Tales from Shakespeare, Charles and Mary Lamb [reading books for 7 year olds TXT] 📗

adieu!’ said Proteus; ‘think on me, when you see some rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your happiness.’

Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his friend had left him, Proteus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking letters from Proteus, and ordered her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again; and when Lucetta returned, she said: ‘What o’clock is it?’ Lucetta, who knew her mistress more desired to see the letter than to know the time of day, without answering her question, again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger: ‘Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie, you would be fingering them to anger me.’

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn fragments. She first made out these words: ‘Love-wounded Proteus’; and lamenting over these and such like loving words, which she made out though they were all torn asunder, or, she said wounded (the expression ‘Love-wounded Proteus’ giving her that idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty ladylike childishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done before.

Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed: ‘Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life!’ In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by his father. ‘How now!’ said the old gentleman; ‘what letter are you reading there?’

‘My lord,’ replied Proteus, ‘it is a letter from my friend Valentine, at Milan.’

‘Lend me the letter,’ said his father: ‘let me see what news.’

‘There are no news, my lord,’ said Proteus, greatly alarmed, ‘but that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune.’

‘And how stand you affected to his wish?’ asked the father.

‘As one relying on your lordship’s will, and not depending on his friendly wish,’ said Proteus.

Now it had happened that Proteus’ father had just been talking with a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; ‘some,’ said he, ‘to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there is his companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan’s court. Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to him in his riper age not to have travelled in his youth.’

Proteus’ father thought the advice of his friend was very good, and upon Proteus telling him that Valentine ‘wished him with him, the partner of his fortune,’ he at once determined to send his son to Milan; and without giving Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to command his son, not reason with him, he said: ‘My will is the same as Valentine’s wish’; and seeing his son look astonished, he added: ‘Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in the duke of Milan’s court; for what I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am peremptory.’

Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for telling his father an untruth about Julia’s letter, which had brought upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other a mournful farewell, with many vows of love and constancy. Proteus and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever in remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Proteus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine.

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened to him, of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as passionate a lover as Proteus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but they concealed their love from the duke, because although he showed much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room, and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus’ arrival.

Valentine said: ‘If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have seen him here!’ And then he highly praised Proteus to the duke, saying: ‘My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my friend made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person and in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman.’

‘Welcome him then according to his worth,’ said the duke. ‘Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him do so.’ They were here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying: ‘Sweet lady, entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.’

When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alone together, Valentine said: ‘Now tell me how all does from whence you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?’ Proteus replied: ‘My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a love discourse.’

‘Ay, Proteus,’ returned Valentine, ‘but that life is altered now. I have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt of love, love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess there is no woe like his correction, nor so such joy on earth as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love.’

This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. But ‘friend’ Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea, even while they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine), was working in the heart of Proteus; and he, who had till this time been a pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his love for Julia vanished away like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections; and although, as it will always be, when people of dispositions naturally good become unjust, he had many scruples before he determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival of Valentine; yet he at length overcame his sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, to his new unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love, and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and told him, that, despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father’s palace that night, and go with him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the windows of the palace after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend’s dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Proteus resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him.

This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that which else no worldly good should draw from him. He then told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.

The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he preferred telling his friend’s intention rather than he would conceal an unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to let Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying: ‘Whither away so fast, Valentine?’ ‘May it please your grace,’ said Valentine, ‘there is a messenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going to deliver them.’ Now this falsehood of Valentine’s had no better success in the event than the untruth Proteus told his father.

‘Be they of much import?’ said the duke.

‘No more, my lord,’ said Valentine, ‘than to tell my father I am well and happy at your grace’s court.’

‘Nay then,’ said the duke, ‘no matter; stay with me a while. I wish your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly.’ He then told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him, saying that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with Thurio, but that she was