the night before, the culprits Borachio and Conrade, and the whole miserable tale of treachery was duly unfolded. Leonato was sent for in haste.

“Are you the slave that with your slander slew my innocent child?” he asked of Borachio.

“Yes, even I alone.”

“No, not so, villain; you belie yourself,” said Leonato. “Here stand a pair of honourable men; a third is fled that had a hand in it. I thank you, Princes, for my daughter’s death: it was bravely done, if you bethink you of it.”

Claudio was overwhelmed with remorse; he dared not ask pardon of the deeply-wronged Leonato, but he besought him to chose his own revenge, and to impose on him any penance he choose to invent. Don Pedro also joined him in expressing his deep penitence.

“I cannot bid you bid my daughter live,” replied Leonato, “but I pray you both proclaim to all the people in Messina how innocent she died. Hang an epitaph upon her tomb, and sing it there to-night. To-morrow morning come to my house, and since you cannot be my son-in-law, be my nephew. My brother has a daughter almost the copy of my child that’s dead. Marry her, as you would have married her cousin, and so dies my revenge.”

Claudio willingly agreed to carry out this suggestion, and that night he went to the church with a solemn company, and read aloud the following scroll:

“Done to death by slanderous tonguesWas the Hero that here lies;Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,Gives her fame which never dies.So the life that died with shameLives in death with glorious fame.”

“Hang thou there upon the tomb, praising her when I am dumb,” he added, placing the scroll on the family monument of Leonato.

The following morning a large company again assembled in Leonato’s house, for another wedding was to take place. This time all the ladies were veiled, and it was not until the words were spoken in which Claudio took an unknown maiden to be his wife that the bride threw back her veil and revealed the well-loved face of Hero.

Benedick had already announced to the Friar that he intended to marry the lady Beatrice, and Leonato had given his willing approval. Benedick therefore approached the group of still masked figures to find his own lady, and called Beatrice by name.

“What is your will?” she inquired, taking off her mask.

“Do not you love me?” asked Benedick.

“Why, no – no more than reason,” said Beatrice provokingly.

“Why, then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio have been deceived; they swore you did.”

Beatrice laughed.

“Do not you love me?” she asked in her turn.

“Troth, no; no more than reason,” said Benedick loftily.

“Why, then, my cousin, Margaret and Ursula are much deceived, for they swore you did.”

“They swore you were almost ill for me,” declared Benedick.

“They swore that you were wellnigh dead for me,” retorted Beatrice.

“’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?”

“No, truly, but in friendly recompense,” said Beatrice, with airy indifference.

“Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman,” said Leonato.

“And I’ll be sworn that he loves her,” said Claudio.

“Come, I will have thee,” said Benedick. “But by this light I take thee for pity.”

“I would not deny you,” said Beatrice, “but by this good day I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”

“Peace, I will stop your mouth!” said Benedick; and he silenced her merry chatter with a loving kiss.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Don Pedro, with shy malice. “How dost thou, Benedick the married man?”

But the lovers’ happiness was proof against any raillery that could be lavished on them, and no lighter hearts led off the revelry that wedding-day than those of Beatrice and Benedick.

A Midsummer-Night’s Dream

Helena and Hermia

Theseus, Duke of Athens, was to wed Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, and the whole city was given up to merriment in honour of the occasion. Theseus had won his bride by the sword, but he was to wed her in another fashion – with pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. Four days had yet to elapse before the marriage, and during that time the citizens of Athens were to busy themselves with preparations for the great event.

In the midst of the general rejoicing, a gentleman of Athens, by name Egeus, came to invoke the authority of the Duke. Full of vexation, he came to complain against his child, his daughter Hermia. Egeus wished her to marry a certain gentleman called Demetrius; but meanwhile Hermia had already fallen in love with another gentleman called Lysander, and she declared she would marry no one but Lysander.

Now, the law of Athens at that time gave full power to a father to dispose of his daughter as he chose; that is to say, if she declined to marry the man he selected, the father had power to put her to death or to shut her up in a convent.

The Duke of Athens gave Hermia four days to make her choice. At the end of that time she must either consent to marry Demetrius, in accordance with her father’s wishes, or else she must retire to a convent for the rest of her days.

Hermia answered without hesitation: she would rather be shut up in a convent all her life than marry a man she did not love.

Lysander himself pleaded that he was in every way as suitable a match as Demetrius – quite as well born and equally wealthy. Beyond all this, he was beloved of Hermia. Why, then, should he not try to win her? Besides, he added, Demetrius had already paid court to another lady – Helena – and had won her heart; and this sweet lady was still devoted to this fickle and unworthy man.

“I must confess I have heard of this, and I intended to speak to Demetrius on the subject,” said the Duke. “But being so overfull of my own affairs, the matter slipped out of my mind. But come, Demetrius, and come, Egeus, I wish to speak to you both in private. As for you, fair Hermia, see that you prepare to obey your father’s will, or else the law of Athens which I have no power to alter, yields you up to death or to a vow of single life.”

The Duke went off with Egeus and Demetrius, and Hermia and Lysander were left alone. They were very sorry for themselves, and began to lament the misfortunes and the difficulties that always seem to beset the path of true love.

Hermia was inclined to submit without further struggle, but Lysander was not going to give in so easily, and he hurriedly unfolded a plan to save Hermia from the fate that lay before her.

“I have a widow aunt, very wealthy, who has no child,” he said. “Her house is seven leagues distant from Athens, and she treats me as her own son. There, gentle Hermia, I can marry you, and in that place the sharp law of Athens cannot touch us. If you love me, then, steal from your father’s house to-morrow night, and I will wait for you a league outside the town, in that wood where I met you once with Helena, gathering flowers before the dawn on the first of May.”

“My good Lysander!” cried Hermia, hiding her real earnestness under half-jesting words, “I swear to you by Cupid’s strongest bow – by his best arrow with the golden head – and by all the vows that ever men broke, that I will truly meet you to-morrow in the place you have appointed.”

“Keep promise, love. Look! here comes Helena.”

From their earliest days Helena and Hermia had been the dearest of friends and the closest of companions, never apart, either at work or play, growing up together side by side, like a double cherry, or two lovely berries moulded on one stem.

But, alas! love – or, rather, jealousy – had come to thrust them apart. Demetrius, who had at first paid court to Helena, afterwards transferred his affection to Hermia, and persuaded her father Egeus to favour his suit. Hermia cared nothing at all for Demetrius, and loved no one but Lysander. But Helena could not forgive her friend for having taken her fickle lover from her, and now she bitterly lamented that her own charms had been powerless to retain him.

“I frowned upon Demetrius, but he loves me still,” said Hermia, for she did not wish her friend to think she had acted unfairly. “The more I hate, the more he follows me.”

“The more I love, the more he hates me,” said Helena sadly.

“His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine,” said Hermia.

“None. Your only fault is your beauty. Would that fault were mine,” sighed Helena.

“Take comfort; he shall see my face no more,” said Hermia. “Lysander and I are going to fly this place. We are to meet to-morrow in that wood where you and I have so often wandered, and thence we shall turn our eyes from Athens to seek new friends and strange companions. Farewell, sweet playfellow; pray for us, and good luck grant you your Demetrius.”

Helena’s passion for Demetrius was so strong that it overpowered all other consideration, and on this occasion it made her do a very mean and disloyal action. Anxious to win back a little affection from her faithless lover, no matter at what cost, she determined to betray Hermia’s secret, and to go and tell Demetrius of her flight. Then Demetrius would pursue her to-morrow night to the wood, and if he rewarded Helena with even a little gratitude for the information, she felt her attempt would not have been in vain.

Playing the Lion

Unknown to the lovers, that same wood was chosen as a meeting-place for the following night by a very different set of people. Several of the petty artisans of Athens, anxious to celebrate the wedding in proper style, had decided to perform a little play – or “interlude,” as it was called – in the presence of the Duke and Duchess. Quince, the carpenter, was supposed to direct the proceedings of this little band of amateur actors, but the ruling spirit of the company was in reality Bottom, the weaver. Bursting with self-conceit, never able to keep silent a moment, Bottom was ready to instruct everyone else in his duties, and if it had only been possible for him to have played every character in the piece, in addition to his own, he would have been quite content. As each part was mentioned, and Quince began to apportion them out, Bottom’s voice was heard again and again, declaring how well he could perform each one. The play was to be “The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisby,” and Bottom was selected for Pyramus, the hero.

“What is Pyramus – a lover or a tyrant?” he inquired.

“A lover that kills himself most gallantly for love,” answered Quince.

“That will ask some tears in the true performing of it,” said Bottom, swelling with self-importance. “If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes.”

The next character was Thisby, the heroine, and this was given to Flute, the bellows-mender, a thin, lanky youth with a squeaky voice.

“Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming,” he said piteously.

“That’s all one; you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will,” said Quince.

“If I hide my face, let me play Thisby, too,” cried Bottom eagerly. “I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice. ‘Thisne, Thisne!’ ‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! Thy Thisby dear, and lady dear!’”

“No, no! you must play Pyramus, and, Flute, you Thisby,” said Quince.

“Well, proceed,” said Bottom.

Quince went on with his list, and presently he called out the name of Snug, the joiner.

“You will play the lion’s part, Snug,” he said; “and now, I hope, there is the play fitted.”

“Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study,” said Snug modestly, for he was a very meek and mild little man.

“You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring,” said Quince.

“Let me play the lion, too,” burst in Bottom. “I will roar that it will do any man’s heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the Duke say: ‘Let him roar again.’”

“If you should do it too terribly, you would frighten the Duchess and the ladies out of their wits, so that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us all,” said Quince.

“That would hang us, every mother’s son,” agreed the rest of the little band, quaking with terror.

“I grant you, friends, that if you should frighten the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us,” said Bottom. “But I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar as if it were any nightingale.”

“You can play no part but Pyramus,” said Quince firmly. So Bottom had reluctantly to give in, and to devote his energies to deciding what coloured beard it would be best to play the important part of Pyramus in. It was really quite a difficult matter, there were so many to choose from, – straw-colour, orange tawny, purple-in-grain, or French-crown, which was perfect yellow. But Quince said any colour would do, or he might play it without a beard.

“Masters, here are your parts,” he concluded, “and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to know them by to-morrow night, and meet me in the palace wood, a mile outside the town, by moonlight. There we will rehearse, for if we meet in the city we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. I pray you, do not fail me.”

The Magic Flower

Now, the wood which Hermia and Lysander had appointed as their trysting-place, and where Bottom and his fellow-actors were also to meet to rehearse their play, was the favourite haunt of fairies, and on this Midsummer Night Oberon, King of the Fairies, was to hold his revels there. Sad to say, for some time past there had been great dissension between Oberon and his Queen, Titania, and because of their quarrels nothing went well in the surrounding country. The cause of their disagreement was a lovely Indian boy, the sweetest little changeling imaginable. Queen Titania had him as her attendant, and jealous Oberon wanted the boy for his own page. Titania refused to give him up; he was the child of a dear friend, now dead, and for her sake she had reared up the boy, and for her sake she would not part with him.

Oberon and Titania never met now, in grove or green, by the clear fountain, or in the spangled starlight, without quarrelling so fiercely that their elves crept for fear into acorn-cups, and hid themselves there. They generally tried to keep out of each other’s way, but on this night it happened that as King Oberon, with his little sprite Puck and his train, approached from one direction, Queen Titania and her attendant fairies came near from the other. Titania reproached Oberon with all the ill-luck that was happening because of their dissension, and Oberon replied that it only lay with her to amend it.

“Why should Titania cross her Oberon?” he asked. “I do but beg a little changeling boy to be my henchman.”

“Set your heart at rest,” replied Titania; “the whole of Fairyland will not buy the child of me.”

“How long do you intend to stay in this wood?” asked Oberon.

“Perhaps till after Theseus’s wedding-day,” said Titania. “If you will join patiently in our dance, and see our moonlight revels, go with us. If not, shun me, and I will take care to avoid your haunts.”