There lived in the city of Verona
two young gentlemen, whose names were Valentine and
Proteus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship
had long subsisted. They pursued their studies
together, and their hours of leisure were always passed
in each other’s company, except when Proteus
visited a lady he was in love with; and these visits
to his mistress, and this passion of Proteus for the
fair Julia, were the only topics on which these two
friends disagreed; for Valentine, not being himself
a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his
friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he
would laugh at Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule
the passion of love, and declare that no such idle
fancies should ever enter his head, greatly preferring
(as he said) the free and happy life he led, to the
anxious hopes and fears of the lover Proteus.
One morning Valentine came to Proteus
to tell him that they must for a time be separated,
for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, unwilling
to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail
upon Valentine not to leave him: but Valentine
said, “Cease to persuade me, my loving Proteus.
I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness
at home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely
wits. If your affection were not chained to the
sweet glances of your honoured Julia, I would entreat
you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the world
abroad; but since you are a lover, love on still,
and may your love be prosperous!”
They parted with mutual expressions
of unalterable friendship. “Sweet Valentine,
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
no 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 stubborn and disobedient to his commands,
“neither regarding,” said he, “that
she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were her father.
And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn
my love from her. I had thought my age should
have been cherished by her childlike duty. I
now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to
whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be
her wedding dower, for me and my possessions she esteems
not.”
Valentine, wondering where all this
would end, made answer, “And what would your
grace have me to do in all this?”
“Why,” said the duke,
“the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,
and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides,
the fashion of courtship is much changed since I was
young: now I would willingly have you to be my
tutor to instruct me how I am to woo.”
Valentine gave him a general idea
of the modes of courtship then practised by young
men, when they wished to win a fair lady’s love,
such as presents, frequent visits, and the like.
The duke replied to this, that the
lady did refuse a present which he sent her, and that
she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man
might have access to her by day.
“Why then,” said Valentine,
“you must visit her by night.”
“But at night,” said the
artful duke, who was now coming to the drift of his
discourse, “her doors are fast locked.”
Valentine then unfortunately proposed
that the duke should get into the lady’s chamber
at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying he would
procure him one fitting for that purpose; and in conclusion
advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under
such a cloak as that which he now wore. “Lend
me your cloak,” said the duke, who had feigned
this long story on purpose to have a pretence to get
off the cloak; so upon saying these words, he caught
hold of Valentine’s cloak, and throwing it back,
he discovered not only the ladder of ropes, but also
a letter of Silvia’s, which he instantly opened
and read; and this letter contained a full account
of their intended elopement. The duke, after upbraiding
Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the
favour he had shown him, by endeavouring to steal
away his daughter, banished him from the court and
city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was forced to
depart that night, without even seeing Silvia.
While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring
Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence
of Proteus; and her regard for him at last so far
overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved
to leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and
to secure herself from danger on the road, she dressed
her maiden Lucetta and herself in men’s clothes,
and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at
Milan soon after Valentine was banished from that
city through the treachery of Proteus.
Julia entered Milan about noon, and
she took up her abode at an inn; and her thoughts
being all on her dear Proteus, she entered into conversation
with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking
by that means to learn some news of Proteus.
The host was greatly pleased that
this handsome young gentleman (as he took her to be),
who from his appearance he concluded was of high rank,
spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured
man, he was sorry to see him look so melancholy; and
to amuse his young guest, he offered to take him to
hear some fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman
that evening was going to serenade his mistress.
The reason Julia looked so very melancholy
was, that she did not well know what Proteus would
think of the imprudent step she had taken; for she
knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride and
dignity of character, and she feared she should lower
herself in his esteem: and this it was that made
her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.
She gladly accepted the offer of the
host to go with him, and hear the music; for she secretly
hoped she might meet Proteus by the way.
But when she came to the palace whither
the host conducted her, a very different effect was
produced to what the kind host intended; for there,
to her heart’s sorrow, she beheld her lover,
the inconstant Proteus, serenading the Lady Silvia
with music, and addressing discourse of love and admiration
to her. And Julia overheard Silvia from a window
talk with Proteus, and reproach him for forsaking
his own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his
friend Valentine; and then Silvia left the window,
not choosing to listen to his music and his fine speeches;
for she was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine,
and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend
Proteus.
Though Julia was in despair at what
she had just witnessed, yet did she still love the
truant Proteus; and hearing that he had lately parted
with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of
her host, the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself
to Proteus as a page; and Proteus knew not she was
Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents to
her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very
ring she gave him as a parting gift at Verona.
When she went to that lady with the
ring, she was most glad to find that Silvia utterly
rejected the suit of Proteus; and Julia, or the page
Sebastian as she was called, entered into conversation
with Silvia about Proteus’ first love, the forsaken
Lady Julia. She putting in (as one may say) a
good word for herself, said she knew Julia; as well
she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke;
telling how fondly Julia loved her master Proteus,
and how his unkind neglect would grieve her:
and then she with a pretty equivocation went on:
“Julia is about my height, and of my complexion,
the colour of her eyes and hair the same as mine:”
and indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her
boy’s attire. Silvia was moved to pity
this lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the
man she loved; and when Julia offered the ring which
Proteus had sent, refused it, saying, “The more
shame for him that he sends me that ring; I will not
take it; for I have often heard him say his Julia
gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for
pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse; I give
it you for Julia’s sake.” These comfortable
words coming from her kind rival’s tongue cheered
the drooping heart of the disguised lady.
But to return to the banished Valentine;
who scarce knew which way to bend his course, being
unwilling to return home to his father a disgraced
and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely
forest, not far distant from Milan, where he had left
his heart’s dear treasure, the Lady Silvia,
he was set upon by robbers, who demanded his money.
Valentine told them that he was a
man crossed by adversity, that he was going into banishment,
and that he had no money, the clothes he had on being
all his riches.
The robbers, hearing that he was a
distressed man, and being struck with his noble air
and manly behaviour, told him if he would live with
them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put
themselves under his command; but that if he refused
to accept their offer, they would kill him.
Valentine, who cared little what became
of himself, said he would consent to live with them
and be their captain, provided they did no outrage
on women or poor passengers.
Thus the noble Valentine became, like
Robin Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a captain
of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in this situation
he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came
to pass.
Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio,
whom her father insisted upon her no longer refusing,
came at last to the resolution of following Valentine
to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had
taken refuge; but in this account she was misinformed,
for he still lived in the forest among the robbers,
bearing the name of their captain, but taking no part
in their depredations, and using the authority which
they had imposed upon him in no other way than to
compel them to show compassion to the travellers they
robbed.
Silvia contrived to effect her escape
from her father’s palace in company with a worthy
old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom she took
along with her for protection on the road. She
had to pass through the forest where Valentine and
the banditti dwelt; and one of these robbers seized
on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, but
he escaped.
The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing
the terror she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for
that he was only going to carry her to a cave where
his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid,
for their captain had an honourable mind, and always
showed humanity to women. Silvia found little
comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as a
prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti.
“O Valentine,” she cried, “this
I endure for thee!”
But as the robber was conveying her
to the cave of his captain, he was stopped by Proteus,
who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of a
page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced
her steps to this forest. Proteus now rescued
her from the hands of the robber; but scarce had she
time to thank him for the service he had done her,
before he began to distress her afresh with his love
suit; and while he was rudely pressing her to consent
to marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) was
standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing
lest the great service which Proteus had just done
to Silvia should win her to show him some favour,
they were all strangely surprised with the sudden
appearance of Valentine, who, having heard his robbers
had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve
her.
Proteus was courting Silvia, and he
was so much ashamed of being caught by his friend,
that he was all at once seized with penitence and
remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for
the injuries he had done to Valentine, that Valentine,
whose nature was noble and generous, even to a romantic
degree, not only forgave and restored him to his former
place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of
heroism he said, “I freely do forgive you; and
all the interest I have in Silvia, I give it up to
you.” Julia, who was standing beside her
master as a page, hearing this strange offer, and
fearing Proteus would not be able with this new-found
virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, and they were all
employed in recovering her: else would Silvia
have been offended at being thus made over to Proteus,
though she could scarcely think that Valentine would
long persevere in this overstrained and too generous
act of friendship. When Julia recovered from
the fainting fit, she said, “I had forgot, my
master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia.”
Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the
one he gave to Julia, in return for that which he
received from her, and which he had sent by the supposed
page to Silvia. “How is this?” said
he, “this is Julia’s ring: how came
you by it, boy?” Julia answered, “Julia
herself did give it me, and Julia herself hath brought
it hither.”
Proteus, now looking earnestly upon
her, plainly perceived that the page Sebastian was
no other than the Lady Julia herself; and the proof
she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought
in him, that his love for her returned into his heart,
and he took again his own dear lady, and joyfully
resigned all pretensions to the Lady Silvia to Valentine,
who had so well deserved her.
Proteus and Valentine were expressing
their happiness in their reconciliation, and in the
love of their faithful ladies when they were surprised
with the sight of the Duke of Milan and Thurio, who
came there in pursuit of Silvia.
Thurio first approached, and attempted
to seize Silvia, saying, “Silvia is mine.”
Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited
manner, “Thurio, keep back: if once again
you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace your
death. Here she stands, take but possession of
her with a torch! I dare you but to breathe upon
my love.” Hearing this threat, Thurio,
who was a great coward, drew back, and said he cared
not for her, and that none but a fool would fight
for a girl who loved him not.
The duke, who was a very brave man
himself, said now in great anger, “The more
base and degenerate in you to take such means for her
as you have done, and leave her on such slight conditions.”
Then turning to Valentine, he said, “I do applaud
your spirit, Valentine, and think you worthy of an
empress’ love. You shall have Silvia, for
you have well deserved her.” Valentine
then with great humility kissed the duke’s hand,
and accepted the noble present which he had made him
of his daughter with becoming thankfulness: taking
occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured
duke to pardon the thieves with whom he had associated
in the forest, assuring him, that when reformed and
restored to society, there would be found among them
many good, and fit for great employment; for the most
of them had been banished, like Valentine, for state
offences, rather than for any black crimes they had
been guilty of. To this the ready duke consented:
and now nothing remained but that Proteus, the false
friend, was ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompted
faults, to be present at the recital of the whole
story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke;
and the shame of the recital to his awakened conscience
was judged sufficient punishment: which being
done, the lovers, all four, returned back to Milan,
and their nuptials were solemnised in the presence
of the duke, with high triumphs and feasting.