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.