The Shakespeare Story-Book

“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.