gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies delight
to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant Viola
arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page was shown
into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and when Viola told Olivia
that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf, this lady
said, "I desired you never to speak of him again; but if you would
undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than music from
the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained
herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her love; and when she
saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, "O
what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his
lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and by
truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit
nor reason to conceal my passion." But in vain the lady wooed; Viola
hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to plead
Orsino's love; and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond solicitation
was, a declaration of a resolution _Never to love any woman._
No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valour.
A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady
had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What
should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a manlike outside, had a
true woman's heart, and feared to look on her own sword?
[Illustration: SHE BEGAN TO THINK OF CONFESSING THAT SHE WAS A WOMAN]
When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with his sword
drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but she
was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery,
by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and as if he had
been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, said to her
opponent, "If this young gentleman has done offence, I will take the
fault on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy you."
Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the
reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with an enemy where
his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up
in that instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke's name, to answer
for an offence he had committed some years before: and he said to Viola,
"This comes with seeking you:" and then he asked her for a purse,
saying, "Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves me
much more for what I cannot do for you, than for what befalls myself.
You stand amazed, but be of comfort." His words did indeed amaze Viola,
and she protested she knew him not, nor had ever received a purse from
him; but for the kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a small
sum of money, being nearly the whole she possessed. And now the stranger
spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He
said, "This youth, whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death,
and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this
danger." But the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints
of their prisoner, and they hurried him on, saying, "What is that to
us?" And as he was carried away, he called Viola by the name of
Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend,
as long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called
Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask
an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise
from her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes
that it was her brother whose life this man said he had preserved. And
so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was a
sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, almost
exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which he had
fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for
Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him whithersoever he went; and
when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino's court, Antonio,
rather than part from him, came to Illyria, though he knew, if his
person should be known there, his life would be in danger, because in a
sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino's nephew. This
was the offence for which he was now made a prisoner.
Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Antonio
met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it
freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would
wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town; but Sebastian
not returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured out to look
for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in face so exactly
resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he thought) in
defence of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as he supposed)
disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of
ingratitude.
Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight,
slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone, when her
adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian,
who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, "Now, sir, have I met
with you again? There's for you;" and struck him a blow. Sebastian was
no coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.
A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house,
and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into
her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with.
Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as
at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into the
house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him)
become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features were
exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seen in
his face, which she had complained of when she told her love to Cesario.
Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished on
him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it had
come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in her
right senses; but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine house, and
that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her family discreetly,
and that in all but her sudden love for him she appeared in the full
possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship; and Olivia
finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing he might change his
mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the house, they should be
instantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal; and when the
marriage ceremony was over, he left his lady for a short time, intending
to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with.
In the meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia: and at the moment he
arrived before Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought their
prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master;
and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he
told the duke in what manner he had rescued this youth from the perils
of the sea; and after fully relating all the kindness he had really
shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that for three
months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. But
now the Lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could no
longer attend to Antonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess:
now Heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months has this youth attended on me:" and then he ordered Antonio
to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess soon gave the duke
cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Antonio had done, for
all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to
Cesario: and when he found his page had obtained this high place in
Olivia's favour, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just
revenge; and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow him,
saying, "Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." Though
it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant
death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would
most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia would not
so lose her husband, and she cried, "Where goes my Cesario?" Viola
replied, "After him I love more than my life." Olivia, however,
prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her
husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two hours had
passed since he had married the Lady Olivia to this young man. In vain
Viola protested she was not married to Olivia; the evidence of that lady
and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed him of the
treasure he prized above his life. But thinking that it was past recall,
he was bidding farewell to his faithless mistress, and the _young
dissembler_, her husband, as he called Viola, warning her never to come
in his sight again, when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for
another Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new
Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia; and when their wonder
had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, the same
voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to question each
other; for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother was living,
and Sebastian knew not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned
being found in the habit of a young man. But Viola presently
acknowledged that she was indeed Viola, and his sister, under that
disguise.
When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between
this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the Lady
Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a
woman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her exchange, when she found she
had wedded the brother instead of the sister.
The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by this marriage of Olivia,
and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and
all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite, young
Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with great
attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always thought
Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in a woman's
attire; and then he remembered how often she had said _she loved him_,
which at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful
page; but now he guessed that something more was meant, for many of her
pretty sayings, which were like riddles to him, came now into his mind,
and he no sooner remembered all these things than he resolved to make
Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling her
_Cesario_ and _boy_), "Boy, you have said to me a thousand times that
you should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service
you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breeding, and
since you have called me master so long, you shall now be your master's
mistress, and Orsino's true duchess."
Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had so
ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and
offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her to
Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remaining
part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister
were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, which had
separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their high and
mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, and
Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the Lady Olivia.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TIMON OF ATHENS
Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely fortune,
affected a humour of liberality which knew no limits. His almost
infinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster
upon all sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his
bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among his
dependants and followers. His table was resorted to by all the luxurious
feasters, and his house was open to all comers and goers at Athens. His
large wealth combined with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all
hearts to his love; men of all minds and dispositions tendered their
services to Lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face
reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron, to the rough
and unbending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men's persons, and an
indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand out against the
gracious manners and munificent soul of Lord Timon, but would come
(against his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments, and return
most rich in his own estimation if he had received a nod or a salutation
from Timon.
If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory introduction
to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it to Lord Timon, and
the poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse from the patron, and
daily access to his house and table. If a painter had a picture to
dispose of, he had only to take it to Lord Timon, and pretend to consult
his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was wanting to persuade
the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller had a stone of price,
or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their costliness lay upon his
hands, Lord Timon's house was a ready mart always open, where they might
get off their wares or their jewellery at any price, and the
good-natured lord would thank them into the bargain, as if they had done
him a piece of courtesy in letting him have the refusal of such precious
commodities. So that by this means his house was thronged with
superfluous purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious
pomp; and his person was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd of
these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords,
ladies, needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually filled his
lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears,
sacrificing to him with adulation as to a God, making sacred the very
stirrup by which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank
the free air but through his permission and bounty.
Some of these daily dependants were young men of birth, who (their means
not answering to their extravagance) had been put in prison by
creditors, and redeemed thence by Lord Timon; these young prodigals
thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy he
were necessarily endeared to all such spendthrifts and loose livers,
who, not being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier to copy
him in prodigality and copious spending of what was their own. One of
these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts, unjustly contracted,
Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five talents.
But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were more
conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It was
fortunate for these men if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, or
any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing so praised,
whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning with the
compliments of the giver for Lord Timon's acceptance, and apologies for
the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, or whatever it
might be, did not fail to produce from Timon's bounty, who would not be
outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of
far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew well enough, and that
their false presents were but the putting out of so much money at large
and speedy interest. In this way Lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a
present of four milk-white horses, trapped in silver, which this cunning
lord had observed Timon upon some occasion to commend; and another lord,
Lucullus, had bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift a
brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness Timon had been heard to
admire; these presents the easy-hearted lord accepted without suspicion
of the dishonest views of the presenters; and the givers of course were
rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty times
the value of their false and mercenary donation.
Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct way, and
with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was too
blind to see, would affect to admire and praise something that Timon
possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase, which
was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of the
thing commended, for no service in the world done for it but the easy
expense of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this way Timon but
the other day had given to one of these mean lords the bay courser which
he himself rode upon, because his lordship had been pleased to say that
it was a handsome beast and went well; and Timon knew that no man ever
justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For Lord Timon weighed
his friends' affection with his own, and so fond was he of bestowing,
that he could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed friends, and never
have been weary.
Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers; he
could do noble and praiseworthy actions; and when a servant of his once
loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope to obtain her
by reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so far above him, Lord
Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three Athenian talents, to make
his fortune equal with the dowry which the father of the young maid
demanded of him who should be her husband. But for the most part, knaves
and parasites had the command of his fortune, false friends whom he did
not know to be such, but, because they flocked around his person, he
thought they must needs love him; and because they smiled and flattered
him, he thought surely that his conduct was approved by all the wise and
good. And when he was feasting in the midst of all these flatterers and
mock friends, when they were eating him up, and draining his fortunes
dry with large draughts of richest wines drunk to his health and
prosperity, he could not perceive the difference of a friend from a
flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made proud with the sight) it seemed
a precious comfort to have so many like brothers commanding one
another's fortunes (though it was his own fortune which paid all the
costs), and with joy they would run over at the spectacle of such, as it
appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal meeting.
But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured out his
bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his steward; while
thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expense that he
would neither inquire how he could maintain it, nor cease his wild flow
of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, must needs melt away
before a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should tell him so?
his flatterers? they had an interest in shutting his eyes. In vain did
his honest steward Flavius try to represent to him his condition, laying
his accounts before him, begging of him, praying of him, with an
importunity that on any other occasion would have been unmannerly in a
servant, beseeching him with tears to look into the state of his
affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the discourse to
something else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches turned
to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothing so
incredulous to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse.
Often had this good steward, this honest creature, when all the rooms of
Timon's great house have been choked up with riotous feeders at his
master's cost, when the floors have wept with drunken spilling of wine,
and every apartment has blazed with lights and resounded with music and
feasting, often had he retired by himself to some solitary spot, and
wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful casks within, to see the
mad bounty of his lord, and to think, when the means were gone which
brought him praises from all sorts of people, how quickly the breath
would be gone of which the praise was made; praises won in feasting
would be lost in fasting, and at one cloud of winter-showers these flies
would disappear.
But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no longer to
the representations of this faithful steward. Money must be had; and
when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,
Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured at several times
before to make him listen to, that most of his land was already sold or
forfeited, and that all he possessed at present was not enough to pay
the one half of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this presentation,
Timon hastily replied, "My lands extend from Athens to Lacedaemon." "O
my good lord," said Flavius, "the world is but a world, and has bounds;
were it all yours to give in a breath, how quickly were it gone!"
Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty had yet come from him,
that if he had given his wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed
to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and he bade the
kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in the assurance
that his master could never lack means, while he had so many noble
friends; and this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had nothing
to do but to send and borrow, to use every man's fortune (that had ever
tasted his bounty) in this extremity, as freely as his own. Then with a
cheerful look, as if confident of the trial, he severally despatched
messengers to Lord Lucius, to Lords Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon
whom he had lavished his gifts in past times without measure or
moderation; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of prison
by paying his debts, and who, by the death of his father, was now come
into the possession of an ample fortune, and well enabled to requite
Timon's courtesy: to request of Ventidius the return of those five
talents which he had paid for him, and of each of those noble lords the
loan of fifty talents; nothing doubting that their gratitude would
supply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of five hundred times
fifty talents.
Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been dreaming
overnight of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's servant was
announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a
making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present: but
when he understood the truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted money,
the quality of his faint and watery friendship showed itself, for with
many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had long foreseen the
ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time had he come to dinner to
tell him of it, and had come again to supper to try to persuade him to
spend less, but he would take no counsel nor warning by his coming: and
true it was that he had been a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's
feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his bounty; but that he ever
came with that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon, was a
base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed up with meanly offering
the servant a bribe, to go home to his master and tell him that he had
not found Lucullus at home.