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 honored 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 suchlike 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 acknowledgement 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
concealwhat 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 heperceived 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 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 go
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’s 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 goodhumoured 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 solemnized in the presence of the duke, with high
triumphs and feasting.