Now, among the gentlemen in the Prince of Arragon’s train there was
one of a very different nature from Claudio and Benedick. This was Don
John, a half-brother of the Prince, and a man of sullen, envious, and
malicious temper. He was spiteful to all the world, but in especial
he hated his half-brother, and he bore a furious grudge against the
young Florentine lord Claudio, because the latter stood high in the
favour of the Prince of Arragon. Don John had long sullenly opposed
his brother, and had only lately been taken into favour again. It
now only depended on his own behaviour as to whether he should go on
and prosper, or whether he should fall again into disgrace. But Don
John had no intention of acting more amiably than he could possibly
help. His followers, Borachio and Conrade, urged him to conceal his
feelings, and to bear a more cheerful countenance among the general
rejoicings, but Don John flatly refused.
“I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in my brother’s
grace,” he said sullenly. “It better fits my humour to be disdained of
all than to fashion a behaviour to rob love from any. In this, though
I cannot be said to be a flattering, honest man, it must not be denied
that I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted,--with a muzzle; and
set free,--with a clog; therefore I have determined not to sing in my
cage. If I had my mouth I would bite, if I had my liberty I should do
my liking; in the meantime let me be what I am, and do not seek to
alter me.”
The news that the gallant young Claudio was to wed the daughter of
the Governor of Messina put Don John into a fresh fury.
“That young start-up has all the glory of my overthrow,” he declared.
“If I can cross him in any way, I shall only be too delighted.”
His two men, Borachio and Conrade, who were as evil-natured as their
master, promised to help him in any scheme of vengeance he could
devise, and it was not long before Borachio came to him and said that
he had found a way to cross Count Claudio’s marriage.
“Any bar, any cross, any hindrance, will do me good,” said Don John.
“I am sick with displeasure, and whatsoever comes athwart his desire
will go evenly with mine. How can you cross this marriage?”
“Not honestly, my lord, but so secretly that no dishonesty shall
appear in me.”
“Show me briefly how.”
“I think I told your lordship a year since how much I am in favour
with Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.”
“I remember.”
“I can at any unseasonable instant of the night appoint her to look
out at her lady’s chamber window.”
“What good will that be to put an end to the marriage?”
“The poison of it lies with you to mix. Go to the Prince your
brother, tell him he has wronged his honour in allowing the renowned
Claudio--whom you must praise warmly--to marry lady like Hero, who has
already another lover.”
“What proof shall I make of that?”
“Proof enough to hurt the Prince, to vex Claudio, to ruin Hero, and to
kill Leonato. Do you look for any other result?”
“I will do anything only to spite them.”
“Go, then, find a fitting hour when Don Pedro and Count Claudio are
alone, and tell them that you know Hero loves me,” said the wicked
Borachio. “They will scarcely believe this without proof. Offer them
the opportunity to test the truth of your words. Bring them outside
Leonato’s house the night before the wedding; and in the meanwhile I
will so fashion the matter that they shall see Margaret speak to me
out of the window, they shall hear me call her ‘Hero,’ and there shall
appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty that Claudio in his
jealousy will feel quite assured of it, and all the preparations for
the wedding shall be overthrown.”
“Let the issue of this be what it may, I will put it in practice,”
said Don John. “Be cunning in working this, and thy fee is a thousand
ducats.”
“You be steady in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me,”
was Borachio’s response.
“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.”
[Illustration: “Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.”]
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.