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The Shakespeare Story-Book
“Cupid’s Crafty Arrow”
Benedick was strolling alone in Leonato’s orchard, and as he went he mused to himself.
“I do wonder,” he thought, “that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he is in love, after he has laughed at such shallow follies in others, will himself become the object of his own scorn by falling in love; and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife, and now he had rather hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known when he would have walked ten miles on foot to see a good armour, and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. Shall I ever be so converted, and see with those eyes? I cannot tell. I think not. I will not be sworn that love may not transform me to an oyster, but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be – that’s certain; wise and virtuous, or I’ll have none of her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair – her hair shall be of what colour it pleases God… Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Love. I will hide me in the arbour.”
And Benedick hastily concealed himself, as Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato approached, followed by some musicians.
“Come, shall we hear this music?” said Don Pedro, seating himself on a bench within earshot of the arbour. “See you where Benedick has hidden himself?” he added in a low voice.
“Oh, very well, my lord,” answered Claudio. “When the music is ended, we will give him something to think about.”
“Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again,” said Don Pedro.
So the musicians lightly touched the strings of their instruments, and Balthasar began his song:
“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny!
“Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of man was ever so,
Since summer first was leafy:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny!”
“By my troth, a good song!” said the Prince. “Balthasar, I pray you get us some excellent music, for to-morrow night we would have it at the lady Hero’s chamber-window.”
“The best I can, my lord.”
“Do so; farewell… Come hither, Leonato,” said Don Pedro, when the young musician had retired. “What was it that you told me of to-day – that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signor Benedick?”
“Go on,” whispered Claudio. “We shall catch our bird. I did never think that lady would have loved any man,” he added aloud, for Benedick’s benefit.
“No, nor I neither,” said Leonato; “but it is most wonderful that she should so doat on Signor Benedick, whom she has in all outward behaviour always seemed to abhor.”
“Is it possible? Sits the wind in that corner?” murmured the astonished Benedick in his hiding-place.
“By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that she loves him frantically,” continued Leonato. “It is past the bounds of belief.”
“Has she made her affection known to Benedick?” asked Don Pedro.
“No, and swears she never will; that is the cause of her unhappiness.”
“’Tis true indeed,” put in Claudio. “‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so often encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’”
“‘I measure him by my own spirit,’ she says,” continued Leonato, “‘for I should flout him if he wrote to me – yea, though I love him, I should.’”
“And then she weeps and sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair,” said Claudio.
“My daughter is sometimes afraid she will do a desperate outrage to herself,” said Leonato.
“It were good if Benedick knew it from someone else, if she will not reveal it,” said Don Pedro.
“To what end?” asked Claudio. “He would make but a sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse.”
“If he did it would be a charity to hang him,” said Don Pedro indignantly. “She is an excellent, sweet lady.”
“And she is exceedingly wise,” put in Claudio.
“In everything but in loving Benedick,” said Don Pedro.
“Oh, my lord, I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian,” said Leonato.
“I would she had bestowed this affection on me,” said Don Pedro. “I would marry her at once. Well, Leonato, I am sorry for your niece. I pray you tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.”
“Never tell him, my lord,” said Claudio. “Let her wear out her affection with good counsel.”
“Nay, that’s impossible,” said Leonato; “she may wear her heart out first.”
“Well, we will hear further of it from your daughter,” said Don Pedro. “I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.”
“My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready,” said Leonato.
“If he do not doat on her after this, I will never trust my expectation,” laughed Claudio, as the conspirators withdrew.
“Let there be the same net spread for Beatrice,” said Don Pedro, “and that your daughter and her gentlewomen must carry out. The sport will be when they each believe in the other’s doating, when there is no such matter; that’s the scene I should like to see… Let us send her to call him in to dinner.”
When the others had gone, Benedick came forth from his hiding-place, deeply impressed with what he had heard.
“Poor lady!” he thought. “So she really loves me! Well, her affection must be requited. I hear how I am censured. They say I will bear myself proudly if I see the love come from her. They say, too, she will rather die than give any sign of affection… I never thought to marry… I must not seem proud. Happy are those that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness. And virtuous; it is so. And wise; but for loving me. By my troth, it is no addition to her wit, and no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but does not a man’s opinion alter?.. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady! I do spy some marks of love in her.”
Quite unconscious of all that had taken place, Beatrice advanced, and in her usual mocking style announced:
“Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.”
“Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains,” said Benedick.
“I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me,” said Beatrice carelessly. “If it had been painful I would not have come.”
“You take pleasure, then, in the message?” said Benedick eagerly.
“Yes, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal,” laughed Beatrice. “You have no appetite, signor? Fare you well.” And off she went gaily.
“Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.’ There’s a double meaning in that,” thought the poor deluded Benedick. “‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.’ That’s as much as to say, ‘Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks.’ If I do not take pity on her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture!”
The same trick which Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato had played on Benedick was played on Beatrice by her cousin Hero and her gentlewomen, Margaret and Ursula. Beatrice was lured into the garden, and there, unseen, as she imagined, by the others, she heard them discussing Benedick’s love for her. They followed much the same lines as the three men had done with regard to Beatrice. They spoke of Benedick’s hopeless affection, of his many good qualities, and of his fear of exciting Beatrice’s scorn if he should say anything of his devotion. They said it was a great pity that the lady Beatrice was so proud and hard-hearted, and that they certainly would never tell her of Benedick’s feelings towards her, for she would only laugh at him and treat him with cruel scorn.
“Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say,” Ursula pretended to urge Hero.
“No,” said Hero, “I would rather go to Benedick and counsel him to fight against his passion.”
Having skilfully performed their task, the ladies retired, leaving Beatrice overcome with wonder at what she had heard, and with all her pride melting into a strange new feeling of love.
The Night before the Wedding
It was not likely that Benedick’s changed behaviour should escape notice, and Don Pedro and Claudio pretended to think he was in love, and began to tease him unmercifully. Benedick met their raillery with an air of lofty scorn, but nothing would stop the shafts of wit which the light-hearted gentlemen levelled at their deluded companion, and they continued to twit him on his pensive demeanour, and the new air of fashion which he was adopting.
But all gladness and gaiety were suddenly clouded over with heavy gloom.
Having carefully prepared his villainous plot by the aid of his follower Borachio, Don John came to Claudio and the Prince of Arragon, and told them what had been agreed – namely, that Hero was unworthy to be the wife of Claudio, for she was already in love with Borachio, and that if the Prince and Count Claudio wished to prove the truth of his statement they had only to go that night to the street outside Leonato’s palace, where they would see Hero speaking out of a window to Borachio.
Don Pedro and Claudio were, of course, at first stunned and incredulous, but Don John never faltered in the terrible lie he was relating.
“If you will follow me I will show you enough,” he concluded, “and when you have heard more and seen more, proceed accordingly.”
“If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow,” said Claudio, “in the congregation where I should wed, there will I shame her.”
“And as I helped you to woo her, I will join with you to disgrace her,” said Don Pedro.
Now, the watchmen who kept the streets of Messina were a set of silly old men, whose only idea of duty was to potter about the streets, and keep as far as possible out of the way of anyone who was likely to give them any trouble. Chief of them was a constable called Dogberry, whose ignorance and stupidity were only equalled by his enormous self-conceit. On the night before the wedding, however, these brilliant watchmen actually did contrive to effect a capture which led to the happiest results.
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 tongues
Was the Hero that here lies;
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame
Lives 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.
