Bertram, Count of Rousillon, had newly
come to his title and estate, by the death of his
father. The King of France loved the father of
Bertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent for
his son to come immediately to his royal court in
Paris, intending, for the friendship he bore the late
count, to grace young Bertram with his especial favour
and protection.
Bertram was living with his mother,
the widowed countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the
French court, came to conduct him to the king.
The King of France was an absolute monarch, and the
invitation to court was in the form of a royal mandate,
or positive command, which no subject, of what high
dignity soever, might disobey; therefore though the
countess, in parting with this dear son, seemed a
second time to bury her husband, whose loss she had
so lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep him a
single day, but gave instant orders for his departure.
Lafeu, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the
countess for the loss of her late lord, and her son’s
sudden absence; and he said, in a courtier’s
flattering manner, that the king was so kind a prince,
she would find in his majesty a husband, and that
he would be a father to her son; meaning only, that
the good king would befriend the fortunes of Bertram.
Lafeu told the countess that the king had fallen into
a sad malady, which was pronounced by his physicians
to be incurable. The lady expressed great sorrow
on hearing this account of the king’s ill health,
and said, she wished the father of Helena (a young
gentlewoman who was present in attendance upon her)
were living, for that she doubted not he could have
cured his majesty of his disease. And she told
Lafeu something of the history of Helena, saying she
was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerard
de Narbon, and that he had recommended his daughter
to her care when he was dying, so that since his death
she had taken Helena under her protection; then the
countess praised the virtuous disposition and excellent
qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues
from her worthy father. While she was speaking,
Helena wept in sad and mournful silence, which made
the countess gently reprove her for too much grieving
for her father’s death.
Bertram now bade his mother farewell.
The countess parted with this dear son with tears
and many blessings, and commended him to the care of
Lafeu, saying, “Good my lord, advise him, for
he is an unseasoned courtier.”
Bertram’s last words were spoken
to Helena, but they were words of mere civility, wishing
her happiness; and he concluded his short farewell
to her with saying, “Be comfortable to my mother,
your mistress, and make much of her.”
Helena had long loved Bertram, and
when she wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears
she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena
loved her father, but in the present feeling of a
deeper love, the object of which she was about to
lose, she had forgotten the very form and features
of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image
to her mind but Bertram’s.
Helena had long loved Bertram, yet
she always remembered that he was the Count of Rousillon,
descended from the most ancient family in France.
She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at
all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore
she looked up to the high-born Bertram as to her master
and to her dear lord, and dared not form any wish but
to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal.
So great the distance seemed to her between his height
of dignity and her lowly fortunes, that she would
say, “It were all one that I should love a bright
particular star, and think to wed it, Bertram is so
far above me.”
Bertram’s absence filled her
eyes with tears and her heart with sorrow; for though
she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort
to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit
and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the
curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his
portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too
capable of retaining the memory of every line in the
features of that loved face.
Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left
her no other portion than some prescriptions of rare
and well-proved virtue, which by deep study and long
experience in medicine he had collected as sovereign
and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest,
there was one set down as an approved medicine for
the disease under which Lafeu said the king at that
time languished: and when Helena heard of the
king’s complaint, she, who till now had been
so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious project
in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake the
cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor
of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the
king as well as his physicians was of opinion that
his disease was incurable, that they would give credit
to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer to
perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had
of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the
trial, seemed more than even her father’s skill
warranted, though he was the most famous physician
of his time; for she felt a strong faith that this
good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars
in heaven to be the legacy that should advance her
fortune, even to the high dignity of being Count Rousillon’s
wife.
Bertram had not been long gone, when
the countess was informed by her steward, that he
had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he
understood from some words she uttered, she was in
love with Bertram, and thought of following him to
Paris. The countess dismissed the steward with
thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to
speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena
brought the remembrance of days long past into the
mind of the countess; those days probably when her
love for Bertram’s father first began; and she
said to herself, “Even so it was with me when
I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to
the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever
we are nature’s children, these faults are ours,
though then we think not they are faults.”
While the countess was thus meditating
on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered,
and she said to her, “Helena, you know I am a
mother to you.” Helena replied, “You
are my honourable mistress.” “You
are my daughter,” said the countess again:
“I say I am your mother. Why do you start
and look pale at my words?” With looks of alarm
and confused thoughts, fearing the countess suspected
her love, Helena still replied, “Pardon me,
madam, you are not my mother; the Count Rousillon
cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter.”
“Yet, Helena,” said the countess, “you
might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is
what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter
so disturb you. Helena, do you love my son?”
“Good madam, pardon me,” said the affrighted
Helena. Again the countess repeated her question,
“Do you love my son?” “Do not you
love him, madam?” said Helena. The countess
replied, “Give me not this evasive answer, Helena.
Come, come, disclose the state of your affections,
for your love has to the full appeared.”
Helena on her knees now owned her love, and with shame
and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress;
and with words expressive of the sense she had of
the inequality between their fortunes, she protested
Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble
unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun
that looks upon his worshipper, but knows of him no
more. The countess asked Helena if she had not
lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned
the design she had formed in her mind, when she heard
Lafeu speak of the king’s illness. “This
was your motive for wishing to go to Paris,”
said the countess, “was it? Speak truly.”
Helena honestly answered, “My lord your son made
me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine,
and the king, had from the conversation of my thoughts
been absent then.” The countess heard the
whole of this confession without saying a word either
of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned
Helena as to the probability of the medicine being
useful to the king. She found that it was the
most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed,
and that he had given it to his daughter on his deathbed;
and remembering the solemn promise she had made at
that awful hour in regard to this young maid, whose
destiny, and the life of the king himself, seemed to
depend on the execution of a project (which though
conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden’s
thoughts, the countess knew not but it might be the
unseen workings of Providence to bring to pass the
recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of
the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon’s daughter),
free leave she gave to Helena to pursue her own way,
and generously furnished her with ample means and
suitable attendants; and Helena set out for Paris
with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest
wishes for her success.
Helena arrived at Paris, and by the
assistance of her friend the old Lord Lafeu, she obtained
an audience of the king. She had still many difficulties
to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed
on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young
doctor. But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon’s
daughter (with whose fame the king was well acquainted),
and she offered the precious medicine as the darling
treasure which contained the essence of all her father’s
long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged
to forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his majesty
to perfect health in the space of two days. The
king at length consented to try it, and in two days’
time Helena was to lose her life if the king did not
recover; but if she succeeded, he promised to give
her the choice of any man throughout all France (the
princes only excepted) whom she could like for a husband;
the choice of a husband being the fee Helena demanded
if she cured the king of his disease.
Helena did not deceive herself in
the hope she conceived of the efficacy of her father’s
medicine. Before two days were at an end, the
king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled
all the young noblemen of his court together, in order
to confer the promised reward of a husband upon his
fair physician; and he desired Helena to look round
on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose
her husband. Helena was not slow to make her
choice, for among these young lords she saw the Count
Rousillon, and turning to Bertram, she said, “This
is the man. I dare not say, my lord, I take you,
but I give me and my service ever whilst I live into
your guiding power.” “Why, then,”
said the king, “young Bertram, take her; she
is your wife.” Bertram did not hesitate
to declare his dislike to this present of the king’s
of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor
physician’s daughter, bred at his father’s
charge, and now living a dependent on his mother’s
bounty. Helena heard him speak these words of
rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king,
“That you are well, my lord, I am glad.
Let the rest go.” But the king would not
suffer his royal command to be so slighted; for the
power of bestowing their nobles in marriage was one
of the many privileges of the kings of France; and
that same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced
and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no promising
hope to the poor lady, who, though she gained the noble
husband she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed
to have won but a splendid blank, her husband’s
love not being a gift in the power of the King of France
to bestow.
Helena was no sooner married, than
she was desired by Bertram to apply to the king for
him for leave of absence from court; and when she
brought him the king’s permission for his departure,
Bertram told her that he was not prepared for this
sudden marriage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore
she must not wonder at the course he should pursue.
If Helena wondered not, she grieved when she found
it was his intention to leave her. He ordered
her to go home to his mother. When Helena heard
this unkind command, she replied, “Sir, I can
nothing say to this, but that I am your most obedient
servant, and shall ever with true observance seek
to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars have
failed to equal my great fortunes.” But
this humble speech of Helena’s did not at all
move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and
he parted from her without even the common civility
of a kind farewell.
Back to the countess then Helena returned.
She had accomplished the purport of her journey, she
had preserved the life of the king, and she had wedded
her heart’s dear lord, the Count Rousillon; but
she returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law,
and as soon as she entered the house she received
a letter from Bertram which almost broke her heart.
The good countess received her with
a cordial welcome, as if she had been her son’s
own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she spoke
kind words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of
Bertram in sending his wife home on her bridal day
alone. But this gracious reception failed to
cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, “Madam,
my lord is gone, for ever gone.” She then
read these words out of Bertram’s letter:
When you can get the ring from my finger, which
never shall come off, then call me husband, but in
such a Then I write a Never. “This is
a dreadful sentence!” said Helena. The
countess begged her to have patience, and said, now
Bertram was gone, she should be her child, and that
she deserved a lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertram
might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress.
But in vain by respectful condescension and kind flattery
this matchless mother tried to soothe the sorrows
of her daughter-in-law.
Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon
the letter, and cried out in an agony of grief, Till
I have no wife, I have nothing in France.
The countess asked her if she found those words in
the letter? “Yes, madam,” was all
poor Helena could answer.
The next morning Helena was missing.
She left a letter to be delivered to the countess
after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason
of her sudden absence: in this letter she informed
her that she was so much grieved at having driven
Bertram from his native country and his home, that
to atone for her offence, she had undertaken a pilgrimage
to the shrine of St. Jaques lé Grand, and
concluded with requesting the countess to inform her
son that the wife he so hated had left his house for
ever.
Bertram, when he left Paris, went
to Florence, and there became an officer in the Duke
of Florence’s army, and after a successful war,
in which he distinguished himself by many brave actions,
Bertram received letters from his mother, containing
the acceptable tidings that Helena would no more disturb
him; and he was preparing to return home, when Helena
herself, clad in her pilgrim’s weeds, arrived
at the city of Florence.
Florence was a city through which
the pilgrims used to pass on their way to St. Jaques
lé Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city,
she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who
used to receive into her house the female pilgrims
that were going to visit the shrine of that saint,
giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To
this good lady, therefore, Helena went, and the widow
gave her a courteous welcome, and invited her to see
whatever was curious in that famous city, and told
her that if she would like to see the duke’s
army, she would take her where she might have a full
view of it. “And you will see a countryman
of yours,” said the widow; “his name is
Count Rousillon, who has done worthy service in the
duke’s wars.” Helena wanted no second
invitation, when she found Bertram was to make part
of the show. She accompanied her hostess; and
a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look once
more upon her dear husband’s face. “Is
he not a handsome man?” said the widow.
“I like him well,” replied Helena, with
great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative
widow’s discourse was all of Bertram: she
told Helena the story of Bertram’s marriage,
and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife, and
entered into the duke’s army to avoid living
with her. To this account of her own misfortunes
Helena patiently listened, and when it was ended,
the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then
the widow began another tale, every word of which sank
deep into the mind of Helena; for the story she now
told was of Bertram’s love for her daughter.
Though Bertram did not like the marriage
forced on him by the king, it seems he was not insensible
to love, for since he had been stationed with the
army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana,
a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow
who was Helena’s hostess; and every night, with
music of all sorts, and songs composed in praise of
Diana’s beauty, he would come under her window,
and solicit her love; and all his suit to her was,
that she would permit him to visit her by stealth
after the family were retired to rest; but Diana would
by no means be persuaded to grant this improper request,
nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him
to be a married man; for Diana had been brought up
under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though
she was now in reduced circumstances, was well born,
and descended from the noble family of the Capulets.
All this the good lady related to
Helena, highly praising the virtuous principles of
her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely
owing to the excellent education and good advice she
had given her; and she further said, that Bertram
had been particularly importunate with Diana to admit
him to the visit he so much desired that night, because
he was going to leave Florence early the next morning.
Though it grieved Helena to hear of
Bertram’s love for the widow’s daughter,
yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived
a project (nothing discouraged at the ill success
of her former one) to recover her truant lord.
She disclosed to the widow that she was Helena, the
deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind
hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from
Bertram to take place, and allow her to pass herself
upon Bertram for Diana; telling them, her chief motive
for desiring to have this secret meeting with her husband,
was to get a ring from him, which he had said, if ever
she was in possession of he would acknowledge her
as his wife.
The widow and her daughter promised
to assist her in this affair, partly moved by pity
for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won over
to her interest by the promises of reward which Helena
made them, giving them a purse of money in earnest
of her future favour. In the course of that day
Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram that
she was dead; hoping that when he thought himself
free to make a second choice by the news of her death,
he would offer marriage to her in her feigned character
of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and
this promise too, she doubted not she should make
some future good come of it.
In the evening, after it was dark,
Bertram was admitted into Diana’s chamber, and
Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering
compliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena
were precious sounds to her, though she knew they
were meant for Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased
with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be
her husband, and to love her for ever; which she hoped
would be prophetic of a real affection, when he should
know it was his own wife, the despised Helena, whose
conversation had so delighted him.
Bertram never knew how sensible a
lady Helena was, else perhaps he would not have been
so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he
had entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are
accustomed to see constantly, losing the effect which
is caused by the first sight either of beauty or of
plainness; and of her understanding it was impossible
he should judge, because she felt such reverence,
mixed with her love for him, that she was always silent
in his presence: but now that her future fate,
and the happy ending of all her love-projects, seemed
to depend on her leaving a favourable impression on
the mind of Bertram from this night’s interview,
she exerted all her wit to please him; and the simple
graces of her lively conversation and the endearing
sweetness of her manners so charmed Bertram, that
he vowed she should be his wife. Helena begged
the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard,
and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring,
which it was of such importance to her to possess,
she gave him another ring, which was one the king
had made her a present of. Before it was light
in the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately
set out on his journey towards his mother’s
house.
Helena prevailed on the widow and
Diana to accompany her to Paris, their further assistance
being necessary to the full accomplishment of the
plan she had formed. When they arrived there,
they found the king was gone upon a visit to the Countess
of Rousillon, and Helena followed the king with all
the speed she could make.
The king was still in perfect health,
and his gratitude to her who had been the means of
his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the moment
he saw the Countess of Rousillon, he began to talk
of Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost
by the folly of her son; but seeing the subject distressed
the countess, who sincerely lamented the death of
Helena, he said, “My good lady, I have forgiven
and forgotten all.” But the good-natured
old Lafeu, who was present, and could not bear that
the memory of his favourite Helena should be so lightly
passed over, said, “This I must say, the young
lord did great offence to his majesty, his mother,
and his lady; but to himself he did the greatest wrong
of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished
all eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose
deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve her.”
The king said, “Praising what is lost makes the
remembrance dear. Well call him hither;”
meaning Bertram, who now presented himself before
the king: and, on his expressing deep sorrow
for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for
his dead father’s and his admirable mother’s
sake, pardoned him and restored him once more to his
favour. But the gracious countenance of the king
was soon changed towards him, for he perceived that
Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he
had given to Helena: and he well remembered that
Helena had called all the saints in heaven to witness
she would never part with that ring, unless she sent
it to the king himself upon some great disaster befalling
her; and Bertram, on the king’s questioning him
how he came by the ring, told an improbable story
of a lady throwing it to him out of a window, and
denied ever having seen Helena since the day of their
marriage. The king, knowing Bertram’s dislike
to his wife, feared he had destroyed her: and
he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying, “I
am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of
Helena was foully snatched.” At this moment
Diana and her mother entered, and presented a petition
to the king, wherein they begged his majesty to exert
his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he
having made her a solemn promise of marriage.
Bertram, fearing the king’s anger, denied he
had made any such promise; and then Diana produced
the ring (which Helena had put into her hands) to
confirm the truth of her words; and she said that
she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in exchange
for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On
hearing this, the king ordered the guards to seize
her also; and her account of the ring differing from
Bertram’s, the king’s suspicions were confirmed:
and he said, if they did not confess how they came
by this ring of Helena’s, they should be both
put to death. Diana requested her mother might
be permitted to fetch the jeweller of whom she bought
the ring, which being granted, the widow went out,
and presently returned leading in Helena herself.
The good countess, who in silent grief
had beheld her son’s danger, and had even dreaded
that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife
might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom
she loved with even a maternal affection, was still
living, felt a delight she was hardly able to support;
and the king, scarce believing for joy that it was
Helena, said, “Is this indeed the wife of Bertram
that I see?” Helena, feeling herself yet an
unacknowledged wife, replied, “No, my good lord,
it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name and
not the thing.” Bertram cried out, “Both,
both! O pardon!” “O my
lord,” said Helena, “when I personated
this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind; and look,
here is your letter!” reading to him in a joyful
tone those words which she had once repeated so sorrowfully,
When from my finger you can get this ring, “This
is done; it was to me you gave the ring. Will
you be mine, now you are doubly won?” Bertram
replied, “If you can make it plain that you
were the lady I talked with that night, I will love
you dearly ever, ever dearly.” This was
no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with
Helena to prove this fact; and the king was so well
pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she
had rendered the dear lady he so truly valued for
the service she had done him, that he promised her
also a noble husband: Helena’s history giving
him a hint, that it was a suitable reward for kings
to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform notable
services.
Thus Helena at last found that her
father’s legacy was indeed sanctified by the
luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved
wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her
noble mistress, and herself the Countess of Rousillon.