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.”