a fine glow of gratitude for your kindness, and fully intending to send
it back speedily. He even goes so far as to hand it, all dripping with
rain, into the servant’s hand with an injunction, “Take care of this
umbrella, for it is borrowed.” To-morrow he will call and leave it with
graceful thanks. But to-morrow is fine, and an umbrella is a nuisance
on a bright day; it really shall be sent soon. And how can he carry two
umbrellas on a rainy day? So the tiny germ of honest intention withers
under delay, till in the end the borrower _almost_ forgets that he is
not owner. There is pointed satire to many jarred sensibilities in the
hyphenless advertisement so frequently seen, “Umbrellas Recovered in
Twenty Minutes!”
Vain are all inquiries. You call at his house; it has gone out on
service or has got “mislaid.” And, finally, you abandon the quest and
purchase another. One melancholy fact you realize: any five-pound note
is equal to any other five-pound note, but no other umbrella suits you
so well as the old favorite.
Everybody knows the comfort of finding a pen that suits the busy
writer. Even the elaborate gold nib may be a failure; and as to quills,
every mending is one in ten on the chance of being too hard or too soft
for a fastidious taste. Yet the virtue of generosity often requires
self-abnegation to the extent of lending the treasure which lightens
labor with ease of tool. You know perfectly well that the pen will be
ruined for your use by being lent to the friend who borrows it, “only
for a moment,” while he scribbles a hasty note, or signs his name to
the carrier. But just that moment does the mischief, and you, patiently
or impatiently, as the case may be, resign yourself to a damaged pen,
or waste time in seeking another.
And of books! What about lending books?
Only those who _love_ books can understand the pang of losing them. A
man who handles his book with firm yet tender touch, who delights to
take down his pet volumes and smooth out the pages for sheer pleasure
of the handling, is the genuine book-lover, and by force of his love he
will surely be the man who will lend, and as surely lose. For it is the
nature of this special attachment that the book-lover must share his
enjoyment with others. Dearly as he loves the choice volumes ranged in
neat order on his bookshelves, they are but half-used while they are
not shared. The bookish man _may_ be selfish, but it is the exception
only; the rule is that the true lover of books is “ready to lend.” And
so it comes to pass that, at the close of a long, eager conversation
on Robert Browning’s poems, or Froude’s “History,” or some quaint old
treasure long “out of print,” the generous impulse prompts an offer
of the volume discussed. It may be that the listener suggests that
he would like to know more on the subject. “You ought to read such
passages,” says the happy owner, and the borrower carries the book
home, and forthwith it is mingled with his own and is merged and lost.
Such a thing even as the _loan_ of a borrowed book is not unusual,
though it ought to be regarded as a social crime. Who that prides
himself on his books has not painful vacancies among them? Here it is
the second volume of an otherwise complete edition of Tennyson—missing!
And there a “horrible blank” tells of some unvirtuous borrower who has
decapitated a valuable set by carrying off volume number one. These
gaps in the bookcase are a standing grievance, and happy is he who can
preserve his books intact.
Of course a methodical person would keep a list of books lent,
with the borrower’s name in line. But, alas! what generous soul is
methodical—the ready tendency to lend a book is proof that a man is
ready for all risks. Nor will a well-kept list make our borrowers
honest. If a man steal your book, you _may_ recover it if you prove
the theft; but what is to be done with him who always—yes, always—is
_intending_ to return your precious volume? Your inquiries are met with
ready promises of restoration; he will bring it back, but his wife is
reading it, or he can not just lay his hand upon it, or some one has
borrowed it without leave, and it will be sure to come back, and then
you shall have it all right. All which things are tests of patience and
good humor.
Mrs. Stowe tells of an orderly Christian man who, recognizing the
Scriptural injunction to “do good and lend,” was dismayed by the
frequent application for loans of tools from his less thrifty
neighbors. Gravely reflecting on the subject, he finally reconciled
order and liberality by buying a complete duplicate set of tools, which
he kept for the purpose of lending, and when any of these were lent he
quietly told the next applicant that the ax or hoe was already out.
This plan is not possible with books. But, logically considered, is
it not a singular fact that a man who will hasten to clear himself of
monetary debt, if it be but a shilling, will deprive, shall we not say
practically rob, his friend of an umbrella worth perhaps a guinea, or a
book, which no money can replace, if it happen to have associations for
the owner or be out of print? And this, too, in a fashion peculiarly
treacherous, since he knows the object of loan would never be lent
except on tacit promise of return. The old adage, so familiar to our
childhood,
“’Tis a sin to steal a pin,
Much more to take a greater thing,”
notwithstanding its defective orthodoxy and rhyme, still requires
enforcement on our languid and ill-trained consciences. Possibly the
causes of this lax morality in minor matters lie deeper than any merely
playful suggestion can reach.
A wise man once stated plainly what we scarcely like to hint, in these
words: “The _wicked_ borroweth and payeth not again.” And yet we fear
things will go on much as before, in spite of this paper, and men and
women will continue to miss their umbrellas at the very time they need
them, and sigh in vain over an unreturned book, through a generous
disposition “to do good and lend.”—_London Sunday Magazine._
TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.
By CHARLES LAMB.
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.
Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of
Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) from
their birth they so much resembled each other, that, but for the
difference in their dress, they could not be known apart. They were
both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of
perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria, as they
were making a sea voyage together. The ship, on board of which they
were, split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small number of
the ship’s company escaped with their lives. The captain of the vessel,
with a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small
boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where she, poor
lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to lament
her brother’s loss; but the captain comforted her with the assurance,
that he had seen her brother when the ship split, fasten himself to a
strong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything of him for the
distance, he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola was much
consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how she
was to dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home; and
she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. “Ay, very well,
madam,” replied the captain, “for I was born not three hours’ travel
from this place.” “Who governs here?” said Viola. The captain told
her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as
dignity. Viola said, she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and that
he was unmarried then. “And he is so now,” said the captain; “or was so
very lately, for but a month ago I went from here, and then it was the
general talk (as you know what great ones do the people will prattle
of) that Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the
daughter of a count who died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to
the protection of her brother, who shortly after died also; and for
the love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured the sight
and company of men.” Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction
for her brother’s loss, wished she could live with this lady, who so
tenderly mourned a brother’s death. She asked the captain if he could
introduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this lady.
But he replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because the
lady Olivia would admit no person into her house since her brother’s
death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed another project in
her mind, which was, in a man’s habit to serve the Duke Orsino as a
page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on male attire, and
pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was
young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead
her excuse.
She having observed a fair behavior in the captain, and that he showed
a friendly concern for her welfare, intrusted him with her design, and
he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed
him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to be
made of the same color and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian
used to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so
exactly like her brother, that some strange errors happened by means of
their being mistaken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear,
Sebastian was also saved.
Viola’s good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this pretty
lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her presented
to Orsino, under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully
pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this handsome
youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that being the office Viola
wished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new
station, and showed such a ready observance and faithful attachment to
her lord, that she soon became his most favored attendant. To Cesario
Orsino confided the whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. To
Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit he had made to one, who,
rejecting his long services, and despising his person, refused to admit
him to her presence; and for the love of this lady who had so unkindly
treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field, and
all manly exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours in
ignoble sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle
airs, and passionate love songs; and neglecting the company of the wise
and learned lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all day
long conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave
courtiers thought Cesario was, for their once noble master, the great
Duke Orsino.
It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants of
handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for all
that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she
suffered for the love of him: and much it moved her wonder, that Olivia
could be so regardless of this her peerless lord and master, whom she
thought no one should behold without the deepest admiration, and she
ventured gently to hint to Orsino that it was pity he should affect a
lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities; and she said, “If a lady
was to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there may
be one who does), if you could not love her in return, would you not
tell her that you could not love, and must not she be content with that
answer?” But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied
that it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He said that no
woman’s heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it
was unfair to compare any lady’s love for him to his love for Olivia.
Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke’s opinions, she
could not help thinking this was not quite true, for she thought her
heart had full as much love in it as Orsino’s had; and she said, “Ah,
but I know, my lord,”——“What do you know, Cesario?” said Orsino. “Too
well I know,” replied Viola, “what love women may owe to men. They are
as true of heart as we are. My father had a daughter that loved a man,
as I perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lordship.” “And what
is her history?” said Orsino. “A blank, my lord,” replied Viola; “she
never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed
on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow
melancholy, she sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.” The
duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola
returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story, to
speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered
for Orsino.
While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to
Olivia, and he said, “So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted
to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer: until
seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; but
like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her
tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.” On hearing this,
the duke exclaimed, “O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay
this debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the rich
golden shaft has touched her heart!” And then he said to Viola, “You
know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore,
good youth, go to Olivia’s house. Be not denied access; stand at her
doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have
audience.” “And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then?” said Viola.
“O then,” replied Orsino, “unfold to her the passion of my love. Make a
long discourse to her of my dear faith. It may well become you to act
my woes, for she will attend more to you than one of graver aspect.”
Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this
courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she
wished to marry; but having undertaken the affair, she performed it
with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who
insisted upon being admitted to her presence. “I told him,” said the
servant, “that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore
he came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemed
to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he must
speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems fortified
against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or no.”
Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired
he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said
she would once more hear Orsino’s embassy, not doubting but that he
came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola entering, put on the
most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier’s
language of great men’s pages, she said to the veiled lady, “Most
radiant, exquisite and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are
the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my speech
upon another, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have
taken great pains to learn it.” “Whence come you, sir?” said Olivia.
“I can say little more than I have studied,” replied Viola; “and that
question is out of my part.” “Are you a comedian?” said Olivia. “No,”
replied Viola; “and yet I am not that which I play;” meaning that she
being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked Olivia
if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola,
having more curiosity to see her rival’s features than haste to deliver
her master’s message, said, “Good madam, let me see your face.” With
this bold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty
beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight
conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario.
When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, “Have you any commission
from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?” And then,
forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years, she
drew aside her veil, saying, “But I will draw the curtain and show
the picture. Is it not well done?” Viola replied, “It is beauty
truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks are by Nature’s own
cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will
lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy.” “O
sir,” replied Olivia, “I will not be so cruel. The world may have an
inventory of my beauty. As, _item_, two lips, indifferent red; _item_,
two grey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin, and so forth.
Were you sent here to praise me?” Viola replied, “I see you what you
are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves
you. O such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned
the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with
tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire.” “Your lord,”
said Olivia, “knows well my mind. I can not love him; yet I doubt not
he is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh
and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and
valiant; yet I can not love him, he might have taken his answer long
ago.” “If I did love you as my master does,” said Viola, “I would make
me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would write
complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the night;
your name should sound among the hills, and I would make Echo, the
babbling gossip of the air, cry out _Olivia_. O you should not rest
between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me.” “You
might do much,” said Olivia; “what is your parentage?” Viola replied,
“Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman.” Olivia
now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, “Go to your master, and tell
him, I can not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance you
come again to tell me how he takes it.” And Viola departed, bidding
the lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone,
Olivia repeated the words, _Above my fortune, yet my state is well,
I am a gentleman_. And she said aloud, “I will be sworn he is; his
tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is a
gentleman.” And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and perceiving
the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed herself for
her sudden love; but the gentle blame which people lay upon their own
faults has no deep root; and presently the noble lady Olivia so far
forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of this seeming
page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief ornament of a
lady’s character, that she resolved to court the love of young Cesario,
and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under the pretence
that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped by
thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she should give him
some intimation of her design; and truly it did make Viola suspect; for
knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect
that Olivia’s looks and manner were expressive of admiration, and she
presently guessed her master’s mistress had fallen in love with her.
“Alas,” said she, “the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I
see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs
for me, as I do for Orsino.”
Viola returned to Orsino’s palace, and related to her lord the ill
success of her negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that the
duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping
that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to show
some pity, and therefore he bade him to go to her again the next day.
In the mean time, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a
song which he loved to be sung; and he said, “My good Cesario, when I
heard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters
when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread
with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of
the innocence of love in the old times.”
SONG.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew,
O prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me oh where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there.
Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such
true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore
testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her
sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, “My life upon it,
Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face
that it loves; has it not, boy?” “A little, with your leave,” replied
Viola. “And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?” said Orsino.
“Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord,” said Viola: which made
the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older
than himself, and of a man’s dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant
Orsino, and not a woman like him.
When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty
in 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,
honor, 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 solicitations 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 valor.
A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady
had favored the duke’s messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What
should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a man-like outside, had a
true woman’s heart, and feared to look on her own sword?