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all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_46_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 47

chapter 47: the grotto of locmaria

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Seven: the Grotto of Locmaria", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-seven-the-grotto-of-locmaria", "summary": "Aramis and Porthos proceed carefully to Locmaria. They expect to find three servants there to help them. Porthos's legs go weak again at the entrance to the grotto. Aramis enters the grotto and gives a pre-arranged signal. Porthos descends as Aramis examines the canoe, which is well-stocked with firepower. The servants begin placing rollers under the boat in preparation of the move, but before they are finished a pack of dogs enters the grotto. A fox seeks refuge in the grotto, but it is followed by a pack of hounds, and behind the hounds, men. The King's guards, led by Biscarrat, are on a hunt. Aramis orders the dogs killed so their masters are not tempted to follow and discover the boat. The six dogs are killed, but there are still the sixteen masters left. Aramis and Porthos conceal themselves in preparation for shooting the men. The servants will load the muskets for them. Porthos asks how they are to treat Biscarrat. Aramis replies that they ought to shoot him first, since he can recognize the two rebels.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLVII. The Grotto of Locmaria. The cavern of Locmaria was sufficiently distant from the mole to render it necessary for our friends to husband their strength in order to reach it. Besides, night was advancing; midnight had struck at the fort. Porthos and Aramis were loaded with money and arms. They walked, then, across the heath, which stretched between the mole and the cavern, listening to every noise, in order better to avoid an ambush. From time to time, on the road which they had carefully left on their left, passed fugitives coming from the interior, at the news of the landing of the royal troops. Aramis and Porthos, concealed behind some projecting mass of rock, collected the words that escaped from the poor people, who fled, trembling, carrying with them their most valuable effects, and tried, whilst listening to their complaints, to gather something from them for their own interest. At length, after a rapid race, frequently interrupted by prudent stoppages, they reached the deep grottoes, in which the prophetic bishop of Vannes had taken care to have secreted a bark capable of keeping the sea at this fine season. "My good friend," said Porthos, panting vigorously, "we have arrived, it seems. But I thought you spoke of three men, three servants, who were to accompany us. I don't see them--where are they?" "Why should you see them, Porthos?" replied Aramis. "They are certainly waiting for us in the cavern, and, no doubt, are resting, having accomplished their rough and difficult task." Aramis stopped Porthos, who was preparing to enter the cavern. "Will you allow me, my friend," said he to the giant, "to pass in first? I know the signal I have given to these men; who, not hearing it, would be very likely to fire upon you or slash away with their knives in the dark." "Go on, then, Aramis; go on--go first; you impersonate wisdom and foresight; go. Ah! there is that fatigue again, of which I spoke to you. It has just seized me afresh." Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the grotto, and bowing his head, he penetrated into the interior of the cavern, imitating the cry of the owl. A little plaintive cooing, a scarcely distinct echo, replied from the depths of the cave. Aramis pursued his way cautiously, and soon was stopped by the same kind of cry as he had first uttered, within ten paces of him. "Are you there, Yves?" said the bishop. "Yes, monseigneur; Goenne is here likewise. His son accompanies us." "That is well. Are all things ready?" "Yes, monseigneur." "Go to the entrance of the grottoes, my good Yves, and you will there find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, who is resting after the fatigue of our journey. And if he should happen not to be able to walk, lift him up, and bring him hither to me." The three men obeyed. But the recommendation given to his servants was superfluous. Porthos, refreshed, had already commenced the descent, and his heavy step resounded amongst the cavities, formed and supported by columns of porphyry and granite. As soon as the Seigneur de Bracieux had rejoined the bishop, the Bretons lighted a lantern with which they were furnished, and Porthos assured his friend that he felt as strong again as ever. "Let us inspect the boat," said Aramis, "and satisfy ourselves at once what it will hold." "Do not go too near with the light," said the patron Yves; "for as you desired me, monseigneur, I have placed under the bench of the poop, in the coffer you know of, the barrel of powder, and the musket-charges that you sent me from the fort." "Very well," said Aramis; and, taking the lantern himself, he examined minutely all parts of the canoe, with the precautions of a man who is neither timid nor ignorant in the face of danger. The canoe was long, light, drawing little water, thin of keel; in short, one of those that have always been so aptly built at Belle-Isle; a little high in its sides, solid upon the water, very manageable, furnished with planks which, in uncertain weather, formed a sort of deck over which the waves might glide, so as to protect the rowers. In two well-closed coffers, placed beneath the benches of the prow and the poop, Aramis found bread, biscuit, dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, a good provision of water in leathern bottles; the whole forming rations sufficient for people who did not mean to quit the coast, and would be able to revictual, if necessity commanded. The arms, eight muskets, and as many horse-pistols, were in good condition, and all loaded. There were additional oars, in case of accident, and that little sail called _trinquet_, which assists the speed of the canoe at the same time the boatmen row, and is so useful when the breeze is slack. When Aramis had seen to all these things, and appeared satisfied with the result of his inspection, "Let us consult Porthos," said he, "to know if we must endeavor to get the boat out by the unknown extremity of the grotto, following the descent and the shade of the cavern, or whether it be better, in the open air, to make it slide upon its rollers through the bushes, leveling the road of the little beach, which is but twenty feet high, and gives, at high tide, three or four fathoms of good water upon a sound bottom." "It must be as you please, monseigneur," replied the skipper Yves, respectfully; "but I don't believe that by the slope of the cavern, and in the dark in which we shall be obliged to maneuver our boat, the road will be so convenient as the open air. I know the beach well, and can certify that it is as smooth as a grass-plot in a garden; the interior of the grotto, on the contrary, is rough; without reckoning, monseigneur, that at its extremity we shall come to the trench which leads into the sea, and perhaps the canoe will not pass down it." "I have made my calculation," said the bishop, "and I am certain it will pass." "So be it; I wish it may, monseigneur," continued Yves; "but your highness knows very well that to make it reach the extremity of the trench, there is an enormous stone to be lifted--that under which the fox always passes, and which closes the trench like a door." "It can be raised," said Porthos; "that is nothing." "Oh! I know that monseigneur has the strength of ten men," replied Yves; "but that is giving him a great deal of trouble." "I think the skipper may be right," said Aramis; "let us try the open-air passage." "The more so, monseigneur," continued the fisherman, "that we should not be able to embark before day, it will require so much labor, and that as soon as daylight appears, a good _vedette_ placed outside the grotto would be necessary, indispensable even, to watch the maneuvers of the lighters or cruisers that are on the look-out for us." "Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are good; we will go by the beach." And the three robust Bretons went to the boat, and were beginning to place their rollers underneath it to put it in motion, when the distant barking of dogs was heard, proceeding from the interior of the island. Aramis darted out of the grotto, followed by Porthos. Dawn just tinted with purple and white the waves and plain; through the dim light, melancholy fir-trees waved their tender branches over the pebbles, and long flights of crows were skimming with their black wings the shimmering fields of buckwheat. In a quarter of an hour it would be clear daylight; the wakened birds announced it to all nature. The barkings which had been heard, which had stopped the three fishermen engaged in moving the boat, and had brought Aramis and Porthos out of the cavern, now seemed to come from a deep gorge within about a league of the grotto. "It is a pack of hounds," said Porthos; "the dogs are on a scent." "Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?" said Aramis. "And this way, particularly," continued Porthos, "where they might expect the army of the royalists." "The noise comes nearer. Yes, you are right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!" cried Aramis, "come here! come here!" Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was about to place under the boat when the bishop's call interrupted him. "What is the meaning of this hunt, skipper?" said Porthos. "Eh! monseigneur, I cannot understand it," replied the Breton. "It is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No, and yet the dogs--" "Unless they have escaped from the kennel." "No," said Goenne, "they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria's hounds." "In common prudence," said Aramis, "let us go back into the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have to trust to." They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the darkness, when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded through the cavern, and breathless, rapid, terrified, a fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared, leaving behind its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave. "The fox!" cried the Bretons, with the glad surprise of born hunters. "Accursed mischance!" cried the bishop, "our retreat is discovered." "How so?" said Porthos; "are you afraid of a fox?" "Eh! my friend, what do you mean by that? why do you specify the fox? It is not the fox alone. _Pardieu!_ But don't you know, Porthos, that after the foxes come hounds, and after hounds men?" Porthos hung his head. As though to confirm the words of Aramis, they heard the yelping pack approach with frightful swiftness upon the trail. Six foxhounds burst at once upon the little heath, with mingling yelps of triumph. "There are the dogs, plain enough!" said Aramis, posted on the look-out behind a chink in the rocks; "now, who are the huntsmen?" "If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria's," replied the sailor, "he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out the other side; it is there he will wait for him." "It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting," replied Aramis, turning pale in spite of his efforts to maintain a placid countenance. "Who is it, then?" said Porthos. "Look!" Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the dogs, shouting, "_Taiaut! taiaut!_" "The guards!" said he. "Yes, my friend, the king's guards." "The king's guards! do you say, monseigneur?" cried the Bretons, growing pale in turn. "With Biscarrat at their head, mounted upon my gray horse," continued Aramis. The hounds at the same moment rushed into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of the cavern were filled with their deafening cries. "Ah! the devil!" said Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight of this certain, inevitable danger. "I am perfectly satisfied we are lost, but we have, at least, one chance left. If the guards who follow their hounds happen to discover there is an issue to the grotto, there is no help for us, for on entering they must see both ourselves and our boat. The dogs must not go out of the cavern. Their masters must not enter." "That is clear," said Porthos. "You understand," added Aramis, with the rapid precision of command; "there are six dogs that will be forced to stop at the great stone under which the fox has glided--but at the too narrow opening of which they must be themselves stopped and killed." The Bretons sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there was a lamentable concert of angry barks and mortal howls--and then, silence. "That's well!" said Aramis, coolly, "now for the masters!" "What is to be done with them?" said Porthos. "Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them." "_Kill them!_" replied Porthos. "There are sixteen," said Aramis, "at least, at present." "And well armed," added Porthos, with a smile of consolation. "It will last about ten minutes," said Aramis. "To work!" And with a resolute air he took up a musket, and placed a hunting-knife between his teeth. "Yves, Goenne, and his son," continued Aramis, "will pass the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they are close. We shall have brought down, at the lowest computation, eight, before the others are aware of anything--that is certain; then all, there are five of us, will dispatch the other eight, knife in hand." "And poor Biscarrat?" said Porthos. Aramis reflected a moment--"Biscarrat first," replied he, coolly. "He knows us."

Chapter Forty-Seven: the Grotto of Locmaria

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-seven-the-grotto-of-locmaria

Aramis and Porthos proceed carefully to Locmaria. They expect to find three servants there to help them. Porthos's legs go weak again at the entrance to the grotto. Aramis enters the grotto and gives a pre-arranged signal. Porthos descends as Aramis examines the canoe, which is well-stocked with firepower. The servants begin placing rollers under the boat in preparation of the move, but before they are finished a pack of dogs enters the grotto. A fox seeks refuge in the grotto, but it is followed by a pack of hounds, and behind the hounds, men. The King's guards, led by Biscarrat, are on a hunt. Aramis orders the dogs killed so their masters are not tempted to follow and discover the boat. The six dogs are killed, but there are still the sixteen masters left. Aramis and Porthos conceal themselves in preparation for shooting the men. The servants will load the muskets for them. Porthos asks how they are to treat Biscarrat. Aramis replies that they ought to shoot him first, since he can recognize the two rebels.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_48_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 49

chapter 49: a homeric song

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Nine: A Homeric Song", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-nine-a-homeric-song", "summary": "As for the defenders, they have begun to move out their boat. They cannot escape while the attack occurs Porthos suggests that he hide behind a pillar with a iron bar that he can use to bash in their heads. Aramis says it's a great idea, but points out that they need a weapon that will take out dozens at once. Twenty-five men led by Biscarrat enter the cave. Aramis tells Porthos to wait for his signal. Biscarrat calls his friends onwards, and Aramis tells Porthos to strike. In the next instant, Biscarrat falls down dead. The bar completely annihilates the first platoon with no problems. Meanwhile, the second wave continues to advance. The second wave is led by the captain, who has a torch. The men are shocked to find dead bodies. The captain eventually spots Porthos behind a pillar. Porthos strangles the captain to death and extinguishes the light, sending the rest of the men into terror. They begin shooting blindly. They are met only with silence and the sounds of the third group entering the cavern.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLIX. An Homeric Song. It is time to pass to the other camp, and to describe at once the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding there their canoe ready armed, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they at first hoped to make the bark pass through the little issue of the cavern, concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight. The arrival of the fox and dogs obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended the space of about a hundred _toises_, to that little slope dominating a creek. Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities, when Belle-Isle was still called Kalonese, this grotto had beheld more than one human sacrifice accomplished in its mystic depths. The first entrance to the cavern was by a moderate descent, above which distorted rocks formed a weird arcade; the interior, very uneven and dangerous from the inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into several compartments, which communicated with each other by means of rough and jagged steps, fixed right and left, in uncouth natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so low, the passage so narrow, that the bark would scarcely have passed without touching the side; nevertheless, in moments of despair, wood softens and stone grows flexible beneath the human will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having fought the fight, he decided upon flight--a flight most dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead; and that, admitting the possibility of putting the bark to sea, they would have to fly in open day, before the conquered, so interested on recognizing their small number, in pursuing their conquerors. When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis, familiar with the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoiter them one by one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing outside; and he immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all his strength, took the canoe in his arms, and raised it up, whilst the Bretons made it run rapidly along the rollers. They had descended into the third compartment; they had arrived at the stone which walled the outlet. Porthos seized this gigantic stone at its base, applied his robust shoulder, and gave a heave which made the wall crack. A cloud of dust fell from the vault, with the ashes of ten thousand generations of sea birds, whose nests stuck like cement to the rock. At the third shock the stone gave way, and oscillated for a minute. Porthos, placing his back against the neighboring rock, made an arch with his foot, which drove the block out of the calcareous masses which served for hinges and cramps. The stone fell, and daylight was visible, brilliant, radiant, flooding the cavern through the opening, and the blue sea appeared to the delighted Bretons. They began to lift the bark over the barricade. Twenty more _toises_, and it would glide into the ocean. It was during this time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the captain, and disposed for either an escalade or an assault. Aramis watched over everything, to favor the labors of his friends. He saw the reinforcements, counted the men, and convinced himself at a single glance of the insurmountable peril to which fresh combat would expose them. To escape by sea, at the moment the cavern was about to be invaded, was impossible. In fact, the daylight which had just been admitted to the last compartments had exposed to the soldiers the bark being rolled towards the sea, the two rebels within musket-shot; and one of their discharges would riddle the boat if it did not kill the navigators. Besides, allowing everything,--if the bark escaped with the men on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed--how could notice to the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor canoe, followed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the end of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with rage, invoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the demons. Calling to Porthos, who was doing more work than all the rollers--whether of flesh or wood--"My friend," said he, "our adversaries have just received a reinforcement." "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, quietly, "what is to be done, then?" "To recommence the combat," said Aramis, "is hazardous." "Yes," said Porthos, "for it is difficult to suppose that out of two, one should not be killed; and certainly, if one of us was killed, the other would get himself killed also." Porthos spoke these words with that heroic nature which, with him, grew grander with necessity. Aramis felt it like a spur to his heart. "We shall neither of us be killed if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos." "Tell me what?" "These people are coming down into the grotto." "Yes." "We could kill about fifteen of them, but no more." "How many are there in all?" asked Porthos. "They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men." "Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah!" sighed Porthos. "If they fire all at once they will riddle us with balls." "Certainly they will." "Without reckoning," added Aramis, "that the detonation might occasion a collapse of the cavern." "Ay," said Porthos, "a piece of falling rock just now grazed my shoulder." "You see, then?" "Oh! it is nothing." "We must determine upon something quickly. Our Bretons are going to continue to roll the canoe towards the sea." "Very well." "We two will keep the powder, the balls, and the muskets here." "But only two, my dear Aramis--we shall never fire three shots together," said Porthos, innocently, "the defense by musketry is a bad one." "Find a better, then." "I have found one," said the giant, eagerly; "I will place myself in ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar, and invisible, unattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their skulls, thirty times in a minute. _Hein!_ what do you think of the project? You smile!" "Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you will frighten them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by famine. What we want, my good friend, is the entire destruction of the troop. A single survivor encompasses our ruin." "You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them, pray?" "By not stirring, my good Porthos." "Well! we won't stir, then; but when they are all together--" "Then leave it to me, I have an idea." "If it is so, and your idea proves a good one--and your idea is most likely to be good--I am satisfied." "To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter." "But you, what will you do?" "Don't trouble yourself about me; I have a task to perform." "I think I hear shouts." "It is they! To your post. Keep within reach of my voice and hand." Porthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was in darkness, absolutely black. Aramis glided into the third; the giant held in his hand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight. Porthos handled this lever, which had been used in rolling the bark, with marvelous facility. During this time, the Bretons had pushed the bark to the beach. In the further and lighter compartment, Aramis, stooping and concealed, was busy with some mysterious maneuver. A command was given in a loud voice. It was the last order of the captain commandant. Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the first compartment of the grotto, and having taken their ground, began to fire. The echoes shrieked and barked, the hissing balls seemed actually to rarefy the air, and then opaque smoke filled the vault. "To the left! to the left!" cried Biscarrat, who, in his first assault, had seen the passage to the second chamber, and who, animated by the smell of powder, wished to guide his soldiers in that direction. The troop, accordingly, precipitated themselves to the left--the passage gradually growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched forward, devoted to death, marched in advance of the muskets. "Come on! come on!" exclaimed he, "I see daylight!" "Strike, Porthos!" cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis. Porthos breathed a heavy sigh--but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and direct upon the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended his cry. Then the formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds, and made ten corpses. The soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs and groans; they stumbled over dead bodies, but as they had no conception of the cause of all this, they came forward jostling each other. The implacable bar, still falling, annihilated the first platoon, without a single sound to warn the second, which was quietly advancing; only, commanded by the captain, the men had stripped a fir, growing on the shore, and, with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a flambeau. On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the exterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew back in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet their way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies--they literally walked in blood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, illumining with trembling pine-torch this frightful carnage, of which he in vain sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade, and fastened on the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifle rattle; his stretched-out arms beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished in blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain dropped close to the extinguished torch, and added another body to the heap of dead which blocked up the passage. All this was effected as mysteriously as though by magic. At hearing the rattling in the throat of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied him had turned round, caught a glimpse of his extended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch fell and they were left in darkness. From an unreflective, instinctive, mechanical feeling, the lieutenant cried: "Fire!" Immediately a volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the cavern, bringing down enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was lighted for an instant by this discharge, and then immediately returned to pitchy darkness rendered thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a profound silence, broken only by the steps of the third brigade, now entering the cavern.

Chapter Forty-Nine: A Homeric Song

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-nine-a-homeric-song

As for the defenders, they have begun to move out their boat. They cannot escape while the attack occurs Porthos suggests that he hide behind a pillar with a iron bar that he can use to bash in their heads. Aramis says it's a great idea, but points out that they need a weapon that will take out dozens at once. Twenty-five men led by Biscarrat enter the cave. Aramis tells Porthos to wait for his signal. Biscarrat calls his friends onwards, and Aramis tells Porthos to strike. In the next instant, Biscarrat falls down dead. The bar completely annihilates the first platoon with no problems. Meanwhile, the second wave continues to advance. The second wave is led by the captain, who has a torch. The men are shocked to find dead bodies. The captain eventually spots Porthos behind a pillar. Porthos strangles the captain to death and extinguishes the light, sending the rest of the men into terror. They begin shooting blindly. They are met only with silence and the sounds of the third group entering the cavern.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_49_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 50

chapter 50: the death of a titan

{"name": "Chapter Fifty: The Death of a Titan", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-the-death-of-a-titan", "summary": "Aramis leads Porthos into another compartment of the cavern and shows him a seventy to eighty pound barrel of powder attached to a fuse. Porthos is to wait until all the men are together, and then hurl the barrel in their direction. Aramis prepares the boat for departure. They light the barrel. Aramis leaves. As the fuse sparkles, the giant figure of Porthos is briefly illuminated. The soldiers are terrified. An officer tries to get some men to fire at Porthos, but they miss. The barrel falls into the soldiers' midst. The officer falls on the barrel, trying to stop the fuse. The barrel explodes. The soldiers die. Porthos turns and runs for the exit. He can see Aramis manning the boat. Six steps away from freedom, Porthos feels his legs falter. Porthos cannot move, and Aramis cries for him to hurry. Porthos cannot move. Then the explosion hits. Porthos regains his strength, but as he is running, granite rocks begin to fall from overhead. Porthos attempts to carry the giant granite masses, but even his strength is no match for the weight of the rocks. He is slowly crushed. Frantic, Aramis and two of the servants try to come to his aid. Porthos continues being crushed into the ground even as the men work to free him. His last words are: \"Too heavy.\"", "analysis": ""}

Chapter L: The Death of a Titan. At the moment when Porthos, more accustomed to the darkness than these men, coming from open daylight, was looking round him to see if through this artificial midnight Aramis were not making him some signal, he felt his arm gently touched, and a voice low as a breath murmured in his ear, "Come." "Oh!" said Porthos. "Hush!" said Aramis, if possible, yet more softly. And amidst the noise of the third brigade, which continued to advance, the imprecations of the guards still left alive, the muffled groans of the dying, Aramis and Porthos glided unseen along the granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos into the last but one compartment, and showed him, in a hollow of the rocky wall, a barrel of powder weighing from seventy to eighty pounds, to which he had just attached a fuse. "My friend," said he to Porthos, "you will take this barrel, the match of which I am going to set fire to, and throw it amidst our enemies; can you do so?" "_Parbleu!_" replied Porthos; and he lifted the barrel with one hand. "Light it!" "Stop," said Aramis, "till they are all massed together, and then, my Jupiter, hurl your thunderbolt among them." "Light it," repeated Porthos. "On my part," continued Aramis, "I will join our Bretons, and help them to get the canoe to the sea. I will wait for you on the shore; launch it strongly, and hasten to us." "Light it," said Porthos, a third time. "But do you understand me?" "_Parbleu!_" said Porthos again, with laughter that he did not even attempt to restrain, "when a thing is explained to me I understand it; begone, and give me the light." Aramis gave the burning match to Porthos, who held out his arm to him, his hands being engaged. Aramis pressed the arm of Porthos with both his hands, and fell back to the outlet of the cavern where the three rowers awaited him. Porthos, left alone, applied the spark bravely to the match. The spark--a feeble spark, first principle of conflagration--shone in the darkness like a glow-worm, then was deadened against the match which it set fire to, Porthos enlivening the flame with his breath. The smoke was a little dispersed, and by the light of the sparkling match objects might, for two seconds, be distinguished. It was a brief but splendid spectacle, that of this giant, pale, bloody, his countenance lighted by the fire of the match burning in surrounding darkness! The soldiers saw him, they saw the barrel he held in his hand--they at once understood what was going to happen. Then, these men, already choked with horror at the sight of what had been accomplished, filled with terror at thought of what was about to be accomplished, gave out a simultaneous shriek of agony. Some endeavored to fly, but they encountered the third brigade, which barred their passage; others mechanically took aim and attempted to fire their discharged muskets; others fell instinctively upon their knees. Two or three officers cried out to Porthos to promise him his liberty if he would spare their lives. The lieutenant of the third brigade commanded his men to fire; but the guards had before them their terrified companions, who served as a living rampart for Porthos. We have said that the light produced by the spark and the match did not last more than two seconds; but during these two seconds this is what it illumined: in the first place, the giant, enlarged in the darkness; then, at ten paces off, a heap of bleeding bodies, crushed, mutilated, in the midst of which some still heaved in the last agony, lifting the mass as a last respiration inflating the sides of some old monster dying in the night. Every breath of Porthos, thus vivifying the match, sent towards this heap of bodies a phosphorescent aura, mingled with streaks of purple. In addition to this principal group scattered about the grotto, as the chances of death or surprise had stretched them, isolated bodies seemed to be making ghastly exhibitions of their gaping wounds. Above ground, bedded in pools of blood, rose, heavy and sparkling, the short, thick pillars of the cavern, of which the strongly marked shades threw out the luminous particles. And all this was seen by the tremulous light of a match attached to a barrel of powder, that is to say, a torch which, whilst throwing a light on the dead past, showed death to come. As I have said, this spectacle did not last above two seconds. During this short space of time an officer of the third brigade got together eight men armed with muskets, and, through an opening, ordered them to fire upon Porthos. But they who received the order to fire trembled so that three guards fell by the discharge, and the five remaining balls hissed on to splinter the vault, plow the ground, or indent the pillars of the cavern. A burst of laughter replied to this volley; then the arm of the giant swung round; then was seen whirling through the air, like a falling star, the train of fire. The barrel, hurled a distance of thirty feet, cleared the barricade of dead bodies, and fell amidst a group of shrieking soldiers, who threw themselves on their faces. The officer had followed the brilliant train in the air; he endeavored to precipitate himself upon the barrel and tear out the match before it reached the powder it contained. Useless! The air had made the flame attached to the conductor more active; the match, which at rest might have burnt five minutes, was consumed in thirty seconds, and the infernal work exploded. Furious vortices of sulphur and nitre, devouring shoals of fire which caught every object, the terrible thunder of the explosion, this is what the second which followed disclosed in that cavern of horrors. The rocks split like planks of deal beneath the axe. A jet of fire, smoke, and _debris_ sprang from the middle of the grotto, enlarging as it mounted. The large walls of silex tottered and fell upon the sand, and the sand itself, an instrument of pain when launched from its hard bed, riddled the faces with its myriad cutting atoms. Shrieks, imprecations, human life, dead bodies--all were engulfed in one terrific crash. The three first compartments became one sepulchral sink into which fell grimly back, in the order of their weight, every vegetable, mineral, or human fragment. Then the lighter sand and ash came down in turn, stretching like a winding sheet and smoking over the dismal scene. And now, in this burning tomb, this subterranean volcano, seek the king's guards with their blue coats laced with silver. Seek the officers, brilliant in gold, seek for the arms upon which they depended for their defense. One single man has made of all of those things a chaos more confused, more shapeless, more terrible than the chaos which existed before the creation of the world. There remained nothing of the three compartments--nothing by which God could have recognized His handiwork. As for Porthos, after having hurled the barrel of powder amidst his enemies, he had fled, as Aramis had directed him to do, and had gained the last compartment, into which air, light, and sunshine penetrated through the opening. Scarcely had he turned the angle which separated the third compartment from the fourth when he perceived at a hundred paces from him the bark dancing on the waves. There were his friends, there liberty, there life and victory. Six more of his formidable strides, and he would be out of the vault; out of the vault! a dozen of his vigorous leaps and he would reach the canoe. Suddenly he felt his knees give way; his knees seemed powerless, his legs to yield beneath him. "Oh! oh!" murmured he, "there is my weakness seizing me again! I can walk no further! What is this?" Aramis perceived him through the opening, and unable to conceive what could induce him to stop thus--"Come on, Porthos! come on," he cried; "come quickly!" "Oh!" replied the giant, making an effort that contorted every muscle of his body--"oh! but I cannot." While saying these words, he fell upon his knees, but with his mighty hands he clung to the rocks, and raised himself up again. "Quick! quick!" repeated Aramis, bending forward towards the shore, as if to draw Porthos towards him with his arms. "Here I am," stammered Porthos, collecting all his strength to make one step more. "In the name of Heaven! Porthos, make haste! the barrel will blow up!" "Make haste, monseigneur!" shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was floundering as in a dream. But there was no time; the explosion thundered, earth gaped, the smoke which hurled through the clefts obscured the sky; the sea flowed back as though driven by the blast of flame which darted from the grotto as if from the jaws of some gigantic fiery chimera; the reflux took the bark out twenty _toises_; the solid rocks cracked to their base, and separated like blocks beneath the operation of the wedge; a portion of the vault was carried up towards heaven, as if it had been built of cardboard; the green and blue and topaz conflagration and black lava of liquefactions clashed and combated an instant beneath a majestic dome of smoke; then oscillated, declined, and fell successively the mighty monoliths of rock which the violence of the explosion had not been able to uproot from the bed of ages; they bowed to each other like grave and stiff old men, then prostrating themselves, lay down forever in their dusty tomb. This frightful shock seemed to restore Porthos the strength that he had lost; he arose, a giant among granite giants. But at the moment he was flying between the double hedge of granite phantoms, these latter, which were no longer supported by the corresponding links, began to roll and totter round our Titan, who looked as if precipitated from heaven amidst rocks which he had just been launching. Porthos felt the very earth beneath his feet becoming jelly-tremulous. He stretched both hands to repulse the falling rocks. A gigantic block was held back by each of his extended arms. He bent his head, and a third granite mass sank between his shoulders. For an instant the power of Porthos seemed about to fail him, but this new Hercules united all his force, and the two walls of the prison in which he was buried fell back slowly and gave him place. For an instant he appeared, in this frame of granite, like the angel of chaos, but in pushing back the lateral rocks, he lost his point of support, for the monolith which weighed upon his shoulders, and the boulder, pressing upon him with all its weight, brought the giant down upon his knees. The lateral rocks, for an instant pushed back, drew together again, and added their weight to the ponderous mass which would have been sufficient to crush ten men. The hero fell without a groan--he fell while answering Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the powerful arch of his hands, for an instant he believed that, like Enceladus, he would succeed in shaking off the triple load. But by degrees Aramis beheld the block sink; the hands, strung for an instant, the arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the extended shoulders sank, wounded and torn, and the rocks continued to gradually collapse. "Porthos! Porthos!" cried Aramis, tearing his hair. "Porthos! where are you? Speak!" "Here, here," murmured Porthos, with a voice growing evidently weaker, "patience! patience!" Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous rock sank down, pressed by those others which sank in from the sides, and, as it were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulcher of badly jointed stones. On hearing the dying voice of his friend, Aramis had sprung to land. Two of the Bretons followed him, with each a lever in his hand--one being sufficient to take care of the bark. The dying rattle of the valiant gladiator guided them amidst the ruins. Aramis, animated, active and young as at twenty, sprang towards the triple mass, and with his hands, delicate as those of a woman, raised by a miracle of strength the corner-stone of this great granite grave. Then he caught a glimpse, through the darkness of that charnel-house, of the still brilliant eye of his friend, to whom the momentary lifting of the mass restored a momentary respiration. The two men came rushing up, grasped their iron levers, united their triple strength, not merely to raise it, but sustain it. All was useless. They gave way with cries of grief, and the rough voice of Porthos, seeing them exhaust themselves in a useless struggle, murmured in an almost cheerful tone those supreme words which came to his lips with the last respiration, "Too heavy!" After which his eyes darkened and closed, his face grew ashy pale, the hands whitened, and the colossus sank quite down, breathing his last sigh. With him sank the rock, which, even in his dying agony he had still held up. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled upon the tumulary stone. Then, breathless, pale, his brow covered with sweat, Aramis listened, his breast oppressed, his heart ready to break. Nothing more. The giant slept the eternal sleep, in the sepulcher which God had built about him to his measure.

Chapter Fifty: The Death of a Titan

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-the-death-of-a-titan

Aramis leads Porthos into another compartment of the cavern and shows him a seventy to eighty pound barrel of powder attached to a fuse. Porthos is to wait until all the men are together, and then hurl the barrel in their direction. Aramis prepares the boat for departure. They light the barrel. Aramis leaves. As the fuse sparkles, the giant figure of Porthos is briefly illuminated. The soldiers are terrified. An officer tries to get some men to fire at Porthos, but they miss. The barrel falls into the soldiers' midst. The officer falls on the barrel, trying to stop the fuse. The barrel explodes. The soldiers die. Porthos turns and runs for the exit. He can see Aramis manning the boat. Six steps away from freedom, Porthos feels his legs falter. Porthos cannot move, and Aramis cries for him to hurry. Porthos cannot move. Then the explosion hits. Porthos regains his strength, but as he is running, granite rocks begin to fall from overhead. Porthos attempts to carry the giant granite masses, but even his strength is no match for the weight of the rocks. He is slowly crushed. Frantic, Aramis and two of the servants try to come to his aid. Porthos continues being crushed into the ground even as the men work to free him. His last words are: "Too heavy."

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/51.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_50_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 51

chapter 51: the epitaph of porthos

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-One: The Epitaph of Porthos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-one-the-epitaph-of-porthos", "summary": "Aramis stands and goes to the boat, supported by the three servants. He is full of grief. The narrator delivers a touching obituary. The men row towards Spain as Aramis sinks into a silent, immovable grief. The men soon realize they are being chased, but do not disturb their master until an hour has past. Aramis does not reply. The ship continues pursuit. There are twenty-five men on the ship, and they soon fire a cannon at the little boat. The sailors are afraid. Aramis tells the men to wait for the ship. The little boat surrenders. The terms of the surrender are that the servants' lives will be spared, but not Aramis's. Aramis tells his men to accept the conditions. Once on board, Aramis makes a sign to the captain and shows him the setting of one of his rings. The captain begins obeying Aramis. Aramis spends the night leaning on the rails, and one of his men later notices that the wood upon which Aramis's head rested was soaked with moisture. The narrator speculates that that moisture was the first tears Aramis ever shed. The narrator says that is equal to any epitaph Porthos could have received.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LI. Porthos's Epitaph. Aramis, silent and sad as ice, trembling like a timid child, arose shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk on tombs. But, though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be said that something of dead Porthos had just died within him. His Bretons surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the three sailors, lifting him up, carried him to the canoe. Then, having laid him down upon the bench near the rudder, they took to their oars, preferring this to hoisting sail, which might betray them. On all that leveled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, one single hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed his from it; and, at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore receded, that menacing proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly Porthos used to draw himself up, raising a smiling, yet invincible head towards heaven, like that of his dear old honest valiant friend, the strongest of the four, yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when vigor alone could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile material weight, triumphed over manly strength, and falling upon the body, drove out the mind. Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had only given him strength for that purpose; when dying he only thought he was carrying out the conditions of his compact with Aramis, a compact, however, which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had only known to suffer by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good now are thy chateaux overflowing with sumptuous furniture, forests overflowing with game, lakes overflowing with fish, cellars overflowing with wealth! Of what service to thee now thy lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them Mousqueton, proud of the power delegated by thee! Oh, noble Porthos! careful heaper-up of treasure, was it worth while to labor to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert shore, surrounded by the cries of seagulls, and lay thyself, with broken bones, beneath a torpid stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold, and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument? Valiant Porthos! he still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, beneath the rock the shepherds of the heath take for the gigantic abode of a _dolmen_. And so many twining branches, so many mosses, bent by the bitter wind of ocean, so many lichens solder thy sepulcher to earth, that no passers-by will imagine such a block of granite could ever have been supported by the shoulders of one man. Aramis, still pale, still icy-cold, his heart upon his lips, looked, even till, with the last ray of daylight, the shore faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped him, not a sigh rose from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked upon him, trembling. Such silence was not that of a man, it was the silence of a statue. In the meantime, with the first gray lines that lighted up the heavens, the canoe hoisted its little sail, which, swelling with the kisses of the breeze, and carrying them rapidly from the coast, made bravest way towards Spain, across the dreaded Gulf of Gascony, so rife with storms. But scarcely half an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive, reclining on their benches, and, making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed out to each other a white spot which appeared on the horizon as motionless as a gull rocked by the viewless respiration of the waves. But that which might have appeared motionless to ordinary eyes was moving at a quick rate to the experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared stationary upon the ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time, seeing the profound torpor in which their master was plunged, they did not dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their conjectures in whispers. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active--Aramis, whose eye, like that of the lynx, watched without ceasing, and saw better by night than by day--Aramis seemed to sleep in this despair of soul. An hour passed thus, during which daylight gradually disappeared, but during which also the sail in view gained so swiftly on the bark, that Goenne, one of the three sailors, ventured to say aloud: "Monseigneur, we are being chased!" Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the patron Yves, lowered the sail, in order that that single point upon the surface of the waters should cease to be a guide to the eye of the enemy pursuing them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails were run up at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the finest and longest days of the year, and the moon, in all her brilliancy, succeeded inauspicious daylight. The _balancelle_, which was pursuing the little bark before the wind, had then still half an hour of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day. "Monseigneur! monseigneur! we are lost!" said the captain. "Look! they see us plainly, though we have lowered sail." "That is not to be wondered at," murmured one of the sailors, "since they say that, by the aid of the devil, the Paris-folk have fabricated instruments with which they see as well at a distance as near, by night as well as by day." Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, focussed it silently, and passing it to the sailor, "Here," said he, "look!" The sailor hesitated. "Don't be alarmed," said the bishop, "there is no sin in it; and if there is any sin, I will take it on myself." The sailor lifted the glass to his eye, and uttered a cry. He believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant about cannon-shot, had at a single bound cleared the whole distance. But, on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that, except the way which the _balancelle_ had been able to make during that brief instant, it was still at the same distance. "So," murmured the sailor, "they can see us as we see them." "They see us," said Aramis, and sank again into impassibility. "What!--they see us!" said Yves. "Impossible!" "Well, captain, look yourself," said the sailor. And he passed him the glass. "Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?" asked Yves. Aramis shrugged his shoulders. The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. "Oh! monseigneur," said he, "it is a miracle--there they are; it seems as if I were going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he turns round, and gives an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward--they are loading it--pointing it. _Misericorde!_ they are firing at us!" And by a mechanical movement, the skipper put aside the telescope, and the pursuing ship, relegated to the horizon, appeared again in its true aspect. The vessel was still at the distance of nearly a league, but the maneuver sighted thus was not less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared beneath the sails, more blue than they, and spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig a white furrow in the sea, and disappear at the end of it, as inoffensive as the stone with which, in play, a boy makes ducks and drakes. It was at once a menace and a warning. "What is to be done?" asked the patron. "They will sink us!" said Goenne, "give us absolution, monseigneur!" And the sailors fell on their knees before him. "You forget that they can see you," said he. "That is true!" said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness. "Give us your orders, monseigneur, we are prepared to die for you." "Let us wait," said Aramis. "How--let us wait?" "Yes; do you not see, as you just now said, that if we endeavor to fly, they will sink us?" "But, perhaps," the patron ventured to say, "perhaps under cover of night, we could escape them." "Oh!" said Aramis, "they have, no doubt, Greek fire with which to lighten their own course and ours likewise." At the same moment, as if the vessel was responsive to the appeal of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly to the heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparkled an arrow of flame, which described a parabola like a rainbow, and fell into the sea, where it continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter of a league in diameter. The Bretons looked at each other in terror. "You see plainly," said Aramis, "it will be better to wait for them." The oars dropped from the hands of the sailors, and the bark, ceasing to make way, rocked motionless upon the summits of the waves. Night came on, but still the ship drew nearer. It might be imagined it redoubled its speed with darkness. From time to time, as a vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable Greek fire darted from its sides, and cast its flame upon the ocean like an incandescent snowfall. At last it came within musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in hand; the cannoniers were at their guns, the matches burning. It might be thought they were about to board a frigate and to fight a crew superior in number to their own, not to attempt the capture of a canoe manned by four people. "Surrender!" cried the commander of the _balancelle_, with the aid of his speaking-trumpet. The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head. Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was like striking their flag. The pursuer came on like a race-horse. It launched a fresh Greek fire, which fell within twenty paces of the little canoe, and threw a light upon them as white as sunshine. "At the first sign of resistance," cried the commander of the _balancelle_, "fire!" The soldiers brought their muskets to the present. "Did we not say we surrendered?" said Yves. "Alive, alive, captain!" cried one excited soldier, "they must be taken alive." "Well, yes--living," said the captain. Then turning towards the Bretons, "Your lives are safe, my friends!" cried he, "all but the Chevalier d'Herblay." Aramis stared imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed upon the depths of the ocean, illumined by the last flashes of the Greek fire, which ran along the sides of the waves, played on the crests like plumes, and rendered still darker and more terrible the gulfs they covered. "Do you hear, monseigneur?" said the sailors. "Yes." "What are your orders?" "Accept!" "But you, monseigneur?" Aramis leaned still more forward, and dipped the ends of his long white fingers in the green limpid waters of the sea, to which he turned with smiles as to a friend. "Accept!" repeated he. "We accept," repeated the sailors; "but what security have we?" "The word of a gentleman," said the officer. "By my rank and by my name I swear that all except M. le Chevalier d'Herblay shall have their lives spared. I am lieutenant of the king's frigate the 'Pomona,' and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny." With a rapid gesture, Aramis--already bent over the side of the bark towards the sea--drew himself up, and with a flashing eye, and a smile upon his lips, "Throw out the ladder, messieurs," said he, as if the command had belonged to him. He was obeyed. When Aramis, seizing the rope ladder, walked straight up to the commander, with a firm step, looked at him earnestly, made a sign to him with his hand, a mysterious and unknown sign at sight of which the officer turned pale, trembled, and bowed his head, the sailors were profoundly astonished. Without a word Aramis then raised his hand to the eyes of the commander and showed him the collet of a ring he wore on the ring-finger of his left hand. And while making this sign Aramis, draped in cold and haughty majesty, had the air of an emperor giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had raised his head, bowed a second time with marks of the most profound respect. Then stretching his hand out, in his turn, towards the poop, that is to say, towards his own cabin, he drew back to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on board after their bishop, looked at each other, stupefied. The crew were awed to silence. Five minutes after, the commander called the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the head to be put towards Corunna. Whilst this order was being executed, Aramis reappeared upon the deck, and took a seat near the _bastingage_. Night had fallen; the moon had not yet risen, yet Aramis looked incessantly towards Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned to take his post in the stern, and said, in a low and humble voice, "What course are we to follow, captain?" "We take what course monseigneur pleases," replied the officer. Aramis passed the night leaning upon the _bastingage_. Yves, on approaching him next morning, remarked that "the night must have been a very damp one, for the wood on which the bishop's head had rested was soaked with dew." Who knows?--that dew was, it may be, the first tears that had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis! What epitaph would have been worth that, good Porthos?

Chapter Fifty-One: The Epitaph of Porthos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-one-the-epitaph-of-porthos

Aramis stands and goes to the boat, supported by the three servants. He is full of grief. The narrator delivers a touching obituary. The men row towards Spain as Aramis sinks into a silent, immovable grief. The men soon realize they are being chased, but do not disturb their master until an hour has past. Aramis does not reply. The ship continues pursuit. There are twenty-five men on the ship, and they soon fire a cannon at the little boat. The sailors are afraid. Aramis tells the men to wait for the ship. The little boat surrenders. The terms of the surrender are that the servants' lives will be spared, but not Aramis's. Aramis tells his men to accept the conditions. Once on board, Aramis makes a sign to the captain and shows him the setting of one of his rings. The captain begins obeying Aramis. Aramis spends the night leaning on the rails, and one of his men later notices that the wood upon which Aramis's head rested was soaked with moisture. The narrator speculates that that moisture was the first tears Aramis ever shed. The narrator says that is equal to any epitaph Porthos could have received.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/52.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_51_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 52

chapter 52: the round of m. de gesvres

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Two: The Round of M. de Gesvres", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-two-the-round-of-m-de-gesvres", "summary": "D'Artagnan is deeply upset when he returns to Nantes and seeks a meeting with the King straightaway. M. de Gesvres tells him that the King does not want to be disturbed. Used to having free access to the King and his quarters, D'Artagnan is angry . Worried about his friends, he decides to seek out Colbert. He learns that Colbert is with the King. Really angry now, he returns to the hallway outside the King's room. M. de Lyonne comes out, and D'Artagnan tells him to tell the King that he is resigning. Lyonne relays the message. The King seems fine with it. D'Artagnan is relieved to be a plain citizen again, and wants to head straight back to Belle-Isle. At eight o'clock D'Artagnan is in the hostelry saddling his horse when Gesvres shows up with twelve horsemen. D'Artagnan asks if he is being arrested. Gesvres tells him that the King wants to speak with him. D'Artagnan is annoyed and doesn't care what the King wants or feels, but he walks with Gesvres anyway. As D'Artagnan waits for the King to conclude his business with Colbert, the guards standing behind him make it look as though he has been arrested. Word begins to circulate and all the Musketeers begin to make a ruckus. D'Artagnan is disappointed in the quality of today's Musketeers.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LII. M. de Gesvres's Round. D'Artagnan was little used to resistance like that he had just experienced. He returned, profoundly irritated, to Nantes. Irritation, with this vigorous man, usually vented itself in impetuous attack, which few people, hitherto, were they king, were they giants, had been able to resist. Trembling with rage, he went straight to the castle, and asked an audience with the king. It might be about seven o'clock in the morning, and, since his arrival at Nantes, the king had been an early riser. But on arriving at the corridor with which we are acquainted, D'Artagnan found M. de Gesvres, who stopped him politely, telling him not to speak too loud and disturb the king. "Is the king asleep?" said D'Artagnan. "Well, I will let him sleep. But about what o'clock do you suppose he will rise?" "Oh! in about two hours; his majesty has been up all night." D'Artagnan took his hat again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and returned to his own apartments. He came back at half-past nine, and was told that the king was at breakfast. "That will just suit me," said D'Artagnan. "I will talk to the king while he is eating." M. de Brienne reminded D'Artagnan that the king would not see any one at meal-time. "But," said D'Artagnan, looking askant at Brienne, "you do not know, perhaps, monsieur, that I have the privilege of _entree_ anywhere--and at any hour." Brienne took the captain's hand kindly, and said, "Not at Nantes, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan. The king, in this journey, has changed everything." D'Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o'clock the king would have finished his breakfast. "We don't know." "Eh?--don't know! What does that mean? You don't know how much time the king devotes to eating? It is generally an hour; and, if we admit that the air of the Loire gives an additional appetite, we will extend it to an hour and a half; that is enough, I think. I will wait where I am." "Oh! dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, the order of the day is not to allow any person to remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that particular purpose." D'Artagnan felt his anger mounting to his brain a second time. He went out quickly, for fear of complicating the affair by a display of premature ill-humor. As soon as he was out he began to reflect. "The king," said he, "will not receive me, that is evident. The young man is angry; he is afraid, beforehand, of the words that I may speak to him. Yes; but in the meantime Belle-Isle is besieged, and my two friends by now probably taken or killed. Poor Porthos! As to Master Aramis, he is always full of resources, and I am easy on his account. But, no, no; Porthos is not yet an invalid, nor is Aramis in his dotage. The one with his arm, the other with his imagination, will find work for his majesty's soldiers. Who knows if these brave men may not get up for the edification of his most Christian majesty a little bastion of Saint-Gervais! I don't despair of it. They have cannon and a garrison. And yet," continued D'Artagnan, "I don't know whether it would not be better to stop the combat. For myself alone I will not put up with either surly looks or insults from the king; but for my friends I must put up with everything. Shall I go to M. Colbert? Now, there is a man I must acquire the habit of terrifying. I will go to M. Colbert." And D'Artagnan set forward bravely to find M. Colbert, but was informed that he was working with the king, at the castle of Nantes. "Good!" cried he, "the times have come again in which I measured my steps from De Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the queen, from the queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said that men, in growing old, become children again!--To the castle, then!" He returned thither. M. de Lyonne was coming out. He gave D'Artagnan both hands, but told him that the king had been busy all the preceding evening and all night, and that orders had been given that no one should be admitted. "Not even the captain who takes the order?" cried D'Artagnan. "I think that is rather too strong." "Not even he," said M. de Lyonne. "Since that is the case," replied D'Artagnan, wounded to the heart; "since the captain of the musketeers, who has always entered the king's chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or his _salle-a-manger_, either the king is dead, or his captain is in disgrace. Do me the favor, then, M. de Lyonne, who are in favor, to return and tell the king, plainly, I send him my resignation." "D'Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!" "For friendship's sake, go!" and he pushed him gently towards the cabinet. "Well, I will go," said Lyonne. D'Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor in no enviable mood. Lyonne returned. "Well, what did the king say?" exclaimed D'Artagnan. "He simply answered, ''Tis well,'" replied Lyonne. "That it was well!" said the captain, with an explosion. "That is to say, that he accepts it? Good! Now, then, I am free! I am only a plain citizen, M. de Lyonne. I have the pleasure of bidding you good-bye! Farewell, castle, corridor, ante-chamber! a _bourgeois_, about to breathe at liberty, takes his farewell of you." And without waiting longer, the captain sprang from the terrace down the staircase, where he had picked up the fragments of Gourville's letter. Five minutes after, he was at the hostelry, where, according to the custom of all great officers who have lodgings at the castle, he had taken what was called his city-chamber. But when he arrived there, instead of throwing off his sword and cloak, he took his pistols, put his money into a large leather purse, sent for his horses from the castle-stables, and gave orders that would ensure their reaching Vannes during the night. Everything went on according to his wishes. At eight o'clock in the evening, he was putting his foot in the stirrup, when M. de Gesvres appeared, at the head of twelve guards, in front of the hostelry. D'Artagnan saw all from the corner of his eye; he could not fail seeing thirteen men and thirteen horses. But he feigned not to observe anything, and was about to put his horse in motion. Gesvres rode up to him. "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said he, aloud. "Ah, Monsieur de Gesvres! good evening!" "One would say you were getting on horseback." "More than that,--I am mounted,--as you see." "It is fortunate I have met with you." "Were you looking for me, then?" "_Mon Dieu!_ yes." "On the part of the king, I will wager?" "Yes." "As I, three days ago, went in search of M. Fouquet?" "Oh!" "Nonsense! It is of no use being over-delicate with me; that is all labor lost. Tell me at once you are come to arrest me." "To arrest you?--Good heavens! no." "Why do you come to accost me with twelve horsemen at your heels, then?" "I am making my round." "That isn't bad! And so you pick me up in your round, eh?" "I don't pick you up; I meet with you, and I beg you to come with me." "Where?" "To the king." "Good!" said D'Artagnan, with a bantering air; "the king is disengaged." "For Heaven's sake, captain," said M. de Gesvres, in a low voice to the musketeer, "do not compromise yourself! these men hear you." D'Artagnan laughed aloud, and replied: "March! People who are arrested are placed between the six first guards and the six last." "But as I am not arresting you," said M. de Gesvres, "you will march behind, with me, if you please." "Well," said D'Artagnan, "that is very polite, duke, and you are right in being so; for if ever I had had to make my rounds near your _chambre-de-ville_, I should have been courteous to you, I assure you, on the word of a gentleman! Now, one favor more; what does the king want with me?" "Oh, the king is furious!" "Very well! the king, who has thought it worth while to be angry, may take the trouble to grow calm again; that is all. I shan't die of that, I will swear." "No, but--" "But--I shall be sent to keep company with unfortunate M. Fouquet. _Mordioux!_ That is a gallant man, a worthy man! We shall live very sociably together, I will be sworn." "Here we are at our place of destination," said the duke. "Captain, for Heaven's sake be calm with the king!" "Ah! ah! you are playing the brave man with me, duke!" said D'Artagnan, throwing one of his defiant glances over Gesvres. "I have been told that you are ambitious of uniting your guards with my musketeers. This strikes me as a splendid opportunity." "I will take exceeding good care not to avail myself of it, captain." "And why not, pray?" "Oh, for many reasons--in the first place, for this: if I were to succeed you in the musketeers after having arrested you--" "Ah! then you admit you have arrested me?" "No, I _don't_." "Say met me, then. So, you were saying _if_ you were to succeed me after having arrested me?" "Your musketeers, at the first exercise with ball cartridges, would fire _my_ way, by mistake." "Oh, as to that I won't say; for the fellows _do_ love me a little." Gesvres made D'Artagnan pass in first, and took him straight to the cabinet where Louis was waiting for his captain of the musketeers, and placed himself behind his colleague in the ante-chamber. The king could be heard distinctly, speaking aloud to Colbert in the same cabinet where Colbert might have heard, a few days before, the king speaking aloud with M. d'Artagnan. The guards remained as a mounted picket before the principal gate; and the report was quickly spread throughout the city that monsieur le capitaine of the musketeers had been arrested by order of the king. Then these men were seen to be in motion, and as in the good old times of Louis XIII. and M. de Treville, groups were formed, and staircases were filled; vague murmurs, issuing from the court below, came rolling to the upper stories, like the distant moaning of the waves. M. de Gesvres became uneasy. He looked at his guards, who, after being interrogated by the musketeers who had just got among their ranks, began to shun them with a manifestation of innocence. D'Artagnan was certainly less disturbed by all this than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the guards. As soon as he entered, he seated himself on the ledge of a window whence with his eagle glance he saw all that was going on without the least emotion. No step of the progressive fermentation which had shown itself at the report of his arrest escaped him. He foresaw the very moment the explosion would take place; and we know that his previsions were in general correct. "It would be very whimsical," thought he, "if, this evening, my praetorians should make me king of France. How I should laugh!" But, at the height, all was stopped. Guards, musketeers, officers, soldiers, murmurs, uneasiness, dispersed, vanished, died away; there was an end of menace and sedition. One word had calmed the waves. The king had desired Brienne to say, "Hush, messieurs! you disturb the king." D'Artagnan sighed. "All is over!" said he; "the musketeers of the present day are not those of his majesty Louis XIII. All is over!" "Monsieur d'Artagnan, you are wanted in the ante-chamber of the king," proclaimed an usher.

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Round of M. de Gesvres

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-two-the-round-of-m-de-gesvres

D'Artagnan is deeply upset when he returns to Nantes and seeks a meeting with the King straightaway. M. de Gesvres tells him that the King does not want to be disturbed. Used to having free access to the King and his quarters, D'Artagnan is angry . Worried about his friends, he decides to seek out Colbert. He learns that Colbert is with the King. Really angry now, he returns to the hallway outside the King's room. M. de Lyonne comes out, and D'Artagnan tells him to tell the King that he is resigning. Lyonne relays the message. The King seems fine with it. D'Artagnan is relieved to be a plain citizen again, and wants to head straight back to Belle-Isle. At eight o'clock D'Artagnan is in the hostelry saddling his horse when Gesvres shows up with twelve horsemen. D'Artagnan asks if he is being arrested. Gesvres tells him that the King wants to speak with him. D'Artagnan is annoyed and doesn't care what the King wants or feels, but he walks with Gesvres anyway. As D'Artagnan waits for the King to conclude his business with Colbert, the guards standing behind him make it look as though he has been arrested. Word begins to circulate and all the Musketeers begin to make a ruckus. D'Artagnan is disappointed in the quality of today's Musketeers.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/54.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_53_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 54

chapter 54: the friends of m. fouquet

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Four: The Friends of M. Fouquet", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-four-the-friends-of-m-fouquet", "summary": "D'Artagnan arrives back in Paris after going to Belle-Isle and discovering no trace of his friends. He knows only that they killed a lot of men. Once the King is settled in Paris, D'Artagnan shows up with a sad face. He has learned of Porthos's death. The King admits he knew. D'Artagnan asks why he was not informed. The King says he wanted D'Artagnan to find out for himself. When asked how he received this information, the King admits to reading D'Artagnan's mail. Aramis had sent him a letter recapping the situation. D'Artagnan admits Louis is the only man who could possibly dominate over his friends. The King mentions that he could easily have Aramis killed in his hiding place in Spain, but since he's generous, he desists. D'Artagnan protests that the King's advisers will change his mind. The King admits that it is Colbert who actually advised sparing Aramis's life. D'Artagnan asks the King to receive three petitioners who have been waiting for a long time in the antechamber. They are the friends of Fouquet: Gourville, Pelisson, and La Fontaine. The three men are weeping. The King remains expressionless as the three men file in with faces contorted by grief. The men can't get it together to speak, and the King gets impatient. He tells them there is no hope of pardoning Fouquet. Pelisson finally speaks. They are actually there on behalf of Madame Fouquet, who has been abandoned and destitute since her husband has fallen out of favor. The friends ask permission to loan her two thousand pistoles. The King grants them permission and they leave. The King then gives D'Artagnan permission to see to the affairs of Porthos.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LIV. M. Fouquet's Friends. The king had returned to Paris, and with him D'Artagnan, who, in twenty-four hours, having made with greatest care all possible inquiries at Belle-Isle, succeeded in learning nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant men--these two friends, whose defense he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save--aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had seen, spread on the neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with clouted blood the scattered stones among the flowering broom. He learned also that a bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured the poor little bird that was flying with such palpitating wings. But there D'Artagnan's certainties ended. The field of supposition was thrown open. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be a good sailer and solid in its timbers; it had no need to fear a gale of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of D'Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which D'Artagnan brought to Louis XIV., when the king, followed by all the court, returned to Paris. Louis, satisfied with his success--Louis, more mild and affable as he felt himself more powerful--had not ceased for an instant to ride beside the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody was anxious to amuse the two queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment by son and husband. Everything breathed the future, the past was nothing to anybody. Only that past was like a painful bleeding wound to the hearts of certain tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the king reinstalled in Paris, when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV. had just risen and taken his first repast when his captain of the musketeers presented himself before him. D'Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The king, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance generally so unconcerned. "What is the matter, D'Artagnan?" said he. "Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me." "Good heavens! what is that?" "Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of Belle-Isle." And, while speaking these words, D'Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV., to catch the first feeling that would show itself. "I knew it," replied the king, quietly. "You knew it, and did not tell me!" cried the musketeer. "To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well worthy of respect. It was my duty to treat it gently. To have informed you of this misfortune, which I knew would pain you so greatly, D'Artagnan, would have been, in your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d'Herblay had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing you should learn these matters in a direct manner, in order that you might be convinced my friends are with me respected and sacred; that always in me the man will sacrifice himself to subjects, whilst the king is so often found to sacrifice men to majesty and power." "But, sire, how could you know?" "How do you yourself know, D'Artagnan?" "By this letter, sire, which M. d'Herblay, free and out of danger, writes me from Bayonne." "Look here," said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table closet to the seat upon which D'Artagnan was leaning, "here is a letter copied exactly from that of M. d'Herblay. Here is the very letter, which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well served, you may perceive." "Yes, sire," murmured the musketeer, "you were the only man whose star was equal to the task of dominating the fortune and strength of my two friends. You have used your power, sire, you will not abuse it, will you?" "D'Artagnan," said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness, "I could have M. d'Herblay carried off from the territories of the king of Spain, and brought here, alive, to inflict justice upon him. But, D'Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free--let him continue free." "Oh, sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d'Herblay; you will have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness." "No, D'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d'Herblay comes from Colbert himself." "Oh, sire!" said D'Artagnan, extremely surprised. "As for you," continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon to him, "I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon become reality." "A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I implore you, whilst I go and practice patience, that your majesty will deign to notice those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your ante-chamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet." "Who are they?" "Enemies of your majesty." The king raised his head. "Friends of M. Fouquet," added D'Artagnan. "Their names?" "M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine." The king took a moment to reflect. "What do they want?" "I do not know." "How do they appear?" "In great affliction." "What do they say?" "Nothing." "What do they do?" "They weep." "Let them come in," said the king, with a serious brow. D'Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried, "Enter." The three men D'Artagnan had named immediately appeared at the door of the cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate superintendent of finances, drew back, as if fearful of being affected by contagion with disgrace and misfortune. D'Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them in front of the king's _fauteuil_, who, having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic reception. The first of the friends of Fouquet's to advance was Pelisson. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might better hear his voice and prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears, out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs. The king preserved his dignity. His countenance was impassible. He even maintained the frown which appeared when D'Artagnan announced his enemies. He made a gesture which signified, "Speak;" and he remained standing, with his eyes fixed searchingly on these desponding men. Pelisson bowed to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This dismal silence, disturbed only by sighs and groans, began to excite in the king, not compassion, but impatience. "Monsieur Pelisson," said he, in a sharp, dry tone. "Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur--" and he did not name La Fontaine, "I cannot, without sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest criminals it is the duty of justice to punish. A king does not allow himself to soften save at the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and the others ought to dread offending me in my own palace. For these reasons, I beg you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur--, to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will." "Sire," replied Pelisson, trembling at these words, "we are come to say nothing to your majesty that is not the most profound expression of the most sincere respect and love that are due to a king from all his subjects. Your majesty's justice is redoubtable; every one must yield to the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of the king." "Besides," interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice, and those persuasive words, "my parliament will decide. I do not strike without first having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the sword without employing first a pair of scales." "Therefore we have every confidence in that impartiality of the king, and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend strikes." "In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?" said the king, with his most imposing air. "Sire," continued Pelisson, "the accused has a wife and family. The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet, since her husband's captivity, is abandoned by everybody. The hand of your majesty strikes like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to approach the ill-reputed threshold, passes it with courage, and risks his life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, the chosen instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with clasped hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any means of support; she weeps in her deserted home, abandoned by all those who besieged its doors in the hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from you, however culpable he may be, his daily bread though moistened by his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet--the lady who had the honor to receive your majesty at her table--Madame Fouquet, the wife of the ancient superintendent of your majesty's finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread." Here the mortal silence which had chained the breath of Pelisson's two friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and D'Artagnan, whose chest heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the angle of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal a groan. The king had preserved his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the blood had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly diminished. "What do you wish?" said he, in an agitated voice. "We come humbly to ask your majesty," replied Pelisson, upon whom emotion was fast gaining, "to permit us, without incurring the displeasure of your majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life." At the word _widow_, pronounced by Pelisson whilst Fouquet was still alive, the king turned very pale;--his pride disappeared; pity rose from his heart to his lips; he cast a softened look upon the men who knelt sobbing at his feet. "God forbid," said he, "that I should confound the innocent with the guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs--go!" The three now rose in silence with dry eyes. The tears had been scorched away by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not the strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short their solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the _fauteuil_. D'Artagnan remained alone with the king. "Well," said he, approaching the young prince, who interrogated him with his look. "Well, my master! If you had not the device which belongs to your sun, I would recommend you one which M. Conrart might translate into eclectic Latin, 'Calm with the lowly; stormy with the strong.'" The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment, after having said to D'Artagnan, "I give you the leave of absence you must want to put the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon, in order."

Chapter Fifty-Four: The Friends of M. Fouquet

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-four-the-friends-of-m-fouquet

D'Artagnan arrives back in Paris after going to Belle-Isle and discovering no trace of his friends. He knows only that they killed a lot of men. Once the King is settled in Paris, D'Artagnan shows up with a sad face. He has learned of Porthos's death. The King admits he knew. D'Artagnan asks why he was not informed. The King says he wanted D'Artagnan to find out for himself. When asked how he received this information, the King admits to reading D'Artagnan's mail. Aramis had sent him a letter recapping the situation. D'Artagnan admits Louis is the only man who could possibly dominate over his friends. The King mentions that he could easily have Aramis killed in his hiding place in Spain, but since he's generous, he desists. D'Artagnan protests that the King's advisers will change his mind. The King admits that it is Colbert who actually advised sparing Aramis's life. D'Artagnan asks the King to receive three petitioners who have been waiting for a long time in the antechamber. They are the friends of Fouquet: Gourville, Pelisson, and La Fontaine. The three men are weeping. The King remains expressionless as the three men file in with faces contorted by grief. The men can't get it together to speak, and the King gets impatient. He tells them there is no hope of pardoning Fouquet. Pelisson finally speaks. They are actually there on behalf of Madame Fouquet, who has been abandoned and destitute since her husband has fallen out of favor. The friends ask permission to loan her two thousand pistoles. The King grants them permission and they leave. The King then gives D'Artagnan permission to see to the affairs of Porthos.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/55.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_54_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 55

chapter 55: porthos's will

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Five: Porthos's Will", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-five-porthoss-will", "summary": "Pierrefonds has been prepared for his funeral. Mousqueton, , has lost plenty of weight in two days; his clothes hang on his frame. Various friends arrive to hear the reading of the will. D'Artagnan arrives right as the reading is about to begin. He hugs Mousqueton and nods to the guests. Porthos's will first details all of his worldly possessions, then leaves everything to Raoul de Bragelonne, who he considers his son. A tear slides down D'Artagnan's nose. Porthos includes a few stipulations to this bequest, however. He wants D'Artagnan to have whatever D'Artagnan might request, that Aramis receive a pension should he require one, and that Mousqueton receive all forty-seven of his suits of clothing, to be worn in Porthos's memory. Porthos also wills Mousqueton to Raoul, asking that he look out for the servant's happiness. Mousqueton sobs with grief and tries to leave the hall. D'Artagnan offers to take him to Athos's house. The reading of the will is finished and the guests leave. D'Artagnan is left alone to contemplate his friend's last will and testament, which he judges to be admirable. D'Artagnan hears a groan come from an upstairs room, and he is reminded that Mousqueton must be consoled. He goes upstairs to find, in Porthos's room, all his suits of clothes in a giant heap, and Mousqueton on top, kissing the suits. D'Artagnan moves forward into the room and realizes that Mousqueton is dead.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LV. Porthos's Will. At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted--the stables closed--the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in which the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly as they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival, Mousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had left no relations behind him. The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the reading of the important document. Porthos's procureur--and that was naturally the successor of Master Coquenard--commenced by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his sovereign will. The seal broken--the spectacles put on--the preliminary cough having sounded--every one pricked up his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the better to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which had been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announced himself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew Mousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees, watering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, he went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating with excess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, commenced. Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from the eyes of D'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthos brought to earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not to enumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule of his extensive lands: "I possess at this present time, by the grace of God-- "1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, surrounded by good walls. "2. The domain of Bracieux, chateaux, forests, plowed lands, forming three farms. "3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley." (Brave Porthos!) "4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres. "5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each. "6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year. "As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the bishop of Vannes--" (D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name)--the procureur continued imperturbably--"they consist--" "1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my chateaux or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant." Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still lost in grief. "2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called--Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod, Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette. "3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for the stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the fourth, for the hare; and the two others, for setters and protection. "4. In arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms. "5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults, in my various houses. "6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, and which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight. "7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, and have never been opened. "8. My silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more than six times round my chamber. "9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are divided in the residences I liked the best." Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The procureur resumed: "I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends; that is, M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere. "This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed the valiant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant." Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D'Artagnan's sword, which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of D'Artagnan, half-way down to his aquiline nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon. "This is why," continued the procureur, "I have left all my property, movable, or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to add more luster to his already glorious name." A vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procureur continued, seconded by the flashing eye of D'Artagnan, which, glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence: "On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property. On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier d'Herblay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to my intendant Mousqueton all of my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of his master. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old servant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing that the said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare, when dying, he has never ceased to be happy." On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; his shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, compressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did not know the way. "Mousqueton, my good friend," said D'Artagnan, "go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I shall go on leaving Pierrefonds." Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that hall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and slowly disappeared. The procureur finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for D'Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formal compliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither nobleman nor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give D'Artagnan all that he would ask, he knew well, our worthy Porthos, that D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, was checked by the example of D'Artagnan; and that word _exile_, thrown out by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest, most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in the testament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more clearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste. "Porthos had indeed a heart," said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh. As he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room above him; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was a pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in Porthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on the floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow. "My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!" But D'Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak.

Chapter Fifty-Five: Porthos's Will

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-five-porthoss-will

Pierrefonds has been prepared for his funeral. Mousqueton, , has lost plenty of weight in two days; his clothes hang on his frame. Various friends arrive to hear the reading of the will. D'Artagnan arrives right as the reading is about to begin. He hugs Mousqueton and nods to the guests. Porthos's will first details all of his worldly possessions, then leaves everything to Raoul de Bragelonne, who he considers his son. A tear slides down D'Artagnan's nose. Porthos includes a few stipulations to this bequest, however. He wants D'Artagnan to have whatever D'Artagnan might request, that Aramis receive a pension should he require one, and that Mousqueton receive all forty-seven of his suits of clothing, to be worn in Porthos's memory. Porthos also wills Mousqueton to Raoul, asking that he look out for the servant's happiness. Mousqueton sobs with grief and tries to leave the hall. D'Artagnan offers to take him to Athos's house. The reading of the will is finished and the guests leave. D'Artagnan is left alone to contemplate his friend's last will and testament, which he judges to be admirable. D'Artagnan hears a groan come from an upstairs room, and he is reminded that Mousqueton must be consoled. He goes upstairs to find, in Porthos's room, all his suits of clothes in a giant heap, and Mousqueton on top, kissing the suits. D'Artagnan moves forward into the room and realizes that Mousqueton is dead.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/56.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_55_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 56

chapter 56: the old age of athos

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Six: The Old Age of Athos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-six-the-old-age-of-athos", "summary": "Back on his own estate, Athos has been preparing for his death. Since his son is gone, Athos has no incentive to lead a good example. He slowly begins sleeping in and cutting back on all his exercises. He stops speaking. He tries writing to his friends, but his letters go unanswered. Finally, his servants get so worried they go behind his back and get his old doctor to examine him. The doctor hides and observes Athos. At one point, he can bear it no longer and goes directly up to Athos and begs him to get well. The physician sees that Athos is slowly killing himself. Athos tells the doctor not to worry - he will remain alive as long as Raoul is alive. He tells the doctor that his soul is prepared; he is waiting for the signal that Raoul is dead. The doctor reflects, deciding there is nothing he can do to change Athos's mind. As he leaves he tells the servants to always keep an eye on him. Athos stops sleeping. Instead, he lets his mind wander in dreams. One night he communicates with Raoul, who is sad to hear of Porthos's death. The vision disappears and servants come running in with a letter from Aramis relating Porthos's death. Athos faints from weakness.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos. While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos, left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love. Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with that _cortege_ of pains and inconveniences, which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to induce him to walk firmly, with head erect, as a good example; he had no longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focus at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a young man to his sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue; his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere; Athos had become an old man in a week, from the moment at which he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but sad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeper glades where sunshine scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he had enjoyed through life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear seven o'clock strike before their master quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow--but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope and return to his son, or to God. [6] His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together, absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgot the day had half passed away, that the hours for the two first meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of its warmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismal monotonous walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he regained the chamber and his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte did not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long hours in writing, or examining parchments. Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau; they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France, and D'Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to Pierrefonds. His _valet de chambre_ observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times a day. The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon a mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declined all nourishment, and his terrified people, although he did not complain, although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice--his people went to Blois in search of the ancient physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in such a fashion that he could see the comte without being himself seen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French glory. Athos was a great seigneur compared with such nobles as the king improvised by touching with his artificial scepter the patched-up trunks of the heraldic trees of the province. People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent and aged more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of fever, which feeds upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The comte spoke to nobody; he did not even talk to himself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God, already appertains no longer to the earth. The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of the will against superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, ever directed on some invisible object; was terrified at the monotonous beating of that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state; for often pain becomes the hope of the physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight up to Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise than if he had understood nothing of the apparition. "Monsieur le comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make you--you shall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation. "What is the matter, doctor?" asked the comte, after a silence. "The matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice." "I! ill!" said Athos, smiling. "Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, monsieur le comte!" "Weakness!" replied Athos; "is it possible? I do not get up." "Come, come! monsieur le comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?" "I hope so," said Athos. "Is it your wish to kill yourself?" "Never, doctor." "Well! monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain is suicide. Get well! monsieur le comte, get well!" "Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself better; never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I take more care of my flowers." "You have a hidden grief." "Concealed!--not at all; the absence of my son, doctor; that is my malady, and I do not conceal it." "Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future before him--the future of men of merit, of his race; live for him--" "But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with a melancholy smile; "for as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known, for as long as he lives, I shall live." "What do you say?" "A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended within me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond my strength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the match has not illumed the flame; do not ask me to live amidst noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look, doctor; remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark; lying down, indifferent, half on one element, half on the other; they were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going to lose them; baggage prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked--they waited. I repeat it, the word is the one which paints my present life. Lying down like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch for the report that may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who will make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My baggage is packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal--I wait, doctor, I wait!" The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength of that body; he reflected for the moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos's servants not to quit him for a moment. The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction which should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours at most, in a reverie most profound, more obscure than other people would have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness thus gave the body, still further fatigued the soul, for Athos lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night, he dreamt that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon an expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad; he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword. "What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly. "What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend," replied Raoul. "I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home." And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of his servants entered his master's apartment, and gave him a letter which came from Spain. "The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read. "Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh! Raoul, Raoul! thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!" And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any other cause than weakness.

Chapter Fifty-Six: The Old Age of Athos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-six-the-old-age-of-athos

Back on his own estate, Athos has been preparing for his death. Since his son is gone, Athos has no incentive to lead a good example. He slowly begins sleeping in and cutting back on all his exercises. He stops speaking. He tries writing to his friends, but his letters go unanswered. Finally, his servants get so worried they go behind his back and get his old doctor to examine him. The doctor hides and observes Athos. At one point, he can bear it no longer and goes directly up to Athos and begs him to get well. The physician sees that Athos is slowly killing himself. Athos tells the doctor not to worry - he will remain alive as long as Raoul is alive. He tells the doctor that his soul is prepared; he is waiting for the signal that Raoul is dead. The doctor reflects, deciding there is nothing he can do to change Athos's mind. As he leaves he tells the servants to always keep an eye on him. Athos stops sleeping. Instead, he lets his mind wander in dreams. One night he communicates with Raoul, who is sad to hear of Porthos's death. The vision disappears and servants come running in with a letter from Aramis relating Porthos's death. Athos faints from weakness.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/57.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_56_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 57

chapter 57: the vision of athos

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Vision of Athos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-seven-the-vision-of-athos", "summary": "Athos gets out of bed, determined to get in touch with D'Artagnan and take a trip to Belle-Isle to pay his last respects to Porthos's resting place. As soon as he is ready to go, however, he loses all his strength and is obliged to rest. Every time he tries to leave, he is overtaken by fatigue. Clearly, he is not supposed to leave the house. Athos takes a nap. Mail is delivered today, but there is nothing for Athos. He is upset, for this means he must wait another eight days. Athos catches a fever. The physician comes to tend to him. Athos dreams he is in Africa witnessing battle. Night falls and Athos can see fallen bodies under a \"mild and pale moon.\" Athos is horrified as he looks at the corpses. He sees Beaufort's white horse lying on the ground. Worried, Athos looks for his son. Finally exhausted, Athos rests for a moment under a tent. From far away he can see a white figure approaching. The figure is dressed as an officer. Athos recognizes Raoul and cries out to him. Raoul beckons his father to follow him, then glides away. Athos follows Raoul to the top of a hill. Raoul begins to ascend straight up into the air and beckons his father to follow.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LVII. Athos's Vision. When this fainting of Athos had ceased, the comte, almost ashamed of having given way before this superior natural event, dressed himself and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois, to open more certain correspondences with either Africa, D'Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of the expedition of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the death of Porthos to move the tender and devoted heart of Athos to its innermost fibers. Athos wished to go and pay his friend Porthos a last visit. To render this honor to his companion in arms, he meant to send to D'Artagnan, to prevail upon him to recommence the painful voyage to Belle-Isle, to accomplish in his company that sad pilgrimage to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved, then to return to his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to eternity by a mysterious road. But scarcely had his joyous servants dressed their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing for a journey which might dissipate his melancholy; scarcely had the comte's gentlest horse been saddled and brought to the door, when the father of Raoul felt his head become confused, his legs give way, and he clearly perceived the impossibility of going one step further. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun; they laid him upon his bed of moss where he passed a full hour before he could recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this weakness after then inert repose of the latter days. Athos took a _bouillon_, to give him strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful of the wine he loved the best--that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his admirable will. Then, refreshed, free in mind, he had his horse brought again; but only with the aid of his servants was he able painfully to climb into the saddle. He did not go a hundred paces; a shivering seized him again at the turning of the road. "This is very strange!" said he to his _valet de chambre_, who accompanied him. "Let us stop, monsieur--I conjure you!" replied the faithful servant; "how pale you are getting!" "That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now I have once started," replied the comte. And he gave his horse his head again. But suddenly, the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master, stopped. A movement, of which Athos was unconscious, had checked the bit. "Something," said Athos, "wills that I should go no further. Support me," added he, stretching out his arms; "quick! come closer! I feel my muscles relax--I shall fall from my horse." The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the moment he received the order. He went up to him quickly, received the comte in his arms, and as they were not yet sufficiently distant from the house for the servants, who had remained at the door to watch their master's departure, not to perceive the disorder in the usually regular proceeding of the comte, the valet called his comrades by gestures and voice, and all hastened to his assistance. Athos had gone but a few steps on his return, when he felt himself better again. His strength seemed to revive and with it the desire to go to Blois. He made his horse turn round: but, at the animal's first steps, he sunk again into a state of torpor and anguish. "Well! decidedly," said he, "it is _willed_ that I should stay at home." His people flocked around him; they lifted him from his horse, and carried him as quickly as possible into the house. Everything was prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed. "You will be sure to remember," said he, disposing himself to sleep, "that I expect letters from Africa this very day." "Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure that Blaisois's son is gone on horseback, to gain an hour over the courier of Blois," replied his _valet de chambre_. "Thank you," replied Athos, with his placid smile. The comte fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled torture rather than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the expression of internal suffering shadowed on his features. Perhaps Athos was dreaming. The day passed away. Blaisois's son returned; the courier had brought no news. The comte reckoned the minutes with despair; he shuddered when those minutes made an hour. The idea that he was forgotten seized him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the heart. Everybody in the house had given up all hopes of the courier--his hour had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had repeated his journey, and there was nothing to the address of the comte. Athos knew that the courier only arrived once a week. Here, then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He commenced the night in this painful persuasion. All that a sick man, irritated by suffering, can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities already gloomy, Athos heaped up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose: it invaded the chest, where the fire soon caught, according to the expression of the physician, who had been brought back from Blois by Blaisois at his last journey. Soon it gained the head. The physician made two successive bleedings, which dislodged it for the time, but left the patient very weak, and without power of action in anything but his brain. And yet this redoubtable fever had ceased. It besieged with its last palpitations the tense extremities; it ended by yielding as midnight struck. The physician, seeing the incontestable improvement, returned to Blois, after having ordered some prescriptions, and declared that the comte was saved. Then commenced for Athos a strange, indefinable state. Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved son. His imagination penetrated the fields of Africa in the environs of Gigelli, where M. de Beaufort must have landed with his army. A waste of gray rocks, rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea, when it lashed the shore in storms and tempest. Beyond, the shore, strewed over with these rocks like gravestones, ascended, in form of an amphitheater among mastic-trees and cactus, a sort of small town, full of smoke, confused noises, and terrified movements. All of a sudden, from the bosom of this smoke arose a flame, which succeeded, creeping along the houses, in covering the entire surface of the town, and increased by degrees, uniting in its red and angry vortices tears, screams, and supplicating arms outstretched to Heaven. There was, for a moment, a frightful _pele-mele_ of timbers falling to pieces, of swords broken, of stones calcined, trees burnt and disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos, in which Athos distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and groans, he did not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a distance, musketry madly barked, the sea moaned, flocks made their escape, bounding over the verdant slope. But not a soldier to apply the match to the batteries of cannon, not a sailor to assist in maneuvering the fleet, not a shepherd in charge of the flocks. After the ruin of the village, the destruction of the forts which dominated it, a ruin and destruction magically wrought without the co-operation of a single human being, the flames were extinguished, the smoke began to subside, then diminished in intensity, paled and disappeared entirely. Night then came over the scene; night dark upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament. The large blazing stars which spangled the African sky glittered and gleamed without illuminating anything. A long silence ensued, which gave, for a moment, repose to the troubled imagination of Athos; and as he felt that that which he saw was not terminated, he applied more attentively the eyes of his understanding on the strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This spectacle was soon continued for him. A mild pale moon rose behind the declivities of the coast, streaking at first the undulating ripples of the sea, which appeared to have calmed after the roaring it had sent forth during the vision of Athos--the moon, we say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briers and bushes of the hills. The gray rocks, so many silent and attentive phantoms, appeared to raise their heads to examine likewise the field of battle by the light of the moon, and Athos perceived that the field, empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen bodies. An inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized his soul as he recognized the white and blue uniforms of the soldiers of Picardy, with their long pikes and blue handles, and muskets marked with the _fleur-de-lis_ on the butts. When he saw all the gaping wounds, looking up to the bright heavens as if to demand back of them the souls to which they had opened a passage,--when he saw the slaughtered horses, stiff, their tongues hanging out at one side of their mouths, sleeping in the shiny blood congealed around them, staining their furniture and their manes,--when he saw the white horse of M. de Beaufort, with his head beaten to pieces, in the first ranks of the dead, Athos passed a cold hand over his brow, which he was astonished not to find burning. He was convinced by this touch that he was present, as a spectator, without delirium's dreadful aid, the day after the battle fought upon the shores of Gigelli by the army of the expedition, which he had seen leave the coast of France and disappear upon the dim horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and gesture the last cannon-shot fired by the duke as a signal of farewell to his country. Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed, like a vigilant eye, these effigies of clay-cold soldiers, and examined them, one after the other, to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the intoxication of joy with which Athos bowed before God, and thanked Him for not having seen him he sought with so much fear among the dead? In fact, fallen in their ranks, stiff, icy, the dead, still recognizable with ease, seemed to turn with complacency towards the Comte de la Fere, to be the better seen by him, during his sad review. But yet, he was astonished, while viewing all these bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the illusion extend, that this vision was for him a real voyage made by the father into Africa, to obtain more exact information respecting his son. Fatigued, therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he sought repose under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the top of which floated the white _fleur-de-lised_ pennon. He looked for a soldier to conduct him to the tent of M. de Beaufort. Then, while his eye was wandering over the plain, turning on all sides, he saw a white form appear behind the scented myrtles. This figure was clothed in the costume of an officer; it held in its hand a broken sword; it advanced slowly towards Athos, who, stopping short and fixing his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open his arms, because in this silent officer he had already recognized Raoul. The comte attempted to utter a cry, but it was stifled in his throat. Raoul, with a gesture, directed him to be silent, placing his finger on his lips and drawing back by degrees, without Athos being able to see his legs move. The comte, still paler than Raoul, followed his son, painfully traversing briers and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul not appearing to touch the earth, no obstacle seeming to impede the lightness of his march. The comte, whom the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon stopped, exhausted. Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow him. The tender father, to whom love restored strength, made a last effort, and climbed the mountain after the young man, who attracted him by gesture and by smile. At length he gained the crest of the hill, and saw, thrown out in black, upon the horizon whitened by the moon, the aerial form of Raoul. Athos reached forth his hand to get closer to his beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter also stretched out his; but suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away in his own despite, still retreating, he left the earth, and Athos saw the clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child and the ground of the hill. Raoul rose insensibly into the void, smiling, still calling with gesture:--he departed towards heaven. Athos uttered a cry of tenderness and terror. He looked below again. He saw a camp destroyed, and all those white bodies of the royal army, like so many motionless atoms. And, then, raising his head, he saw the figure of his son still beckoning him to climb the mystic void.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Vision of Athos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-seven-the-vision-of-athos

Athos gets out of bed, determined to get in touch with D'Artagnan and take a trip to Belle-Isle to pay his last respects to Porthos's resting place. As soon as he is ready to go, however, he loses all his strength and is obliged to rest. Every time he tries to leave, he is overtaken by fatigue. Clearly, he is not supposed to leave the house. Athos takes a nap. Mail is delivered today, but there is nothing for Athos. He is upset, for this means he must wait another eight days. Athos catches a fever. The physician comes to tend to him. Athos dreams he is in Africa witnessing battle. Night falls and Athos can see fallen bodies under a "mild and pale moon." Athos is horrified as he looks at the corpses. He sees Beaufort's white horse lying on the ground. Worried, Athos looks for his son. Finally exhausted, Athos rests for a moment under a tent. From far away he can see a white figure approaching. The figure is dressed as an officer. Athos recognizes Raoul and cries out to him. Raoul beckons his father to follow him, then glides away. Athos follows Raoul to the top of a hill. Raoul begins to ascend straight up into the air and beckons his father to follow.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/58.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_57_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 58

chapter 58: the angel of death

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Angel of Death", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-eight-the-angel-of-death", "summary": "The vision is interrupted by a loud noise. A man on horseback has arrived and is now ascending the stairs. It is Grimaud. Athos asks if Raoul is dead. Grimaud answers in the affirmative. Athos raises his eyes to heaven, imagining that he is once again on the hill, watching his son ascend into heaven. He says, \"Here I am,\" then dies. Athos looks so peaceful that the servants think he is sleeping. Grimaud knows better. He can tell his master is dead. D'Artagnan walks in, calling for Athos. Grimaud points to the bed. It is clear Athos is dead. Grimaud kisses the foot of the bed and begins to cry. D'Artagnan kisses his friend Athos on the forehead. He begins to wail with grief. The servants join in. Only Grimaud remains silent as Athos taught him. The next day, D'Artagnan asks Grimaud for information on Raoul's death.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LVIII. The Angel of Death. Athos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, and the sound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber in which the comte was dreaming. Athos did not stir from the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs; the horse, which had recently galloped, departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached the chamber. A door was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the part of the room the noise came from, cried, in a weak voice: "It is a courier from Africa, is it not?" "No, monsieur le comte," replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his bed. "Grimaud!" murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his face. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first into the boat destined to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. 'Twas now a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, and hair whitened by old age. He trembled whilst leaning against the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing, by the light of the lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently--these two old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained tongue-tied whilst looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each other's hearts. The old servitor bore upon his countenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token of a grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use more than a single version of his thoughts. As formerly he was accustomed not to speak much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and in the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream: "Grimaud," said he, "Raoul is dead. _Is it not so?_" Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible question, and a heart-breaking silence followed. "Yes," replied the old man, heaving the monosyllable from his chest with a hoarse, broken sigh. Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father sought with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos like the transition which led to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes towards Heaven, in order there to see again, rising above the mountain of Gigelli, the beloved shade that was leaving him at the moment of Grimaud's arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens, resuming his marvelous dream, he repassed by the same road by which the vision, at once so terrible and sweet, had led him before; for after having gently closed his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile: he had just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands joined upon his breast, his face turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which brought upon its wings the aroma of the flowers and the woods, Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed, no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude, at this hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the other life of which they get but merest glimpses by the dismal murky torch of death. Athos was spirit-guided by the pure serene soul of his son, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was melody and perfume in the rough road souls take to return to the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly raised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, and he murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three words addressed to God or to Raoul: "HERE I AM!" And his hands fell slowly, as though he himself had laid them on the bed. Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the agony, convulsions of the last departure; had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul. God had no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this death should remain in the hearts of those present, and in the memory of other men--a death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to the other by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, that placid and sincere smile--an ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude and calm of his fine features made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The comte's people wished to remove Grimaud, who, from a distance, devoured the face now quickly growing marble-pale, and did not approach, from pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, jealous to receive either his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises all were quiet in the house--every one respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimaud, by anxiously listening, perceived that the comte no longer breathed. He raised himself with his hands leaning on the ground, looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose completely up, and, at the very moment, heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword--a warlike sound familiar to his ears--stopped him as he was going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous than brass or steel resounded within three paces of him. "Athos! Athos! my friend!" cried this voice, agitated even to tears. "Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan," faltered out Grimaud. "Where is he? Where is he?" continued the musketeer. Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of death already showed. A choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of D'Artagnan. He advanced on tip-toe, trembling, frightened at the noise his feet made on the floor, his heart rent by a nameless agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the comte's mouth. Neither noise, nor breath! D'Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly; seated himself at the foot of the bed, and glued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old man in invincible despair, who wept, bent doubled without uttering a word, presented the most touching spectacle that D'Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever met with. The captain resumed standing in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have burnished his last thought, to give his best friend, the man he had loved next to Raoul, a gracious welcome even beyond life. And for reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality, D'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate to him for five and thirty years. He was feeding his soul with the remembrances the noble visage of the comte brought to his mind in crowds--some blooming and charming as that smile--some dark, dismal, and icy as that visage with its eyes now closed to all eternity. All at once the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late comte by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his master. Had not Athos always bidden him be dumb? At daybreak D'Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers to stifle his sighs--D'Artagnan went up once more; and watching the moments when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without making more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again, followed by Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man's hands, "Grimaud," said he, "I have seen how the father died; now let me know about the son." Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of which was traced the address of Athos. He recognized the writing of M. de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, while walking about in the first steel-chill rays of dawn, in the dark alley of old limes, marked by the still visible footsteps of the comte who had just died.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Angel of Death

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-eight-the-angel-of-death

The vision is interrupted by a loud noise. A man on horseback has arrived and is now ascending the stairs. It is Grimaud. Athos asks if Raoul is dead. Grimaud answers in the affirmative. Athos raises his eyes to heaven, imagining that he is once again on the hill, watching his son ascend into heaven. He says, "Here I am," then dies. Athos looks so peaceful that the servants think he is sleeping. Grimaud knows better. He can tell his master is dead. D'Artagnan walks in, calling for Athos. Grimaud points to the bed. It is clear Athos is dead. Grimaud kisses the foot of the bed and begins to cry. D'Artagnan kisses his friend Athos on the forehead. He begins to wail with grief. The servants join in. Only Grimaud remains silent as Athos taught him. The next day, D'Artagnan asks Grimaud for information on Raoul's death.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/59.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_58_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 59

chapter 59: the bulletin

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Bulletin", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-nine-the-bulletin", "summary": "We get a copy of the letter Beaufort wrote to Athos . Beaufort writes that Raoul died gloriously, and encloses a report of the death. It goes like this: The attack started in the morning. As per instructions, Raoul stayed close to Beaufort. When a task that would expose him to heavy fire needed completion, Raoul volunteers. Beaufort refuses, trying to spare the young man. The man who takes the task ends up being killed. Beaufort asks Raoul to take note, since he has promised Athos he would bring him back alive. The enemy troops are bombarded and eventually they spill out of the fort to begin fighting on the ground. The corps engages in combat. Raoul is part of the group that surrounds Beaufort. Raoul kills three soldiers. Beaufort commands him to stop, but Raoul rides towards the fort. Everyone yells at him to stop, and when he doesn't, they assume his horse has run away with him. They take aim at the horse, but don't shoot for fear of hitting Raoul instead. Finally, a sharpshooter hits the horse. Raoul continues on foot towards the fort. Raoul goes down as the fort is hit. And thus begins the fight for Raoul's body: the Arabs want it, but the French refuse to let them have it. They engage in battle. Eventually, they recover Raoul's body. He is miraculously alive but has lost a great deal of blood. Physicians predict he will make a full recovery if he rests and does not move even a finger. Later that night, an assistant finds Raoul dead upon the ground, clutching a lock of fair hair to his heart. Full of grief, D'Artagnan notes that father and son must finally be reunited.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LIX. The Bulletin. The Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living only reached the dead. God had changed the address. "MY DEAR COMTE," wrote the prince, in his large, school-boy's hand,--"a great misfortune has struck us amidst a great triumph. The king loses one of the bravest of soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne. He has died gloriously, so gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish. Receive my sad compliments, my dear comte. Heaven distributes trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This is an immense one, but not above your courage. Your good friend, "LE DUC DE BEAUFORT." The letter contained a relation written by one of the prince's secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of that dismal episode which unraveled two existences. D'Artagnan, accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul, the name of that beloved boy who had become a shade now--like his father. "In the morning," said the prince's secretary, "monseigneur commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken positions in the rocks dominated by the heights of the mountain, upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Gigelli. "The cannon opened the action; the regiments marched full of resolution; the pikemen with pikes elevated, the musket-bearers with their weapons ready. The prince followed attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received orders not to leave his highness. In the meantime the enemy's cannon, which at first thundered with little success against the masses, began to regulate their fire, and the balls, better directed, killed several men near the prince. The regiments formed in column, and, advancing against the ramparts, were rather roughly handled. There was a sort of hesitation in our troops, who found themselves ill-seconded by the artillery. In fact, the batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim, on account of their position. The upward direction of the aim lessened the justness of the shots as well as their range. "Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position on the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little road to commence a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at once to carry this order. But monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the vicomte's request. Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event took upon itself to justify his foresight and refusal; for scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne gained the seashore, when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy's ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand with his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at monseigneur, who said to him, 'You see, vicomte, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to M. le Comte de la Fere, in order that, learning it from you, he may thank me.' The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the duke, 'It is true, monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been killed, where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.' M. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that monseigneur answered him warmly, '_Vrai Dieu!_ Young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV., I have promised your father to bring you back alive; and, please the Lord, I mean to keep my word.' "Monseigneur de Bragelonne colored, and replied, in a lower voice, 'Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you. I have always had a desire to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.' "Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and, turning to the officers who surrounded him, gave different orders. The grenadiers of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and intrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but small effect. In the meanwhile, M. d'Estrees, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and opened fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruin of their walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain at a gallop, bent over their saddles, and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which, crossing their pikes, stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with fury towards the _etat-major_, which was not on its guard at that moment. "The danger was great; monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with the furious Arabs. It was then M. de Bragelonne was able to satisfy the inclination he had so clearly shown from the commencement of the action. He fought near the prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise from that sentiment of pride so natural to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, even forced; he sought to glut, intoxicate himself with strife and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree that monseigneur called to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course to the intrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying, 'Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,' repeated monseigneur, 'I command you!' "We all, imitating the gesture of M. le duc, we all raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades. "'Stop, Bragelonne!' repeated the prince, in a very loud voice, 'stop! in the name of your father!' "At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round; his countenance expressed a lively grief, but he did not stop; we then concluded that his horse must have run away with him. When M. le duc saw cause to conclude that the vicomte was no longer master of his horse, and had watched him precede the first grenadiers, his highness cried, 'Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for the man who kills his horse!' But who could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one dared the attempt. At length one presented himself; he was a sharp-shooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed jennet was irritated, and carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to meet certain death, shouted in the loudest manner, 'Throw yourself off, monsieur le vicomte!--off!--off! throw yourself off!' M. de Bragelonne was an officer much beloved in the army. Already had the vicomte arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts, when a discharge was poured upon him that enshrouded him in fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, upright; his horse was killed. "The vicomte was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless the entire army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill-chance had led him so near. He marched a few paces further, and the two regiments clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time the smoke dispersed in vain; we no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs began to think of leaving their intrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body--as is the custom with the infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among the mastic-trees, 'Grenadiers! lancers! will you let them take that noble body?' "Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn, uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild. "The combat commenced over the body of M. de Bragelonne, and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon the field, by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the vicomte on his shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however, pursued, the regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy's palisades were utterly destroyed. At three o'clock the fire of the Arabs ceased; the hand-to-hand fight lasted two hours; it was a massacre. At five o'clock we were victorious at all points; the enemy had abandoned his positions, and M. le duc ordered the white flag to be planted on the summit of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds in his body, through which almost all his blood had welled away. Still, however, he had breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to monseigneur, who insisted on being present at the first dressing of the wounds and the consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his arms around their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him. "The vicomte heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his countenance a contradiction, which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of them all. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M. de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being questioned by monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God, that perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning towards his assistants, 'Above everything, do not allow him to move, even a finger, or you will kill him;' and we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M. de Bragelonne when the duke said to him, in a cheerful, kind voice, 'We will save you, vicomte, we will save you yet.' "In the evening, when it was believed the wounded youth had taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed out again immediately, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder, M. le duc with us, and the assistant pointed to the body of M. de Bragelonne upon the ground, at the foot of his bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had suffered some convulsion, some delirium, and that he had fallen; that the fall had accelerated his end, according to the prognosis of Frere Sylvain. We raised the vicomte; he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was tightly pressed upon his heart." Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor Raoul. "Oh!" murmured he, "unhappy boy! a suicide!" And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau, in which Athos slept in eternal sleep, "They kept their words with each other," said he, in a low voice; "now I believe them to be happy; they must be reunited." And he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the village--all the neighborhood--were filled with grieving neighbors relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Bulletin

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-nine-the-bulletin

We get a copy of the letter Beaufort wrote to Athos . Beaufort writes that Raoul died gloriously, and encloses a report of the death. It goes like this: The attack started in the morning. As per instructions, Raoul stayed close to Beaufort. When a task that would expose him to heavy fire needed completion, Raoul volunteers. Beaufort refuses, trying to spare the young man. The man who takes the task ends up being killed. Beaufort asks Raoul to take note, since he has promised Athos he would bring him back alive. The enemy troops are bombarded and eventually they spill out of the fort to begin fighting on the ground. The corps engages in combat. Raoul is part of the group that surrounds Beaufort. Raoul kills three soldiers. Beaufort commands him to stop, but Raoul rides towards the fort. Everyone yells at him to stop, and when he doesn't, they assume his horse has run away with him. They take aim at the horse, but don't shoot for fear of hitting Raoul instead. Finally, a sharpshooter hits the horse. Raoul continues on foot towards the fort. Raoul goes down as the fort is hit. And thus begins the fight for Raoul's body: the Arabs want it, but the French refuse to let them have it. They engage in battle. Eventually, they recover Raoul's body. He is miraculously alive but has lost a great deal of blood. Physicians predict he will make a full recovery if he rests and does not move even a finger. Later that night, an assistant finds Raoul dead upon the ground, clutching a lock of fair hair to his heart. Full of grief, D'Artagnan notes that father and son must finally be reunited.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/60.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_59_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 60

chapter 60: the last canto of the poem

{"name": "Chapter Sixty: The Last Canto of the Poem", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-sixty-the-last-canto-of-the-poem", "summary": "The next day, all the nobility arrives to pay their last respects. D'Artagnan keeps to himself. He helps prepare for the funeral and writes to the King, requesting a longer leave of absence. The bodies of father and son are laid out in the front hall. Grimuad brought Raoul's body back with him . Athos and Raoul are buried by a chapel on the edge of Athos's estate. After the funeral, D'Artagnan lingers to pay his last respects. He finds a woman grieving over the double graves. She is overcome, asking for forgiveness. D'Artagnan discovers it is La Valliere. He shames her mercilessly, saying it is she who put both men in their graves. She says she left court as soon as she heard of Raoul's death, hoping to beg forgiveness from the father, and wound up arriving just in time for the funeral. D'Artagnan repeats Raoul's feelings to La Valliere: no one could have loved her as he did. La Valliere is full of suffering. She tells D'Artagnan that she will never be able to love without remorse. She tells D'Artagnan that she could not help but love Louis, but now she will suffer from Raoul's love for her. La Valliere again asks for forgiveness before she leaves. D'Artagnan is left alone to wonder when he will be buried. He bids farewell to the departed and rides back to Paris.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem. On the morrow, all the _noblesse_ of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever messengers had carried the news, might have been seen arriving in detachments. D'Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the funeral of the comte. He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered D'Artagnan's apartment, had seated himself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to D'Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte's bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven. "Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud--now with the son he loved so much!" Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put away forever. D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached, and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and, in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they might be. "Raoul here!" murmured he. "Oh! Grimaud, why did you not tell me this?" Grimaud shook his head, and made no reply; but taking D'Artagnan by the hand, he led him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thin winding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned away his eyes, and, judging it was useless to question Grimaud, who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary had written more than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter: "Monseigneur le duc has ordered that the body of monsieur le vicomte should be embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wish their dead to be carried to their native land; and monsieur le duc has appointed relays, so that the same confidential servant who brought up the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere." "And so," thought D'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy--I, already old--I, who am of no value on earth--and I shall scatter dust upon that brow I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself. I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it seemed to thee a preferable gift to life." At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen were to be given back to mother earth. There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of the sepulture, which was a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its leafy curtains of poplars and sycamores. It was ministered in every Sunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom Athos paid an allowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the vassals of his domain, with their families, came thither to hear mass, without having any occasion to go to the city. Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder and white thorn, and a deep ditch, the little inclosure--uncultivated, though gay in its sterility; because the mosses there grew thick, wild heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the arid coast of Africa. Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour, thinking only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends. A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume, she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosure were several horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage was in waiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her strike her breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart: "Pardon! pardon!" And as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers, D'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to D'Artagnan a face aflood with tears, a well-known face. It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere! "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured she. "You!" replied the captain, in a stern voice, "you here!--oh! madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less--and they too--and I!" "Monsieur!" said she, sobbing. "For it was you," added this pitiless friend of the dead,--"it was you who sped these two men to the grave." "Oh! spare me!" "God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims." She wished to reply. "What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I have already told the king." She clasped her hands. "I know," said she, "I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne." "Ah! you know it?" "The news arrived at court yesterday. I have traveled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the comte, whom I supposed to be still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father; I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to expect from Heaven." "I will repeat to you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan, "what M. de Bragelonne said of you, at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could have loved her as I have done.'" "You know," interrupted Louise, "that of my love I was about to sacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, desired,--now I have no longer anything to wish for; because this death drags all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love--oh! it is but just!--will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo." D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not mistaken. "Well, then," added she, "dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me to-day, I again implore you! I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world--a current drags me on, I know not whither. I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it, wretch that I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it--I have no remorse on this account. Such love is a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists. My God! this double murder is perhaps already expiated!" While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La Valliere. "The king," he said, "is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness." Saint-Aignan did not perceive D'Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the double grave. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the inclosure. "You see, madame," said the captain bitterly to the young woman,--"you see your happiness still lasts." The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. "A day will come," said she, "when you will repent of having so misjudged me. On that day, it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness, Monsieur d'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt." Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately. "Pardon me the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she. "I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without hesitation. I could not give my love. Once more, forgive me, dearest, kindest friend." She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sodded earth; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to D'Artagnan, and disappeared. The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage, then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, "When will it be my turn to depart?" said he, in an agitated voice. "What is there left for man after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and wealth have disappeared? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed much more!" He hesitated for a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up, "Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it is time, God will tell me, as he foretold the others." He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends of his fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the _benitier_ in church, and retook alone--ever alone--the road to Paris. Epilogue. Four years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen, well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of arranging a hawking party the king had arranged to make in that uneven plain the Loire divides in two, which borders on the one side Meung, on the other Amboise. These were the keeper of the king's harriers and the master of the falcons, personages greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII., but rather neglected by his successor. The horsemen, having reconnoitered the ground, were returning, their observations made, when they perceived certain little groups of soldiers, here and there, whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the inclosures. These were the king's musketeers. Behind them came, upon a splendid horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard turning so. He seemed a little bent, although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking about him watchfully. "M. d'Artagnan does not get any older," said the keeper of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; "with ten years more to carry than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback." "That is true," replied the falconer. "I don't see any change in him for the last twenty years." But this officer was mistaken; D'Artagnan in the last four years had lived a dozen. Age had printed its pitiless claws at each angle of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood had half forgotten them. D'Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy two most respectful bows. "Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the falconer. "It is rather I who should say that, messieurs," replied the captain, "for nowadays, the king makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons." "Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times," sighed the falconer. "Do you remember, Monsieur d'Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! _dame!_ you were not the captain of the musketeers at that time, Monsieur d'Artagnan." [7] "And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets," replied D'Artagnan, laughing. "Never mind that, it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, monsieur the keeper of the harriers." "You do me honor, monsieur le comte," said the latter. D'Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; D'Artagnan had been a comte four years. "Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, monsieur le capitaine?" continued the falconer. "It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol." "Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return," said D'Artagnan, quietly. "And," said the falconer, "is _he_ well?" "Who?" asked D'Artagnan. "Why, poor M. Fouquet," continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn. "No," replied D'Artagnan, "the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor; he says that parliament absolved him by banishing him, and banishment is, or should be, liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of parliament was to be under too much obligation to Heaven." "Ah! yes; the poor man had a close chance of the scaffold," replied the falconer; "it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered." "Enough!" said D'Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation. "Yes," said the keeper of the harriers, drawing towards them, "M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he robbed the king sufficiently." D'Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his crossest looks, and said to him, "Monsieur, if any one told me you had eaten your dogs' meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but still more, if you were condemned to the lash or to jail for it, I should pity you and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was." After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the keeper of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to D'Artagnan. "He is content," said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; "we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way." D'Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interest. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, "Did M. Fouquet love falconry?" said he. "Oh, passionately, monsieur!" repeated the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet. D'Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regret of the other to pass, and continued to advance. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issue of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearings, and the white horses skirting the bosky thickets looking like illuminated apparitions. "But," resumed D'Artagnan, "will the sport last long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?" "Both, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the falconer; "but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies." The words "to amuse the ladies" were so strongly accented they set D'Artagnan thinking. "Ah!" said he, looking keenly at the falconer. The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer. "Oh! you may safely laugh," said D'Artagnan; "I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month's absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better." [8] "And everything begins as well as ends," said the keeper with a coarse laugh. "Ah!" said D'Artagnan, a second time,--he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,--"there is something beginning, then, it seems?" The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D'Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man. "Shall we see the king early?" asked he of the falconer. "At seven o'clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds." "Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?" "Better, monsieur." "Has she been ill, then?" "Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been unwell." "What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned." "It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her,--'Do I not sleep at home every night, madame? What more do you expect?'" "Ah!" said D'Artagnan,--"poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere." "Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere," replied the falconer. "Who then--" The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving D'Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot's pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D'Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D'Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the king's side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered. "I must know that woman," thought the musketeer; "who can she be?" And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving D'Artagnan, "Ah, comte!" said he, "you are amongst us once more then! Why have I not seen you?" "Sire," replied the captain, "because your majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning." "Still the same," said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. "Take some rest, comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day." A murmur of admiration surrounded D'Artagnan like a caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the king was an honor his majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV. had been. The king passed a few steps in advance, and D'Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert. "Good-day, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the minister, with marked affability, "have you had a pleasant journey?" "Yes, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse. "I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening," continued the minister; "you will meet an old friend there." "An old friend of mine?" asked D'Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds. "M. le Duc d'Almeda, who is arrived this morning from Spain." "The Duc d'Almeda?" said D'Artagnan, reflecting in vain. "Here!" cried an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer. "_Aramis!_" cried D'Artagnan, struck with profound amazement. And he felt, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck. Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged his horse forward, and left the two old friends together. "And so," said the musketeer, taking Aramis's arm, "you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?" "Ah! and I shall dine with you at the king's table," said Aramis, smiling. "Yes, will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere's carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king, who is riding on horseback yonder!" "With whom?" "With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan," replied Aramis. "She is jealous. Is she then deserted?" "Not quite yet, but it will not be long before she _is_." [9] They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis's coachman drove them so cleverly that they arrived at the instant when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The king alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by huge trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first cutting winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an inclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beaten down his prey in the inclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the king was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The _cortege_ formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D'Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, "Do you know, Aramis," said he, "whither chance has conducted us?" "No," replied the duke. "Here repose men that we knew well," said D'Artagnan, greatly agitated. Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which D'Artagnan opened for him. "Where are they buried?" said he. "There, in the inclosure. There is a cross, you see, beneath yon little cypress. The tree of grief is planted over their tomb; don't go to it; the king is going that way; the heron has fallen just there." Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated the king smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the king held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in his beautiful companion's hat. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The king grew scarlet with vanity and pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of new love. "What will you give me in exchange?" said he. She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who looked intoxicated with hope. "Humph!" said Aramis to D'Artagnan; "the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb." "Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne," said D'Artagnan aloud; "of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father." A groan resounded--they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen all, heard all. "Poor woman!" muttered D'Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose lot henceforth in life was suffering. That evening D'Artagnan was seated at the king's table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d'Almeda. The king was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed that time of calm when the king was wont to watch his mother's eyes for the approval or disapproval of what he had just done. Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The king addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l'ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by D'Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvelously well received at court. The king, on rising from table, gave his hand to the queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye was on his master's face. Colbert took D'Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The king began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, D'Artagnan, and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the successful tricks of Mazarin, and desired those of Richelieu to be related to him. D'Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with his heavy eyebrows and low forehead, display so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted this serious man to retard with advantage the moment for more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt its imminence. It was very plain, from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the king and Madame annoyed him. Madame's eyes were almost red: was she going to complain? Was she going to expose a little scandal in open court? The king took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the princess of the time when she was loved for herself: "Sister," said he, "why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?" "Why--sire--" said she. "Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?" She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him. "Yes," said she. "Listen to me," said the king; "if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur's fault." He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart. "Come, come, dear little sister," said the king, "tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them." She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone: "It is not my friends who compromise me," said she; "they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!" "You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur's desire?" "And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day." "Unjust, say you, sister?" "So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your majesty--" "Well!" "Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always--" The king started. "What, then?" "I would have asked him to have had it represented to you that Monsieur and his favorite M. le Chevalier de Lorraine ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my happiness." "The Chevalier de Lorraine," said the king; "that dismal fellow?" "Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his power to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in the kingdom." "So," said the king, slowly, "you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?" "Actions speak for themselves, sire." "And you would prefer going to ask assistance there--" "To my own country!" said she with pride; "yes, sire." "You are the grandchild of Henry IV. as well as myself, lady. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty well to the title of brother-germain?" "Then," said Henrietta, "act!" "Let us form an alliance." "Begin." "I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche." "Oh! yes," said she, blushing. "De Guiche shall return." [10] "So far, well." "And now you say that I do wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?" "Remember well what I tell you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine some day--Observe, if ever I come to a dreadful end, I beforehand accuse the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a spirit that is capable of any crime!" "The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you--I promise you that." [11] "Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, sire,--I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine." "Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him a more intimate friend than ever." "That is very easy." "Oh! not quite so easy as you may suppose, for in ordinary friendship people embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return, profitable expenses; but in political friendship--" "Ah! it's a political friendship, is it?" "Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers--it is soldiers all alive and well equipped--that we must serve up to our friends; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always coffers in a fit condition for such friendships." "Ah! you are quite right," said Madame; "the coffers of the king of England have been sonorous for some time." "But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother, you can secure more than an ambassador could ever get the promise of." "To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother." "I have thought so," replied the king, eagerly; "and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your health and spirits good." "Only," interrupted Madame, "it is possible I should fail. The king of England has dangerous counselors." "Counselors, do you say?" "Precisely. If, by chance, your majesty had any intention--I am only supposing so--of asking Charles II. his alliance in a war--" "A war?" "Yes; well! then the king's counselors, who are in number seven--Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the proud Countess of Castlemaine--will represent to the king that war costs a great deal of money; that it is better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip ships of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich." "And then your negotiations will fail?" "Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fall through which they don't make themselves." "Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?" "No; inform me what it is." "It is that, searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counselor to take with you to your brother, whose eloquence might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others." "That is really an idea, sire, and I will search." "You will find what you want." "I hope so." "A pretty ambassadress is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?" "Most assuredly." "An animated, lively, audacious character." "Certainly." "Nobility; that is, enough to enable her to approach the king without awkwardness--not too lofty, so as not to trouble herself about the dignity of her race." "Very true." "And who knows a little English." "_Mon Dieu!_ why, some one," cried Madame, "like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for instance!" "Oh! why, yes!" said Louis XIV.; "you have hit the mark,--it is you who have found, my sister." "I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose." "Oh! no, I will name her _seductrice plenipotentiaire_ at once, and will add a dowry to the title." "That is well." "I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, consoled for all your griefs." "I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about." "That is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I do not like republics." "That may easily be imagined, sire." "I see with pain that these kings of the sea--they call themselves so--keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, sister." "They are your allies, nevertheless." "That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck; a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun, as Joshua did, with this legend: _The sun had stopped before me_. There is not much fraternity in that, _is_ there?" "I thought you had forgotten that miserable episode?" "I never forget anything, sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me--" The princess remained pensively silent. "Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared," said Louis XIV. "For this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?" "We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question," replied Madame. "Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?" "The consent of Monsieur, my husband." "You shall have it." "Then consider me already gone, brother." On hearing these words, Louis XIV. turned round towards the corner of the room in which D'Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke in on the conversation suddenly, and said to Aramis: "Monsieur l'ambassadeur, shall we talk about business?" D'Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the fireplace, within hearing of what the king was about to say to Monsieur, who, evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the king was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a strength of will, the expression of which already met no further contradiction in France, and was soon to meet no more in Europe. "Monsieur," said the king to his brother, "I am not pleased with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him, must advise him to travel for a few months." These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored his favorite, and concentrated all his affections in him. "In what has the chevalier been inconsiderate enough to displease your majesty?" cried he, darting a furious look at Madame. "I will tell you that when he is gone," said the king, suavely. "And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England." "Madame! in England!" murmured Monsieur, in amazement. "In a week, brother," continued the king, "whilst we will go whither I will shortly tell you." And the king turned on his heel, smiling in his brother's face, to sweeten, as it were, the bitter draught he had given him. During this time Colbert was talking with the Duc d'Almeda. "Monsieur," said Colbert to Aramis, "this is the moment for us to come to an understanding. I have made your peace with the king, and I owed that clearly to a man of so much merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we secure--answer me frankly--the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United Provinces?" "Monsieur," replied Aramis, "the interest of Spain is clear. To embroil Europe with the Provinces would doubtless be our policy, but the king of France is an ally of the United Provinces. You are not ignorant, besides, that it would infer a maritime war, and that France is in no state to undertake this with advantage." Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw D'Artagnan who was seeking some interlocutor, during this "aside" of the king and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis, "We may talk openly with D'Artagnan, I suppose?" "Oh! certainly," replied the ambassador. "We were saying, M. d'Almeda and I," said Colbert, "that a conflict with the United Provinces would mean a maritime war." "That's evident enough," replied the musketeer. "And what do you think of it, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" "I think that to carry on such a war successfully, you must have very large land forces." "What did you say?" said Colbert, thinking he had ill understood him. "Why such a large land army?" said Aramis. "Because the king will be beaten by sea if he has not the English with him, and that when beaten by sea, he will soon be invaded, either by the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land." "And Spain neutral?" asked Aramis. "Neutral as long as the king shall prove stronger," rejoined D'Artagnan. Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question without enlightening it thoroughly. Aramis smiled, as he had long known that in diplomacy D'Artagnan acknowledged no superior. Colbert, who, like all proud men, dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success, resumed the subject, "Who told you, M. d'Artagnan, that the king had no navy?" "Oh! I take no heed of these details," replied the captain. "I am but an indifferent sailor. Like all nervous people, I hate the sea; and yet I have an idea that, with ships, France being a seaport with two hundred exits, we might have sailors." Colbert drew from his pocket a little oblong book divided into two columns. On the first were the names of vessels, on the other the figures recapitulating the number of cannon and men requisite to equip these ships. "I have had the same idea as you," said he to D'Artagnan, "and I have had an account drawn up of the vessels we have altogether--thirty-five ships." "Thirty-five ships! impossible!" cried D'Artagnan. "Something like two thousand pieces of cannon," said Colbert. "That is what the king possesses at this moment. Of five and thirty vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five." "Five!" cried Aramis. "They will be afloat before the end of the year, gentlemen; the king will have fifty ship of the line. We may venture on a contest with them, may we not?" "To build vessels," said D'Artagnan, "is difficult, but possible. As to arming them, how is that to be done? In France there are neither foundries nor military docks." "Bah!" replied Colbert, in a bantering tone, "I have planned all that this year and a half past, did you not know it? Do you know M. d'Imfreville?" "D'Imfreville?" replied D'Artagnan; "no." "He is a man I have discovered; he has a specialty; he is a man of genius--he knows how to set men to work. It is he who has cast cannon and cut the woods of Bourgogne. And then, monsieur l'ambassadeur, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but I have a still further idea." "Oh, monsieur!" said Aramis, civilly, "I always believe you." "Calculating upon the character of the Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, 'They are merchants, they are friendly with the king; they will be happy to sell to the king what they fabricate for themselves; then the more we buy'--Ah! I must add this: I have Forant--do you know Forant, D'Artagnan?" Colbert, in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply _D'Artagnan_, as the king did. But the captain only smiled at it. "No," replied he, "I do not know him." "That is another man I have discovered, with a genius for buying. This Forant has purchased for me 350,000 pounds of iron in balls, 200,000 pounds of powder, twelve cargoes of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar--I know not what! with a saving of seven per cent upon what all those articles would cost me fabricated in France." "That is a capital and quaint idea," replied D'Artagnan, "to have Dutch cannon-balls cast which will return to the Dutch." "Is it not, with loss, too?" And Colbert laughed aloud. He was delighted with his own joke. "Still further," added he, "these same Dutch are building for the king, at this moment, six vessels after the model of the best of their name. Destouches--Ah! perhaps you don't know Destouches?" "No, monsieur." "He is a man who has a sure glance to discern, when a ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship--that is valuable, observe! Nature is truly whimsical. Well, this Destouches appeared to me to be a man likely to prove useful in marine affairs, and he is superintending the construction of six vessels of seventy-eight guns, which the Provinces are building for his majesty. It results from this, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, that the king, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces, would have a very pretty fleet. Now, you know better than anybody else if the land army is efficient." D'Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at the mysterious labors this man had undertaken in so short a time. Colbert understood them, and was touched by this best of flatteries. "If we, in France, were ignorant of what was going on," said D'Artagnan, "out of France still less must be known." "That is why I told monsieur l'ambassadeur," said Colbert, "that, Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us--" "If England assists you," said Aramis, "I promise the neutrality of Spain." "I take you at your word," Colbert hastened to reply with his blunt _bonhomie_. "And, _a propos_ of Spain, you have not the 'Golden Fleece,' Monsieur d'Almeda. I heard the king say the other day that he should like to see you wear the _grand cordon_ of St. Michael." Aramis bowed. "Oh!" thought D'Artagnan, "and Porthos is no longer here! What ells of ribbons would there be for him in these _largesses!_ Dear Porthos!" "Monsieur d'Artagnan," resumed Colbert, "between us two, you will have, I wager, an inclination to lead your musketeers into Holland. Can you swim?" And he laughed like a man in high good humor. "Like an eel," replied D'Artagnan. "Ah! but there are some bitter passages of canals and marshes yonder, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there." "It is my profession to die for his majesty," said the musketeer. "Only, as it is seldom in war that much water is met with without a little fire, I declare to you beforehand, that I will do my best to choose fire. I am getting old; water freezes me--but fire warms, Monsieur Colbert." And D'Artagnan looked so handsome still in quasi-juvenile strength as he pronounced these words, that Colbert, in his turn, could not help admiring him. D'Artagnan perceived the effect he had produced. He remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price upon his goods, when they are valuable. He prepared his price in advance. "So, then," said Colbert, "we go into Holland?" "Yes," replied D'Artagnan; "only--" "Only?" said M. Colbert. "Only," repeated D'Artagnan, "there lurks in everything the question of interest, the question of self-love. It is a very fine title, that of captain of the musketeers; but observe this: we have now the king's guards and the military household of the king. A captain of musketeers ought to command all that, and then he would absorb a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses." "Well! but do you suppose the king would haggle with you?" said Colbert. "Eh! monsieur, you have not understood me," replied D'Artagnan, sure of carrying his point. "I was telling you that I, an old captain, formerly chief of the king's guard, having precedence of the _marechaux_ of France--I saw myself one day in the trenches with two other equals, the captain of the guards and the colonel commanding the Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have old habits, and I will stand or fall by them." Colbert felt this blow, but he was prepared for it. "I have been thinking of what you said just now," replied he. "About what, monsieur?" "We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned." "Well!" "Well! if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick." "Of a stick, however short it may be," said D'Artagnan. "Exactly," said Colbert. "And, therefore, I never heard of an instance of a _marechal_ of France being drowned." D'Artagnan became very pale with joy, and in a not very firm voice, "People would be very proud of me in my country," said he, "if I were a _marechal_ of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition in chief to obtain the _baton_." "Monsieur!" said Colbert, "here is in this pocket-book which you will study, a plan of campaign you will have to lead a body of troops to carry out in the next spring." [12] D'Artagnan took the book, tremblingly, and his fingers meeting those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally. "Monsieur," said he, "we had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your turn!" "I will do you justice, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, "and implore you to tell the king that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend upon a victory, or to behold me dead--_or both_." "Then I will have the _fleurs-de-lis_ for your _marechal's baton_ prepared immediately," said Colbert. On the morrow, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid, to negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace D'Artagnan at his hotel. "Let us love each other for four," said D'Artagnan. "We are now but two." "And you will, perhaps, never see me again, dear D'Artagnan," said Aramis; "if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am extinct--ah, I am almost dead." "My friend," said D'Artagnan, "you will live longer than I shall: diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part, honor condemns me to die." "Bah! such men as we are, monsieur le marechal," said Aramis, "only die satisfied with joy in glory." "Ah!" replied D'Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, "I assure you, monsieur le duc, I feel very little appetite for either." They once more embraced, and, two hours after, separated--forever. The Death of D'Artagnan. Contrary to that which generally happens, whether in politics or morals, each kept his promises, and did honor to his engagements. The king recalled M. de Guiche, and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine; so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II., acquire a taste for the political counsels of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II. had promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle a little gratitude for her good counsels; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the king vessels, munitions, victories. He kept his word, as is well known. At length Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter, on the subject of the negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid: "MONSIEUR COLBERT,--I have the honor to expedite to you the R. P. Oliva, general _ad interim_ of the Society of Jesus, my provisional successor. The reverend father will explain to you, Monsieur Colbert, that I preserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the order which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain the title of general, which would throw too high a side-light on the progress of the negotiations with which His Catholic Majesty wishes to intrust me. I shall resume that title by the command of his majesty, when the labors I have undertaken in concert with you, for the great glory of God and His Church, shall be brought to a good end. The R. P. Oliva will inform you likewise, monsieur, of the consent His Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of a treaty which assures the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between France and the United Provinces. This consent will be valid even if England, instead of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As for Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, monsieur, I can assure you it will contribute with all its resources to assist the Most Christian King in his war. I beg you, Monsieur Colbert, to preserve your friendship and also to believe in my profound attachment, and to lay my respect at the feet of His Most Christian Majesty. Signed, "LE DUC D'ALMEDA." [13] Aramis had performed more than he had promised; it remained to be seen how the king, M. Colbert, and D'Artagnan would be faithful to each other. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the court of Louis XIV., who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the _elite_ of his kingdom to this sanguinary _fete_. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other music save the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great number, who found in this war honor, advancement, fortune--or death. M. d'Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry, and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form knots of that strategic network called La Frise. Never was an army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor yield an inch of ground without necessity. He had the old habits of war, to live upon the country, keeping his soldiers singing and the enemy weeping. The captain of the king's musketeers well knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, _coups-de-main_ better supported, errors of the besieged more quickly taken advantage of. The army commanded by D'Artagnan took twelve small places within a month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five days. D'Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. The pioneers and laborers were, in the army of this man, a body full of ideas and zeal, because their commander treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never allowed them to be killed if he could help it. It should have been seen with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned over. Those turf-heaps, mounds of potter's clay, melted at the word of the soldiers like butter in the frying-pans of Friesland housewives. M. d'Artagnan dispatched a courier to the king to give him an account of the last success, which redoubled the good humor of his majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d'Artagnan gave so much majesty to the prince, that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the king Louis the Victorious, lost much of his majesty's favor. Besides, her eyes were frequently red, and to an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling round her. The star of Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in clouds and tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of the king, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to D'Artagnan the king owed this; and his majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services; he wrote to M. Colbert: "MONSIEUR COLBERT,--We have a promise to fulfil with M. d'Artagnan, who so well keeps his. This is to inform you that the time is come for performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall be furnished with in due time. LOUIS." In consequence of this, Colbert, detaining D'Artagnan's envoy, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from himself, and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold, not very important in appearance, but which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given to the messenger, to assist him in carrying it. These people arrived before the place which D'Artagnan was besieging towards daybreak, and presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d'Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had been destroyed and seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the breaches commenced, had just gone with twenty companies of grenadiers to reconstruct the works. M. Colbert's envoy had orders to go and seek M. d'Artagnan, wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d'Artagnan in the open plain, with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and gilt cuffs. He was biting his white mustache, and wiping off, with his left hand, the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they plowed so near him. They also saw, amidst this terrible fire, which filled the air with whistling hisses, officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, rising by being either carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, cover the front of the trench reopened to the center by this extraordinary effort of the general. In three hours, all was reinstated. D'Artagnan began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again in proper order. This man had scarcely finished speaking, when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of D'Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier, and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the trench, amidst the enthusiastic applause of the regiments. From that time it was no longer a question of valor--the army was delirious; two companies stole away to the advanced posts, which they instantly destroyed. When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by D'Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise; and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which depended the safety of the place. D'Artagnan perceived there was only one means left of checking his army--to take the place. He directed all his force to the two breaches, where the besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and D'Artagnan went with the rest, within half cannon-shot of the place, to support the attack by _echelons_. The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon their guns by D'Artagnan's grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot by foot. D'Artagnan, to put an end to the affair, and to silence the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a very wedge; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged, pursued by the besiegers. At this moment the general, breathing feely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him, saying, "Monsieur, if you please, from M. Colbert." He broke the seal of the letter, which contained these words: "MONSIEUR D'ARTAGNAN:--The king commands me to inform you that he has nominated you marechal of France, as a reward for your magnificent services, and the honor you do to his arms. The king is highly pleased, monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you, in particular, to finish the siege you have commenced, with good fortune to you, and success for him." D'Artagnan was standing with a radiant countenance and sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. "I have finished," replied he to the messenger; "the city will have surrendered in a quarter of an hour." He then resumed his reading: "The _coffret_, Monsieur d'Artagnan, is my own present. You will not be sorry to see that, whilst you warriors are drawing the sword to defend the king, I am moving the pacific arts to ornament a present worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, monsieur le marechal, and beg you to believe in mine. COLBERT" D'Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached, with his _coffret_ in his hands. But at the moment the _marechal_ was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the ramparts, and called his attention towards the city. "It is strange," said D'Artagnan, "that I don't yet see the king's flag on the walls, or hear the drums beat the _chamade_." He launched three hundred fresh men, under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to be made. Then, more tranquilly, he turned towards the _coffret_, which Colbert's envoy held out to him.--It was his treasure--he had won it. D'Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the _coffret_, when a ball from the city crushed the _coffret_ in the arms of the officer, struck D'Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, whilst the _fleur-de-lised baton_, escaping from the broken box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the _marechal_. D'Artagnan endeavored to raise himself. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the group of terrified officers; the _marechal_ was covered with blood; the pallor of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance. Leaning upon the arms held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the _baton_, ornamented with its _fleurs-de-lis_, he cast on it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic--words which had formerly represented so many things on earth, and which none but the dying man any longer comprehended: "Athos--Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu forever!" Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one. Heaven had taken to itself three noble souls. [14] Footnotes [Footnote 1: "He is patient because he is eternal." is how the Latin translates. It is from St. Augustine. This motto was sometimes applied to the Papacy, but not to the Jesuits.] [Footnote 2: In the five-volume edition, Volume 4 ends here.] [Footnote 3: It is possible that the preceding conversation is an obscure allegorical allusion to the Fronde, or perhaps an intimation that the Duc was the father of Mordaunt, from Twenty Years After, but a definite interpretation still eludes modern scholars.] [Footnote 4: The dictates of such a service would require Raoul to spend the rest of his life outside of France, hence Athos's and Grimaud's extreme reactions.] [Footnote 5: Dumas here, and later in the chapter, uses the name Roncherat. Roncherolles is the actual name of the man.] [Footnote 6: In some editions, "in spite of Milady" reads "in spite of malady".] [Footnote 7: "Pie" in this case refers to magpies, the prey for the falcons.] [Footnote 8: Anne of Austria did not die until 1666, and Dumas sets the current year as 1665.] [Footnote 9: Madame de Montespan would oust Louise from the king's affections by 1667.] [Footnote 10: De Guiche would not return to court until 1671.] [Footnote 11: Madame did die of poison in 1670, shortly after returning from the mission described later. The Chevalier de Lorraine had actually been ordered out of France in 1662.] [Footnote 12: This particular campaign did not actually occur until 1673.] [Footnote 13: Jean-Paul Oliva was the actual general of the Jesuits from 1664-1681.] [Footnote 14: In earlier editions, the last line reads, "Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now no longer remained but one single body; God had resumed the souls." Dumas made the revision in later editions.]

Chapter Sixty: The Last Canto of the Poem

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-sixty-the-last-canto-of-the-poem

The next day, all the nobility arrives to pay their last respects. D'Artagnan keeps to himself. He helps prepare for the funeral and writes to the King, requesting a longer leave of absence. The bodies of father and son are laid out in the front hall. Grimuad brought Raoul's body back with him . Athos and Raoul are buried by a chapel on the edge of Athos's estate. After the funeral, D'Artagnan lingers to pay his last respects. He finds a woman grieving over the double graves. She is overcome, asking for forgiveness. D'Artagnan discovers it is La Valliere. He shames her mercilessly, saying it is she who put both men in their graves. She says she left court as soon as she heard of Raoul's death, hoping to beg forgiveness from the father, and wound up arriving just in time for the funeral. D'Artagnan repeats Raoul's feelings to La Valliere: no one could have loved her as he did. La Valliere is full of suffering. She tells D'Artagnan that she will never be able to love without remorse. She tells D'Artagnan that she could not help but love Louis, but now she will suffer from Raoul's love for her. La Valliere again asks for forgiveness before she leaves. D'Artagnan is left alone to wonder when he will be buried. He bids farewell to the departed and rides back to Paris.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_1_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline13.asp", "summary": "Cloten, the Queen's son by a former marriage, enters with two lords. His shirt is torn and bloody after his confrontation with Posthumus, and one of the lords advises him to change it. Cloten is more interested in inquiring if Posthumus has been injured. To Cloten's various questions, the First Lord gives placating, false replies while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, lets the audience know the real state of affairs. It is learned that Cloten, although so full of self-importance, could not even inflict a scratch on Posthumus. When Cloten pompously declares that he could have defeated Posthumus, if the courtiers had not restrained him, the Second Lord in an aside explains that if he had not been restrained, Cloten would have had to face the indignity of being thrown to the ground by his superior rival. Cloten cannot understand how Imogen could love such a man and refuse him. He then repairs to his chamber to change, attended by his lords.", "analysis": "Notes This short scene introduces Cloten, a conceited coward. He boasts so much that in any company he can easily pass for a fool. The First Lord flatters him to such an extent that it calls into question his sincerity while the Second Lord ridicules him in \"asides. \" This scene is comedic and relies on the dramatic effect of having the Second Lord undermine everything Cloten says with his insults. A rich commentary upon the dramatic effect of the scene comes from Granville-Barker: \"Half the effect of Cloten's first scene lies in the peculiar pattern given to the action of it by the Second Lord's strange succession of asides.\" Cloten is crossing the stage, returning to his apartments from the frustrated duel, with the First Lord fawning on him. The Second Lord follows, five spaces or so behind, commenting on the conversation he can just overhear. There will be a very slight midway pause, then the walk continues. Within reach of the door Cloten turns and sees the Second Lord for the first time. He catches him in the midst of his final mocking aside. A scene of no great importance, it serves to introduce Cloten, and to fill up the \"half-hour\" for Posthumus's embarking. The whole scene strikes one as essentially comic."}

SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline13.asp

Cloten, the Queen's son by a former marriage, enters with two lords. His shirt is torn and bloody after his confrontation with Posthumus, and one of the lords advises him to change it. Cloten is more interested in inquiring if Posthumus has been injured. To Cloten's various questions, the First Lord gives placating, false replies while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, lets the audience know the real state of affairs. It is learned that Cloten, although so full of self-importance, could not even inflict a scratch on Posthumus. When Cloten pompously declares that he could have defeated Posthumus, if the courtiers had not restrained him, the Second Lord in an aside explains that if he had not been restrained, Cloten would have had to face the indignity of being thrown to the ground by his superior rival. Cloten cannot understand how Imogen could love such a man and refuse him. He then repairs to his chamber to change, attended by his lords.

Notes This short scene introduces Cloten, a conceited coward. He boasts so much that in any company he can easily pass for a fool. The First Lord flatters him to such an extent that it calls into question his sincerity while the Second Lord ridicules him in "asides. " This scene is comedic and relies on the dramatic effect of having the Second Lord undermine everything Cloten says with his insults. A rich commentary upon the dramatic effect of the scene comes from Granville-Barker: "Half the effect of Cloten's first scene lies in the peculiar pattern given to the action of it by the Second Lord's strange succession of asides." Cloten is crossing the stage, returning to his apartments from the frustrated duel, with the First Lord fawning on him. The Second Lord follows, five spaces or so behind, commenting on the conversation he can just overhear. There will be a very slight midway pause, then the walk continues. Within reach of the door Cloten turns and sees the Second Lord for the first time. He catches him in the midst of his final mocking aside. A scene of no great importance, it serves to introduce Cloten, and to fill up the "half-hour" for Posthumus's embarking. The whole scene strikes one as essentially comic.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_2_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline14.asp", "summary": "Imogen is burdened with the grief due to her separation from Posthumus. She enters with Pisanio, the servant of Posthumus, and declares that if she were in Pisanio's place, she would wait at the shore hoping that each ship that arrived would bring news of her husband. She questions him over and over again regarding Posthumus's departure. Pisanio replies that his master had spoken of her even at the moment of departure, that he had waved his handkerchief and kissed it in farewell. Pisanio further says that his master had waited on deck, waving his glove or hat or handkerchief in an effort to show how slow and terrible the journey was to his soul, at the separation from his lady. Imogen is moved to tears as she elaborates on what she would have done if she were there. She has had no letter from Posthumus, but Pisanio assures her that it will come soon. Imogen is unhappy that she could not take leave of him properly, for even before she could give Posthumus a parting kiss, her father had rushed in like an intruder and separated them. She begs Pisanio to send a message to her lord, to think of her at prayers at certain fixed hours of the day, for she would then be able to meet him in her prayers. Pisanio leaves on this errand while Imogen is summoned to a meeting with the Queen.", "analysis": "Notes This short scene introduces Pisanio, the faithful servant of Posthumus and Imogen. He is a typical faithful servant found in many of Shakespeare's plays. Imogen's clever witty talk is as full of enchanting sentiment as it is full of pathos. The reference to the seductive charms of Italian women with reference to Posthumus is only a playful one. It need not be taken seriously in light of her confidence in the fidelity of her husband. His reported disloyalty to her by his friend fails to inspire instant belief in her. Imogen, separated from her husband, is lost without him. She is grief- stricken and anxious for news. What comes across most clearly is her faithfulness to him. The natural imagery she suggests when describing her father as being like a North wind that \"shakes all our buds from growing\" reveals the impact of her loss."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline14.asp

Imogen is burdened with the grief due to her separation from Posthumus. She enters with Pisanio, the servant of Posthumus, and declares that if she were in Pisanio's place, she would wait at the shore hoping that each ship that arrived would bring news of her husband. She questions him over and over again regarding Posthumus's departure. Pisanio replies that his master had spoken of her even at the moment of departure, that he had waved his handkerchief and kissed it in farewell. Pisanio further says that his master had waited on deck, waving his glove or hat or handkerchief in an effort to show how slow and terrible the journey was to his soul, at the separation from his lady. Imogen is moved to tears as she elaborates on what she would have done if she were there. She has had no letter from Posthumus, but Pisanio assures her that it will come soon. Imogen is unhappy that she could not take leave of him properly, for even before she could give Posthumus a parting kiss, her father had rushed in like an intruder and separated them. She begs Pisanio to send a message to her lord, to think of her at prayers at certain fixed hours of the day, for she would then be able to meet him in her prayers. Pisanio leaves on this errand while Imogen is summoned to a meeting with the Queen.

Notes This short scene introduces Pisanio, the faithful servant of Posthumus and Imogen. He is a typical faithful servant found in many of Shakespeare's plays. Imogen's clever witty talk is as full of enchanting sentiment as it is full of pathos. The reference to the seductive charms of Italian women with reference to Posthumus is only a playful one. It need not be taken seriously in light of her confidence in the fidelity of her husband. His reported disloyalty to her by his friend fails to inspire instant belief in her. Imogen, separated from her husband, is lost without him. She is grief- stricken and anxious for news. What comes across most clearly is her faithfulness to him. The natural imagery she suggests when describing her father as being like a North wind that "shakes all our buds from growing" reveals the impact of her loss.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_3_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline15.asp", "summary": "The setting is Rome where a group of men are gathered in Philario's house: Philario, Iachimo, and a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard. They are talking about Posthumus, who is to arrive there as the guest of Philario because he has been banished from his homeland. Iachimo maintains that he has seen Posthumus once in Britain before his marriage to Imogen. Philario requests the company to look after Posthumus, whose father had been his friend, and treat him as a gentleman. Posthumus arrives, and after being introduced to the other gentlemen, it transpires that he is acquainted with the Frenchman from Orleans. Their conversation, about a quarrel that almost came to be decided with swords, intrigues Posthumus and he insists on knowing the full details. It turns out to be a wager about the chastity, beauty and virtue of their \"country mistresses.\" Posthumus then declares that his British lady is more fair, virtuous, wise and chaste than any woman in France. Iachimo now takes charge, and manipulates Posthumus into renewing the wager with him. So confident is he about his sexual prowess, Iachimo promises to prove to Posthumus that his lady is no paragon of virtue, and further states that if he comes back with proof of Imogen's infidelity, Posthumus will have to forego the diamond ring that Imogen had given him. However, if Imogen remains chaste and pure, Iachimo would lose ten thousand ducats and would have to fight a duel with Posthumus. Against the protests of Philario, the two men agree to the wager, and record a covenant before Iachimo leaves for Britain.", "analysis": "Notes This scene takes place after an interval of time required for Posthumus to travel from Britain to Rome. It seems from the opening few lines that Posthumus arrived in Rome just a few hours before the action of the scene takes place. The shifting of scenes was easy on the Shakespearean stage, as the settings were practically non-existent. A passing hint in the dialogue about the atmosphere was considered enough to indicate the locality of action. This scene is a very important one, as the main action of the play pivots on the wager between Posthumus and Iachimo. That Posthumus accepts so disgraceful a challenge reveals that his value as a husband may be less than what it appears to be to Imogen. However, it also reveals Iachimo's powers of persuasion and manipulation. The conversation between Iachimo and Posthumus takes a serious turn, though it begins as a casual discussion. One will find that it becomes not only serious but finally verges on a point of honor when Iachimo maliciously remarks, \"I see, you have some religion in you, that you fear. \" By this he means that Posthumus is the wiser in fearing to have his wife put to proof. Thus he brings his confidence in her over the side of the wager and trial. Iachimo is introduced here as a stereotypical Latin lover. He is full of himself and his capability to seduce women even those who are reputed to be virtuous and faithful. Although a scoundrel, he is not as evil a figure as Cloten or The Queen. He is a troublemaker and schemer who creates trouble but often has a conscience about what he has done. More in question in this scene is Posthumus' ability to wager such a bet without any compunction. In doing so, he sets himself up for trouble. What makes the wager more reprehensible is his stipulation that if Iachimo proves he is right, then they will be friends as Imogen is not worth a fight. Yet if she proves Iachimo wrong, then he and Posthumus will have a duel."}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline15.asp

The setting is Rome where a group of men are gathered in Philario's house: Philario, Iachimo, and a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard. They are talking about Posthumus, who is to arrive there as the guest of Philario because he has been banished from his homeland. Iachimo maintains that he has seen Posthumus once in Britain before his marriage to Imogen. Philario requests the company to look after Posthumus, whose father had been his friend, and treat him as a gentleman. Posthumus arrives, and after being introduced to the other gentlemen, it transpires that he is acquainted with the Frenchman from Orleans. Their conversation, about a quarrel that almost came to be decided with swords, intrigues Posthumus and he insists on knowing the full details. It turns out to be a wager about the chastity, beauty and virtue of their "country mistresses." Posthumus then declares that his British lady is more fair, virtuous, wise and chaste than any woman in France. Iachimo now takes charge, and manipulates Posthumus into renewing the wager with him. So confident is he about his sexual prowess, Iachimo promises to prove to Posthumus that his lady is no paragon of virtue, and further states that if he comes back with proof of Imogen's infidelity, Posthumus will have to forego the diamond ring that Imogen had given him. However, if Imogen remains chaste and pure, Iachimo would lose ten thousand ducats and would have to fight a duel with Posthumus. Against the protests of Philario, the two men agree to the wager, and record a covenant before Iachimo leaves for Britain.

Notes This scene takes place after an interval of time required for Posthumus to travel from Britain to Rome. It seems from the opening few lines that Posthumus arrived in Rome just a few hours before the action of the scene takes place. The shifting of scenes was easy on the Shakespearean stage, as the settings were practically non-existent. A passing hint in the dialogue about the atmosphere was considered enough to indicate the locality of action. This scene is a very important one, as the main action of the play pivots on the wager between Posthumus and Iachimo. That Posthumus accepts so disgraceful a challenge reveals that his value as a husband may be less than what it appears to be to Imogen. However, it also reveals Iachimo's powers of persuasion and manipulation. The conversation between Iachimo and Posthumus takes a serious turn, though it begins as a casual discussion. One will find that it becomes not only serious but finally verges on a point of honor when Iachimo maliciously remarks, "I see, you have some religion in you, that you fear. " By this he means that Posthumus is the wiser in fearing to have his wife put to proof. Thus he brings his confidence in her over the side of the wager and trial. Iachimo is introduced here as a stereotypical Latin lover. He is full of himself and his capability to seduce women even those who are reputed to be virtuous and faithful. Although a scoundrel, he is not as evil a figure as Cloten or The Queen. He is a troublemaker and schemer who creates trouble but often has a conscience about what he has done. More in question in this scene is Posthumus' ability to wager such a bet without any compunction. In doing so, he sets himself up for trouble. What makes the wager more reprehensible is his stipulation that if Iachimo proves he is right, then they will be friends as Imogen is not worth a fight. Yet if she proves Iachimo wrong, then he and Posthumus will have a duel.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_5_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 6

scene 6

{"name": "Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline17.asp", "summary": "Imogen ruminates on her fate: a cruel father who is opposed to her love; a stepmother who is cunning and double-faced; a foolish suitor, Cloten, who does not think it improper to woo a married woman. She wonders if she is actually luckier than the brothers who were stolen as babies, for she feels sure that they must be happier than her. Pisanio enters with Iachimo who brings letters from Posthumus. While Imogen reads the letter, Iachimo, smitten by her beauty, determines to win her favor. He sends Pisanio to take care of his manservant and tries to woo Imogen. He deliberately tells her that Posthumus is very happy and satisfied in Italy, without a thought of his despairing wife. He tells her that she should revenge herself on her uncaring husband by taking him, Iachimo, as a lover. Imogen is furious and threatens to haul Iachimo before the King for his unacceptable advances. However, Iachimo immediately turns the tables on her by declaring that he was only testing her loyalty and love for Posthumus. The good and naive Imogen relents, and allows him to make amends for his forthright conduct. He requests her to keep safely in her bedchamber a chest containing some expensive gifts for the Emperor which he will take with him the next morning. She agrees to do so and leaves.", "analysis": "Notes This is an important scene in which the action decides the fate of the hero and heroine. This scene, along with the wager-scene, weaves the threads that form the web of the plot. The whole scene is charged with a variety of emotions as Iachimo attempts several times to seduce Imogen but to no avail. It depicts the sorry and foredoomed attempt of Iachimo to win the wager, as he is smitten at the first sight of Imogen. He doubts the success of his advances, which he had planned, but invoking \"audacity\" to his aid, he makes a desperate and cautious bid for success. Imogen appears to be embarrassed by the first part of Iachimo's insinuating speech. She does not become suspicious about the motives of the stranger as he has come to see her with high recommendations from her husband. Naturally, she has no reason to doubt the credentials of her husband's friend. Iachimo also very cunningly manages to take her in by talking out loud about how Posthumus is unable to distinguish between women such as herself and those who are more common. He hints that Posthumus is having a fine time in Rome and is called the \"Briton reveler.\" By subtle suggestions about her supposed misfortune he rouses her curiosity. Being pressed to be more definite, he becomes more and more direct and less vague in his insinuations. Imogen appears to be perplexed. She balances herself on the thin edge of belief and disbelief for a considerable time. But Iachimo soon commits the fatal mistake of expounding \"his beastly mind\" to her. She immediately scents danger and calls out to Pisanio. Her first instinct is to safeguard her position. Iachimo, perfect master of his emotions, beats a masterly retreat. But he returns to gain ground by altogether different methods. He quickly realizes the weak spot in her character - her love and admiration for her husband - and soon regains her confidence. He praises her husband and pretends to be his great friend. The latter part of the scene shows Iachimo to be a diabolically clever person and Imogen to be magnificently noble. It is obvious that Iachimo has already come prepared for both direct and deceptive attacks. The former failing, he is prepared for the second plan. Rather than seduce her, he will have to pretend as if he did. This means he needs access to Imogen's room in order to steal the bracelet and show that he and Imogen were lovers. The action in the scene is so skillfully managed that it has commanded the praise of many critics. An exquisite touch of Shakespeare's hand occurs in a single pronoun in a speech of Imogen. Born a princess, she has given herself to Posthumus, a nameless man, as freely as if she were a peasant's daughter. She is remarkable, with all her dignity, for her unassuming deportment. But the insult of Iachimo stings her pride. For the first and only time, she asserts her position as royalty and speaks of herself in the plural number. She says that Iachimo has expounded, \"His beastly mind to us.\" On the other hand, Iachimo is lacking any morals and will do what he can in order to win his bet, even if it means cheating."}

SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt

Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline17.asp

Imogen ruminates on her fate: a cruel father who is opposed to her love; a stepmother who is cunning and double-faced; a foolish suitor, Cloten, who does not think it improper to woo a married woman. She wonders if she is actually luckier than the brothers who were stolen as babies, for she feels sure that they must be happier than her. Pisanio enters with Iachimo who brings letters from Posthumus. While Imogen reads the letter, Iachimo, smitten by her beauty, determines to win her favor. He sends Pisanio to take care of his manservant and tries to woo Imogen. He deliberately tells her that Posthumus is very happy and satisfied in Italy, without a thought of his despairing wife. He tells her that she should revenge herself on her uncaring husband by taking him, Iachimo, as a lover. Imogen is furious and threatens to haul Iachimo before the King for his unacceptable advances. However, Iachimo immediately turns the tables on her by declaring that he was only testing her loyalty and love for Posthumus. The good and naive Imogen relents, and allows him to make amends for his forthright conduct. He requests her to keep safely in her bedchamber a chest containing some expensive gifts for the Emperor which he will take with him the next morning. She agrees to do so and leaves.

Notes This is an important scene in which the action decides the fate of the hero and heroine. This scene, along with the wager-scene, weaves the threads that form the web of the plot. The whole scene is charged with a variety of emotions as Iachimo attempts several times to seduce Imogen but to no avail. It depicts the sorry and foredoomed attempt of Iachimo to win the wager, as he is smitten at the first sight of Imogen. He doubts the success of his advances, which he had planned, but invoking "audacity" to his aid, he makes a desperate and cautious bid for success. Imogen appears to be embarrassed by the first part of Iachimo's insinuating speech. She does not become suspicious about the motives of the stranger as he has come to see her with high recommendations from her husband. Naturally, she has no reason to doubt the credentials of her husband's friend. Iachimo also very cunningly manages to take her in by talking out loud about how Posthumus is unable to distinguish between women such as herself and those who are more common. He hints that Posthumus is having a fine time in Rome and is called the "Briton reveler." By subtle suggestions about her supposed misfortune he rouses her curiosity. Being pressed to be more definite, he becomes more and more direct and less vague in his insinuations. Imogen appears to be perplexed. She balances herself on the thin edge of belief and disbelief for a considerable time. But Iachimo soon commits the fatal mistake of expounding "his beastly mind" to her. She immediately scents danger and calls out to Pisanio. Her first instinct is to safeguard her position. Iachimo, perfect master of his emotions, beats a masterly retreat. But he returns to gain ground by altogether different methods. He quickly realizes the weak spot in her character - her love and admiration for her husband - and soon regains her confidence. He praises her husband and pretends to be his great friend. The latter part of the scene shows Iachimo to be a diabolically clever person and Imogen to be magnificently noble. It is obvious that Iachimo has already come prepared for both direct and deceptive attacks. The former failing, he is prepared for the second plan. Rather than seduce her, he will have to pretend as if he did. This means he needs access to Imogen's room in order to steal the bracelet and show that he and Imogen were lovers. The action in the scene is so skillfully managed that it has commanded the praise of many critics. An exquisite touch of Shakespeare's hand occurs in a single pronoun in a speech of Imogen. Born a princess, she has given herself to Posthumus, a nameless man, as freely as if she were a peasant's daughter. She is remarkable, with all her dignity, for her unassuming deportment. But the insult of Iachimo stings her pride. For the first and only time, she asserts her position as royalty and speaks of herself in the plural number. She says that Iachimo has expounded, "His beastly mind to us." On the other hand, Iachimo is lacking any morals and will do what he can in order to win his bet, even if it means cheating.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_6_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline18.asp", "summary": "Cloten enters with his two lords, complaining about losing money in gambling. He has been embroiled in a fight with someone and feels that he is entitled to swear and quarrel with his inferiors, by rank of his position. As in the earlier scene, the First Lord is obsequious while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, reveals what they both really feel. The First Lord informs Cloten that an Italian, presumed to be a friend of Posthumus, had arrived at court. Cloten, who wishes to woo Imogen himself, is annoyed that the exiled Posthumus has sent a messenger, and decides to meet the Italian. It is obvious that Cloten is looking for a brawl, and he leaves with the First Lord. The Second Lord, in a soliloquy, wonders that such a crafty, cunning woman as the Queen should have such an ignorant ass for a son. He pities the hapless Imogen who suffers between a father who is controlled by his wife, a hateful suitor, and a stepmother, conniving and conspiring to kill her. He prays that the princess is able to keep her mind and honor intact under the pressure, and not agree to the divorce that the King is planning.", "analysis": "Notes This scene provides time for Imogen to undress and get into her bed and gives another view of Cloten as a repugnant and vile creature that likes to curse and gamble. His nature is in startling contrast to Imogen's and even to Iachimo, who despite being a schemer has a somewhat poetic nature as can be seen in his description of Imogen in the previous scene. The dialogue between Cloten and the First Lord is important. It reveals some details of Cloten's life: his gambling, his late hours, his position in the court and his high-handed behavior with courtiers. The asides of the Second Lord serve as a running commentary upon the dialogue. The Second Lord's last soliloquy, however, is dramatically significant as it reveals the terrible position of Imogen and the cunning of the Queen and her dim- witted son. It becomes obvious that with all her cunning, the Queen is able to deceive none else but the King. The Second Lord describes her as \"a crafty devil\" who \"Bears all down with her brain. \" It is only on account of her influence over the king that she is able to carry on her machinations. No one, not even her own doctor, has any illusions about her being virtuous. Perhaps owing to her influence over the king she is not particularly careful in covering up her selfish and malicious designs. A connection is being made between the forces that are attempting to separate Imogen and Posthumus and those that are causing social unrest within Britain's royal family. So as Imogen is being attacked by Iachimo, an outside force, and the Queen and her son, the internal forces, so is England's social order vulnerable due to the machinations of the Queen and an impotent King."}

ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline18.asp

Cloten enters with his two lords, complaining about losing money in gambling. He has been embroiled in a fight with someone and feels that he is entitled to swear and quarrel with his inferiors, by rank of his position. As in the earlier scene, the First Lord is obsequious while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, reveals what they both really feel. The First Lord informs Cloten that an Italian, presumed to be a friend of Posthumus, had arrived at court. Cloten, who wishes to woo Imogen himself, is annoyed that the exiled Posthumus has sent a messenger, and decides to meet the Italian. It is obvious that Cloten is looking for a brawl, and he leaves with the First Lord. The Second Lord, in a soliloquy, wonders that such a crafty, cunning woman as the Queen should have such an ignorant ass for a son. He pities the hapless Imogen who suffers between a father who is controlled by his wife, a hateful suitor, and a stepmother, conniving and conspiring to kill her. He prays that the princess is able to keep her mind and honor intact under the pressure, and not agree to the divorce that the King is planning.

Notes This scene provides time for Imogen to undress and get into her bed and gives another view of Cloten as a repugnant and vile creature that likes to curse and gamble. His nature is in startling contrast to Imogen's and even to Iachimo, who despite being a schemer has a somewhat poetic nature as can be seen in his description of Imogen in the previous scene. The dialogue between Cloten and the First Lord is important. It reveals some details of Cloten's life: his gambling, his late hours, his position in the court and his high-handed behavior with courtiers. The asides of the Second Lord serve as a running commentary upon the dialogue. The Second Lord's last soliloquy, however, is dramatically significant as it reveals the terrible position of Imogen and the cunning of the Queen and her dim- witted son. It becomes obvious that with all her cunning, the Queen is able to deceive none else but the King. The Second Lord describes her as "a crafty devil" who "Bears all down with her brain. " It is only on account of her influence over the king that she is able to carry on her machinations. No one, not even her own doctor, has any illusions about her being virtuous. Perhaps owing to her influence over the king she is not particularly careful in covering up her selfish and malicious designs. A connection is being made between the forces that are attempting to separate Imogen and Posthumus and those that are causing social unrest within Britain's royal family. So as Imogen is being attacked by Iachimo, an outside force, and the Queen and her son, the internal forces, so is England's social order vulnerable due to the machinations of the Queen and an impotent King.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_7_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline19.asp", "summary": "Imogen is lying in bed, reading. In one corner of the room is placed the trunk that Iachimo has requested her to keep for the night. As the scene opens, Imogen bids her lady attendant to put away the book she has been reading, as it is nearly midnight. However, she asks the woman to leave the taper burning while she sleeps. A short while later, Iachimo comes from the trunk. After ascertaining that Imogen is indeed asleep, he proceeds to make note of her bedchamber, the pictures on the wall, the placement of the window, the book she was reading, and so on. To add greater conviction to his account, he makes notes of her bodily features, and in particular notes a small mole on her left breast that is exposed as she sleeps. Iachimo is moved by lust but does not molest Imogen for he knows that he will not succeed. However, he is sure that this single detail will be enough to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He carefully slips off the bracelet that Posthumus has given her, and gets back into the trunk before Imogen awakens.", "analysis": "Notes The twists and turns of the plot are carried further in this somewhat farcical scene. Using an old trick, Iachimo remains hidden in the trunk that he sends to Imogen for safe-keeping. At night, while she sleeps, he emerges to take note of details that will help him to deceive Posthumus of his wife's faithfulness. Iachimo's lust and fantasies regarding Imogen are clearly expressed: \"Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. \" The reference is to The Rape of Lucrece, the seduction of a good and chaste woman such as Imogen herself. Iachimo longs to touch and steal \"one kiss\" but he does not dare. He knows only too well that Imogen is too pure and chaste and will resist him. Her purity, although threatened by his lust, is not overrun or contaminated. Iachimo thus has to resort to trickery to convince Posthumus that he had succeeded in seducing Imogen. Although Iachimo is resorting to deception in order to win his bet, he is also deeply in love with Imogen and realizes her purity and fidelity unlike her husband who will soon respond to Iachimo's evidence with unduly criticism of her. Iachimo can be seen as an external invader as he rummages around Imogen's room, stealing her valuables and observing her sleeping."}

SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline19.asp

Imogen is lying in bed, reading. In one corner of the room is placed the trunk that Iachimo has requested her to keep for the night. As the scene opens, Imogen bids her lady attendant to put away the book she has been reading, as it is nearly midnight. However, she asks the woman to leave the taper burning while she sleeps. A short while later, Iachimo comes from the trunk. After ascertaining that Imogen is indeed asleep, he proceeds to make note of her bedchamber, the pictures on the wall, the placement of the window, the book she was reading, and so on. To add greater conviction to his account, he makes notes of her bodily features, and in particular notes a small mole on her left breast that is exposed as she sleeps. Iachimo is moved by lust but does not molest Imogen for he knows that he will not succeed. However, he is sure that this single detail will be enough to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He carefully slips off the bracelet that Posthumus has given her, and gets back into the trunk before Imogen awakens.

Notes The twists and turns of the plot are carried further in this somewhat farcical scene. Using an old trick, Iachimo remains hidden in the trunk that he sends to Imogen for safe-keeping. At night, while she sleeps, he emerges to take note of details that will help him to deceive Posthumus of his wife's faithfulness. Iachimo's lust and fantasies regarding Imogen are clearly expressed: "Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. " The reference is to The Rape of Lucrece, the seduction of a good and chaste woman such as Imogen herself. Iachimo longs to touch and steal "one kiss" but he does not dare. He knows only too well that Imogen is too pure and chaste and will resist him. Her purity, although threatened by his lust, is not overrun or contaminated. Iachimo thus has to resort to trickery to convince Posthumus that he had succeeded in seducing Imogen. Although Iachimo is resorting to deception in order to win his bet, he is also deeply in love with Imogen and realizes her purity and fidelity unlike her husband who will soon respond to Iachimo's evidence with unduly criticism of her. Iachimo can be seen as an external invader as he rummages around Imogen's room, stealing her valuables and observing her sleeping.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_8_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline20.asp", "summary": "Cloten and his lords enter an antechamber adjoining Imogen's rooms. Cloten has decided to woo the princess with music and has arranged for musicians to play before her door while he serenades her with a song. He hopes that his efforts will pay off and that Imogen will accept him. Meanwhile, the King and Queen enter, and are pleased to see him thus engaged. The King asks Cloten to give her more time to forget Posthumus since \"the exile of her minion is too new.\" The King is called away as a messenger has arrived from Rome with a message from the Emperor. Waiting in vain for Imogen to appear, Cloten decides to bribe one of her ladies, for he feels that money will buy him admittance. While he is talking to one, Imogen appears. She is not pleased to see him, but is polite. Cloten, however, refuses to leave and keeps on declaring his love for her until Imogen becomes annoyed and at the end of her tether, she tells him that she hates him. Cloten now charges her with disobedience and speaks disparagingly of Posthumus as \"One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, / With scraps o'the court.\" Imogen is enraged and declares that Cloten is not even as worthy as a discarded garment of Posthumus. She ignores him as he sputters in anger and summons Pisanio to search for her lost bracelet. Cloten is slighted by her abuse and vows revenge.", "analysis": "Notes This scene is introduced here mainly to depict the lapse of time, which is required for Iachimo's journey from Britain to Rome. After an all night session of gambling, Cloten appears before the door of Imogen's chamber as he has been \"advised to give her music o'morning.\" He follows the advice because he is assured that \"it will penetrate.\" His use of sexual innuendo reveals his sordid nature. He does not shine in wooing, though he rises into verse for the occasion. The perfect gem of a song that \"very excellent, good- conceited thing,\" is wasted upon Imogen. However, his scheme proves ineffective so he resorts to what he knows best: bribing her ladies to gain entrance into her bedroom. Money, Cloten thinks, will buy anything yet the lady is not impressed and says she will provide neither information nor access. The dialogue that later takes place between Cloten and Imogen reveals his sordid as well as uncouth nature even more. He refers to Posthumus as a wretch because he lacks money and noble status yet he is the one who reeks of turpitude despite his noble heritage. Here he is turned round and round until all the foulness under his folly can be seen. Imogen is not afraid to put him in his place and she defends her husband resolutely and sharply lashes out at Cloten, though later she expresses regret for forgetting \"a lady's manners. \" She plainly tells him that his behavior is responsible for it. Finally, she is compelled to tell him, \"I care not for you!\" and tells him that he is not worth even a discarded garment of Posthumus.' This last comment bothers Cloten and he is nonplussed as he can only mutter \"his meanest garment\" several times, shocked by her vehemence. In modern times, this comment could be taken to mean her lover's dirty underwear is worth more to her than Cloten is. In the former scene with Iachimo, Imogen is attacked by the outside forces of an Italian lover, though she is impervious to what has occurred. Here there is a brutal attempt by Cloten to gain access to her sexually and economically. He is really after the fortune and title, which would come with marrying Imogen, rather than herself. Imogen braces herself against her attack although she is weakened by it, revealing a side of herself that is not becoming of her. She is on the defensive. Both of these men can be representative of the internal and external forces that attempt to destroy the social order."}

SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline20.asp

Cloten and his lords enter an antechamber adjoining Imogen's rooms. Cloten has decided to woo the princess with music and has arranged for musicians to play before her door while he serenades her with a song. He hopes that his efforts will pay off and that Imogen will accept him. Meanwhile, the King and Queen enter, and are pleased to see him thus engaged. The King asks Cloten to give her more time to forget Posthumus since "the exile of her minion is too new." The King is called away as a messenger has arrived from Rome with a message from the Emperor. Waiting in vain for Imogen to appear, Cloten decides to bribe one of her ladies, for he feels that money will buy him admittance. While he is talking to one, Imogen appears. She is not pleased to see him, but is polite. Cloten, however, refuses to leave and keeps on declaring his love for her until Imogen becomes annoyed and at the end of her tether, she tells him that she hates him. Cloten now charges her with disobedience and speaks disparagingly of Posthumus as "One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, / With scraps o'the court." Imogen is enraged and declares that Cloten is not even as worthy as a discarded garment of Posthumus. She ignores him as he sputters in anger and summons Pisanio to search for her lost bracelet. Cloten is slighted by her abuse and vows revenge.

Notes This scene is introduced here mainly to depict the lapse of time, which is required for Iachimo's journey from Britain to Rome. After an all night session of gambling, Cloten appears before the door of Imogen's chamber as he has been "advised to give her music o'morning." He follows the advice because he is assured that "it will penetrate." His use of sexual innuendo reveals his sordid nature. He does not shine in wooing, though he rises into verse for the occasion. The perfect gem of a song that "very excellent, good- conceited thing," is wasted upon Imogen. However, his scheme proves ineffective so he resorts to what he knows best: bribing her ladies to gain entrance into her bedroom. Money, Cloten thinks, will buy anything yet the lady is not impressed and says she will provide neither information nor access. The dialogue that later takes place between Cloten and Imogen reveals his sordid as well as uncouth nature even more. He refers to Posthumus as a wretch because he lacks money and noble status yet he is the one who reeks of turpitude despite his noble heritage. Here he is turned round and round until all the foulness under his folly can be seen. Imogen is not afraid to put him in his place and she defends her husband resolutely and sharply lashes out at Cloten, though later she expresses regret for forgetting "a lady's manners. " She plainly tells him that his behavior is responsible for it. Finally, she is compelled to tell him, "I care not for you!" and tells him that he is not worth even a discarded garment of Posthumus.' This last comment bothers Cloten and he is nonplussed as he can only mutter "his meanest garment" several times, shocked by her vehemence. In modern times, this comment could be taken to mean her lover's dirty underwear is worth more to her than Cloten is. In the former scene with Iachimo, Imogen is attacked by the outside forces of an Italian lover, though she is impervious to what has occurred. Here there is a brutal attempt by Cloten to gain access to her sexually and economically. He is really after the fortune and title, which would come with marrying Imogen, rather than herself. Imogen braces herself against her attack although she is weakened by it, revealing a side of herself that is not becoming of her. She is on the defensive. Both of these men can be representative of the internal and external forces that attempt to destroy the social order.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_9_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline21.asp", "summary": "The scene shifts again to Rome to Philario's house where Posthumus is engaged in a conversation with Philario. Posthumus is sure that he will win the wager as he has great faith in his lady. In reply to Philario's questions about Cymbeline, he has nothing to say except to wait for time to heal all wounds. They talk of Caius Lucius' visit to Britain to collect the tribute due to the Roman Emperor. Posthumus prophesies that they will soon hear of war, for he does not expect Cymbeline to pay the tribute. Iachimo enters, and is greeted warmly by Posthumus who does not know what awaits him. Swiftly and with consummate ease, Iachimo describes his supposed seduction of Imogen yet he never quite admits to actually making love to her. Instead he uses the details of the room and its furnishing, and produces the bracelet as proof, but when Posthumus declares that all these could have been obtained by other means, Iachimo clinches the argument with his description of the mole on her breast. He intersperses his remarks with lewd comments to suggest that he had found the conquest too easy. Posthumus is shattered; the lady whose honor he believed was invincible, had made him a cuckold. He leaves, defeated and angry at Imogen, followed by Philario and Iachimo.", "analysis": "Notes The wager leads to the destruction of Posthumus's happiness as Iachimo arrives with the news of his conquest. Even as he tells Posthumus the details of her room, its arrangement, and produces the bracelet, Posthumus does not believe him. He declares that all these details could have been obtained otherwise, through bribing her maids or stealing the bracelet. Yet at the same time, he becomes filled with rage at the possibility that Imogen has made him a cuckold. His pride is wounded and he denounces not just Imogen but all women: \"Let there be no honor where there is beauty; truth, where semblence.... \" By being so easily deceived and denouncing all women, Posthumus reveals his lack of faith not only in Imogen but in his own ability to love and be faithful. Philario pipes in as the voice of reason, commenting that it is not such a done deal and that Iachimo needs to offer further proof of his conquest. However, when Iachimo describes the mole located on her breast, even the steadfast Philario is inclined to believe him, and Posthumus considers his wife little better than a whore. It does not occur to him that Iachimo could have noticed the mole quite by accident, as her robes were dislodged in sleep. In fact, Iachimo does not ever say that he has slept with Imogen; he simply provides the evidence that leads Posthumus to his own conclusion. Therefore, it is Posthumus who becomes his own victim by allowing himself to be duped. He is defeated and believes that he has lost everything - his wife, honor and country, as he is in exile, for the love of a worthless woman. Little wonder, then, that Philario asks Iachimo to see that Posthumus does not harm himself. There are references to the political situation as well. From the conversation between Philario and Posthumus, it appears that the Roman messenger to Britain, Caius Lucius, had been sent by the Emperor to collect the tribute due to him, with arrears, from Cymbeline. Knowing the nature of the British, he does not believe that a penny will be paid in tribute, and that war is inevitable. He shows more confidence in the power of the British army than he does in his wife's fidelity. Most of the modern critics find it difficult to sympathize with Posthumus who lays a wager upon his wife's virtue. He denounces her as a disloyal wife and condemns her to death. \"Why\", asked Sir Walter Raleigh, \"did create so exquisite a being as Imogen for the jealous and paltry Posthumus?\" Granville-Barker admits that Posthumus falls an easy prey to Iachimo's wiles. He describes his failure to see through the mischief and machinations of Iachimo as a \"pretty ignominious collapse.\" He explains Posthumus's failure by pointing out that he had no chance to \"store up resistant virtues\" because until his exile he had been Cymbeline's favorite, \"most praised, most loved.\""}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline21.asp

The scene shifts again to Rome to Philario's house where Posthumus is engaged in a conversation with Philario. Posthumus is sure that he will win the wager as he has great faith in his lady. In reply to Philario's questions about Cymbeline, he has nothing to say except to wait for time to heal all wounds. They talk of Caius Lucius' visit to Britain to collect the tribute due to the Roman Emperor. Posthumus prophesies that they will soon hear of war, for he does not expect Cymbeline to pay the tribute. Iachimo enters, and is greeted warmly by Posthumus who does not know what awaits him. Swiftly and with consummate ease, Iachimo describes his supposed seduction of Imogen yet he never quite admits to actually making love to her. Instead he uses the details of the room and its furnishing, and produces the bracelet as proof, but when Posthumus declares that all these could have been obtained by other means, Iachimo clinches the argument with his description of the mole on her breast. He intersperses his remarks with lewd comments to suggest that he had found the conquest too easy. Posthumus is shattered; the lady whose honor he believed was invincible, had made him a cuckold. He leaves, defeated and angry at Imogen, followed by Philario and Iachimo.

Notes The wager leads to the destruction of Posthumus's happiness as Iachimo arrives with the news of his conquest. Even as he tells Posthumus the details of her room, its arrangement, and produces the bracelet, Posthumus does not believe him. He declares that all these details could have been obtained otherwise, through bribing her maids or stealing the bracelet. Yet at the same time, he becomes filled with rage at the possibility that Imogen has made him a cuckold. His pride is wounded and he denounces not just Imogen but all women: "Let there be no honor where there is beauty; truth, where semblence.... " By being so easily deceived and denouncing all women, Posthumus reveals his lack of faith not only in Imogen but in his own ability to love and be faithful. Philario pipes in as the voice of reason, commenting that it is not such a done deal and that Iachimo needs to offer further proof of his conquest. However, when Iachimo describes the mole located on her breast, even the steadfast Philario is inclined to believe him, and Posthumus considers his wife little better than a whore. It does not occur to him that Iachimo could have noticed the mole quite by accident, as her robes were dislodged in sleep. In fact, Iachimo does not ever say that he has slept with Imogen; he simply provides the evidence that leads Posthumus to his own conclusion. Therefore, it is Posthumus who becomes his own victim by allowing himself to be duped. He is defeated and believes that he has lost everything - his wife, honor and country, as he is in exile, for the love of a worthless woman. Little wonder, then, that Philario asks Iachimo to see that Posthumus does not harm himself. There are references to the political situation as well. From the conversation between Philario and Posthumus, it appears that the Roman messenger to Britain, Caius Lucius, had been sent by the Emperor to collect the tribute due to him, with arrears, from Cymbeline. Knowing the nature of the British, he does not believe that a penny will be paid in tribute, and that war is inevitable. He shows more confidence in the power of the British army than he does in his wife's fidelity. Most of the modern critics find it difficult to sympathize with Posthumus who lays a wager upon his wife's virtue. He denounces her as a disloyal wife and condemns her to death. "Why", asked Sir Walter Raleigh, "did create so exquisite a being as Imogen for the jealous and paltry Posthumus?" Granville-Barker admits that Posthumus falls an easy prey to Iachimo's wiles. He describes his failure to see through the mischief and machinations of Iachimo as a "pretty ignominious collapse." He explains Posthumus's failure by pointing out that he had no chance to "store up resistant virtues" because until his exile he had been Cymbeline's favorite, "most praised, most loved."

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_10_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline22.asp", "summary": "Posthumus, angry and distraught, rages against his wife and women in general in a soliloquy. He is now inclined to believe the worst about women, to the extent of doubting his own parentage and questioning his mother's own fidelity. He cannot understand how Imogen, who had restrained him from his \"lawful pleasure\" should have allowed Iachimo to seduce her. He, who had called her chaste, now calls her a whore. He is convinced that it is the woman who is evil, and who induces the man to do evil. At the beginning of the soliloquy he hovers on the brink of intense emotion and mental turmoil, but then the speech issues into a conventional cynicism that is quite remote from tragic feeling and more involved with charging women with all the evils known to humanity.", "analysis": "Notes It is in this scene that some incongruity in the characterization of Posthumus emerges. In the opening scenes of the play, he is introduced as a hero, the brave and handsome gentleman of limited means, who is preferred by the heroine to the influential Cloten. He woos and wins her; when banished, he takes leave of Imogen with the grace and ardor of Romeo, and the tender eloquence with which Pisanio describes his master's departure seems designed to fix the wronged exile as a sympathetic memory in the minds of the audience. However, once in Rome, a curious change comes over him, perhaps due to the influence of companions such as Iachimo. His readiness to wager his wife's honor and the credulous alacrity with which he accepts Iachimo's story do credit neither to his intelligence nor his love. He is too ready to accept as true the story told him and his subsequent jealous frenzy is as unpleasant as Othello's, while he lacks almost all the excuses, which make the Moor's passion and predicament comparatively tragic. The purpose of this soliloquy is obvious. The dramatist wants to convey some idea of the turbulent condition of Posthumus's mind. The volcanic outbursts of his soul show that he is affected beyond all measure. He denounces the whole of womankind, not excluding even his mother. This volcanic flare-up also shows how deeply he loved Imogen and what an infinite trust he had in her yet he lashes out in generalities rather than specifics because underneath he knows Imogen's value and her inability to be duplicitous. Consequently, on further investigation of his character, one could make an argument that his fury is projected onto women when it should be directed towards himself. By testing his faith in his wife, he ends up being the one who comes up morally wanting. His faith in Imogen was not able to survive such a sordid test of faith. By waging money on her fidelity, Posthumus comes off as being unscrupulous and deserving of his tortured state."}

SCENE V. Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd, And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was't not? Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one, Cried "O!' and mounted; found no opposition But what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it, The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. Exit

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline22.asp

Posthumus, angry and distraught, rages against his wife and women in general in a soliloquy. He is now inclined to believe the worst about women, to the extent of doubting his own parentage and questioning his mother's own fidelity. He cannot understand how Imogen, who had restrained him from his "lawful pleasure" should have allowed Iachimo to seduce her. He, who had called her chaste, now calls her a whore. He is convinced that it is the woman who is evil, and who induces the man to do evil. At the beginning of the soliloquy he hovers on the brink of intense emotion and mental turmoil, but then the speech issues into a conventional cynicism that is quite remote from tragic feeling and more involved with charging women with all the evils known to humanity.

Notes It is in this scene that some incongruity in the characterization of Posthumus emerges. In the opening scenes of the play, he is introduced as a hero, the brave and handsome gentleman of limited means, who is preferred by the heroine to the influential Cloten. He woos and wins her; when banished, he takes leave of Imogen with the grace and ardor of Romeo, and the tender eloquence with which Pisanio describes his master's departure seems designed to fix the wronged exile as a sympathetic memory in the minds of the audience. However, once in Rome, a curious change comes over him, perhaps due to the influence of companions such as Iachimo. His readiness to wager his wife's honor and the credulous alacrity with which he accepts Iachimo's story do credit neither to his intelligence nor his love. He is too ready to accept as true the story told him and his subsequent jealous frenzy is as unpleasant as Othello's, while he lacks almost all the excuses, which make the Moor's passion and predicament comparatively tragic. The purpose of this soliloquy is obvious. The dramatist wants to convey some idea of the turbulent condition of Posthumus's mind. The volcanic outbursts of his soul show that he is affected beyond all measure. He denounces the whole of womankind, not excluding even his mother. This volcanic flare-up also shows how deeply he loved Imogen and what an infinite trust he had in her yet he lashes out in generalities rather than specifics because underneath he knows Imogen's value and her inability to be duplicitous. Consequently, on further investigation of his character, one could make an argument that his fury is projected onto women when it should be directed towards himself. By testing his faith in his wife, he ends up being the one who comes up morally wanting. His faith in Imogen was not able to survive such a sordid test of faith. By waging money on her fidelity, Posthumus comes off as being unscrupulous and deserving of his tortured state.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_11_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline23.asp", "summary": "The political situation arising out of Cymbeline's refusal to pay tribute to Augustus Caesar is dramatized in this scene. When Caius Lucius, on behalf of the Roman Emperor, reminds Cymbeline of the events leading to the payment of the annual tribute of three thousand pounds which Cymbeline has neglected to pay, the Queen and Cloten are vociferous in opposing the payment of the tribute. Cloten shows rare spunk in declaring: \"Britain is/a world by itself; and we will nothing pay/for wearing our noses.\" The Queen also shows courage in resisting the Roman claim, and reminds the King of the Roman aggression and how the British King, Cassibelan, had fought bravely and almost defeated Caesar. She declares that it is time now, when Britain was stronger and more powerful than in Cassibelan's time, to ensure their freedom from Roman dominance. Cymbeline adds that Caesar had put a yoke upon them, and the warlike British have decided to shake it off. Faced with such opposition, Caius Lucius can do nothing better than to declare war on behalf of the Emperor. Cymbeline is not afraid; he is willing to face the consequences of his action even as he is gracious enough to extend an invitation to Lucius to stay as a friend for a day or two.", "analysis": "Notes The scene depicts the negotiations between Cymbeline and Caius Lucius, the Roman ambassador. The influence of the Queen even in the high state affairs is well revealed in the action. Cymbeline's authority as King is entirely usurped by the Queen. She curtly tells the Roman ambassador, who complains about the non-payment of tribute, that it \"..... shall be so ever.\" And before Cymbeline can say a word, Cloten cuts in bluntly to arrogantly declare Britain's resistance to Roman dominance. His lack of tact is softened by Cymbeline's more graceful negotiations yet Caius is affronted, and the negotiations naturally end in failure. Cloten speaks the language of a patriot and a diplomat. Here his action and speech justify a critic's remark that Cloten \"is a natural fool.\" He often talks with the wit of one of Shakespeare's professed fools. One wonders, however, what the motive of the wily Queen is in instigating Cymbeline against the Romans. One cannot imagine her to be actuated by any elevated idea like patriotism or love of freedom, but something more self-serving. The forces which attempt to separate Imogen and Posthumus are here united against the Romans."}

ACT III. SCENE I. Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door, and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us? LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain, And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Caesar's praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender'd. QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. CLOTEN. There be many Caesars Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. QUEEN. That opportunity, Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest Caesar made here; but made not here his brag Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With shame- The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping- Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks; for joy whereof The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point- O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage. CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook'd noses; but to owe such straight arms, none. CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end. CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. CYMBELINE. You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar's ambition- Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch The sides o' th' world- against all colour here Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. CLOTEN. We do. CYMBELINE. Say then to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain'd our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call'd Himself a king. LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar- Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy. Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself. CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent Much under him; of him I gather'd honour, Which he to seek of me again, perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold; So Caesar shall not find them. LUCIUS. Let proof speak. CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end. LUCIUS. So, sir. CYMBELINE. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine; All the remain is, welcome. Exeunt

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline23.asp

The political situation arising out of Cymbeline's refusal to pay tribute to Augustus Caesar is dramatized in this scene. When Caius Lucius, on behalf of the Roman Emperor, reminds Cymbeline of the events leading to the payment of the annual tribute of three thousand pounds which Cymbeline has neglected to pay, the Queen and Cloten are vociferous in opposing the payment of the tribute. Cloten shows rare spunk in declaring: "Britain is/a world by itself; and we will nothing pay/for wearing our noses." The Queen also shows courage in resisting the Roman claim, and reminds the King of the Roman aggression and how the British King, Cassibelan, had fought bravely and almost defeated Caesar. She declares that it is time now, when Britain was stronger and more powerful than in Cassibelan's time, to ensure their freedom from Roman dominance. Cymbeline adds that Caesar had put a yoke upon them, and the warlike British have decided to shake it off. Faced with such opposition, Caius Lucius can do nothing better than to declare war on behalf of the Emperor. Cymbeline is not afraid; he is willing to face the consequences of his action even as he is gracious enough to extend an invitation to Lucius to stay as a friend for a day or two.

Notes The scene depicts the negotiations between Cymbeline and Caius Lucius, the Roman ambassador. The influence of the Queen even in the high state affairs is well revealed in the action. Cymbeline's authority as King is entirely usurped by the Queen. She curtly tells the Roman ambassador, who complains about the non-payment of tribute, that it "..... shall be so ever." And before Cymbeline can say a word, Cloten cuts in bluntly to arrogantly declare Britain's resistance to Roman dominance. His lack of tact is softened by Cymbeline's more graceful negotiations yet Caius is affronted, and the negotiations naturally end in failure. Cloten speaks the language of a patriot and a diplomat. Here his action and speech justify a critic's remark that Cloten "is a natural fool." He often talks with the wit of one of Shakespeare's professed fools. One wonders, however, what the motive of the wily Queen is in instigating Cymbeline against the Romans. One cannot imagine her to be actuated by any elevated idea like patriotism or love of freedom, but something more self-serving. The forces which attempt to separate Imogen and Posthumus are here united against the Romans.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_12_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline24.asp", "summary": "Pisanio is astonished at the letter he has received from his master, accusing Imogen of adultery. He knows the power and strength of her love and chastity, and wonders who has poisoned his master's mind. Posthumus has written that Pisanio should kill Imogen, and that Posthumus himself, in his letter to Imogen, had provided the opportunity. The noble Pisanio is unable to even think of committing such a crime, but reveals nothing to Imogen when she arrives. Pisanio only reads half of the letter which states that Posthumus is in Cambria , at Milford-Haven, and wants Imogen to meet him there. His aim is to have Pisanio kill her on the way to Milford-Haven, but Imogen does not know this yet. She immediately prepares to leave for Milford-Haven and appeals to Pisanio to make the necessary arrangements for horses and to get her a riding-suit that should not be ostentatious. She also has to think of an excuse to explain her absence at court for a couple of days, that will help her get way before her absence is noticed. Pisanio, who is aware of the dark fate planned for her by Posthumus, can only listen in silence. He attempts to derail her plans but does not tell her now.", "analysis": "Notes The scene opens with Pisanio's soliloquy and conveys the order given by Posthumus to murder Imogen, whom he charges with adultery. Pisanio's reaction to it raises him in the reader's estimation. The whole scene, after the entry of Imogen, is an example of prolonged dramatic irony. It gives a tinge of pathos to her enthusiastic, ardent talk as Imogen only thinks of how slow traveling feels , and wishes for a horse with wings. Her love for Posthumus is deep and sharply contrasted to his wrathful feelings against her supposed infidelity. In this scene, with Imogen's flight from the court, the action now begins to move towards a solution of the complication."}

SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline24.asp

Pisanio is astonished at the letter he has received from his master, accusing Imogen of adultery. He knows the power and strength of her love and chastity, and wonders who has poisoned his master's mind. Posthumus has written that Pisanio should kill Imogen, and that Posthumus himself, in his letter to Imogen, had provided the opportunity. The noble Pisanio is unable to even think of committing such a crime, but reveals nothing to Imogen when she arrives. Pisanio only reads half of the letter which states that Posthumus is in Cambria , at Milford-Haven, and wants Imogen to meet him there. His aim is to have Pisanio kill her on the way to Milford-Haven, but Imogen does not know this yet. She immediately prepares to leave for Milford-Haven and appeals to Pisanio to make the necessary arrangements for horses and to get her a riding-suit that should not be ostentatious. She also has to think of an excuse to explain her absence at court for a couple of days, that will help her get way before her absence is noticed. Pisanio, who is aware of the dark fate planned for her by Posthumus, can only listen in silence. He attempts to derail her plans but does not tell her now.

Notes The scene opens with Pisanio's soliloquy and conveys the order given by Posthumus to murder Imogen, whom he charges with adultery. Pisanio's reaction to it raises him in the reader's estimation. The whole scene, after the entry of Imogen, is an example of prolonged dramatic irony. It gives a tinge of pathos to her enthusiastic, ardent talk as Imogen only thinks of how slow traveling feels , and wishes for a horse with wings. Her love for Posthumus is deep and sharply contrasted to his wrathful feelings against her supposed infidelity. In this scene, with Imogen's flight from the court, the action now begins to move towards a solution of the complication.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_13_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline25.asp", "summary": "From a cave in the mountainous Welsh countryside enters Belarius followed by his sons Guiderius and Arviragus. It is a fine morning, and Belarius exhorts his sons not to sit inside the cave, but to enjoy the wonderful weather. They plan to go hunting as usual with the brothers climbing the hill while Belarius tries to track game on the plain. He tells his sons that their simple life is worth all the advantages of courtly life, where every moment one could expect to be snubbed. Life at court was like living on a slippery slope, remarks Belarius bitterly, for it is precisely when one is at the peak of one's success that one is in danger of falling. The two lads, Guiderius and Arviragus, are restive. They have known nothing of court life, and cannot say if the peaceful life they lead is better than anything else. However, Belarius tells them that if they only knew the treacherous life at court, they would agree with him that the life they lead now is the best. He recounts his tenure in Cymbeline's court, when the King loved and respected him as a brave and valiant soldier. However, the King had readily listened to the false testimony of two villains who alleged that Belarius was consorting with the Romans. Cymbeline had not even given Belarius the chance to explain, and had banished him. It is only when the boys leave that Belarius reveals in a soliloquy, that Guiderius, known as Polydore, and Arviragus, called Cadwal, are actually the sons of Cymbeline. Angered at his unjust banishment, he had stolen the infant sons of the King in order to bar the line of succession to the throne. Yet, as Belarius observes, blood will tell: the lads who had known nothing of court, have the bearing and thoughts of princes.", "analysis": "Notes The scene now shifts to distant mountains in Wales and another part of the plot emerges as the reader is introduced to three new characters. This is a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. The whole scene is devoted to introduce Belarius, the banished lord who now lives as a \"woodman\" assuming the name of Morgan. The two princely youths, the abducted sons of Cymbeline, are seen here out of their natural setting. Their princely instinct is at variance with the crude conditions around them. Their restlessness reveals that they were not meant for the pastoral life and their ambitions are for something greater although their innocence is sharply contrasted to Cloten, who is product of the corruption of the courts. Cymbeline's sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, which are their original names, have been renamed Polydore and Cadwall by Belarius. It is their nurse, Euriphile, who had managed the kidnapping of the princes and as her reward, Belarius married her. The boys were too young to remember their real parentage and so they look upon Belarius and Euriphile as their parents. Their simple life, far from the madding crowds' ignoble strife, passes unmolested in their mountain cave for twenty years. During this period, Belarius trains and educates the princes so well as to render them worthy of a high station in life. Their separation from the royal family is another instance of the court being disrupted and that the sons will eventually reunite with their biological family hints at a resolution of the political and emotional conflicts that now disrupt the court."}

SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline25.asp

From a cave in the mountainous Welsh countryside enters Belarius followed by his sons Guiderius and Arviragus. It is a fine morning, and Belarius exhorts his sons not to sit inside the cave, but to enjoy the wonderful weather. They plan to go hunting as usual with the brothers climbing the hill while Belarius tries to track game on the plain. He tells his sons that their simple life is worth all the advantages of courtly life, where every moment one could expect to be snubbed. Life at court was like living on a slippery slope, remarks Belarius bitterly, for it is precisely when one is at the peak of one's success that one is in danger of falling. The two lads, Guiderius and Arviragus, are restive. They have known nothing of court life, and cannot say if the peaceful life they lead is better than anything else. However, Belarius tells them that if they only knew the treacherous life at court, they would agree with him that the life they lead now is the best. He recounts his tenure in Cymbeline's court, when the King loved and respected him as a brave and valiant soldier. However, the King had readily listened to the false testimony of two villains who alleged that Belarius was consorting with the Romans. Cymbeline had not even given Belarius the chance to explain, and had banished him. It is only when the boys leave that Belarius reveals in a soliloquy, that Guiderius, known as Polydore, and Arviragus, called Cadwal, are actually the sons of Cymbeline. Angered at his unjust banishment, he had stolen the infant sons of the King in order to bar the line of succession to the throne. Yet, as Belarius observes, blood will tell: the lads who had known nothing of court, have the bearing and thoughts of princes.

Notes The scene now shifts to distant mountains in Wales and another part of the plot emerges as the reader is introduced to three new characters. This is a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. The whole scene is devoted to introduce Belarius, the banished lord who now lives as a "woodman" assuming the name of Morgan. The two princely youths, the abducted sons of Cymbeline, are seen here out of their natural setting. Their princely instinct is at variance with the crude conditions around them. Their restlessness reveals that they were not meant for the pastoral life and their ambitions are for something greater although their innocence is sharply contrasted to Cloten, who is product of the corruption of the courts. Cymbeline's sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, which are their original names, have been renamed Polydore and Cadwall by Belarius. It is their nurse, Euriphile, who had managed the kidnapping of the princes and as her reward, Belarius married her. The boys were too young to remember their real parentage and so they look upon Belarius and Euriphile as their parents. Their simple life, far from the madding crowds' ignoble strife, passes unmolested in their mountain cave for twenty years. During this period, Belarius trains and educates the princes so well as to render them worthy of a high station in life. Their separation from the royal family is another instance of the court being disrupted and that the sons will eventually reunite with their biological family hints at a resolution of the political and emotional conflicts that now disrupt the court.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_16_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 6

scene 6

{"name": "Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline29.asp", "summary": "Enroute to Milford-Haven, Imogen loses her way and arrives before the cave of Belarius. She is hungry and tired but also frightened of what she might find in the cave. So she draws her sword and enters but finds the cave empty. A little later Belarius and the brothers Guiderius and Arviragus enter, with the day's hunt. They are surprised to find Imogen dressed in boy's clothes inside the cave. She gives her name as Fidele. Although Imogen and her brothers do not recognize each other, they feel great love for each other quite spontaneously. She wishes they were her brothers, then her plight would have been different. She tells them that she is bound for Italy to meet a relative, and they make her welcome with their warmth and hospitality.", "analysis": "Notes In this scene, although unknown to each other, the children of Cymbeline meet: his heir and elder son, Guiderius, the younger Arviragus, and their little sister Imogen, who is disguised as a man. While the sins of the father are visited upon the sons who have suffered privation and a hard life in the mountains, Imogen has had to pay very dearly with the exile of her beloved husband, and later, his misguided accusations. But it is important that they should meet, for it is through them that the theme of reconciliation will be effected. The purity of the brothers is seen in their scorn of money that Imogen offers to them for the food. This is in dire contrast to Cloten who interprets everyone's worth in terms of economic value. This short scene with its idyllic simplicity and charm conveys fine sentiments and emotions, subdued though they are. Imogen's disguise as a boy adds particular interest to the action. The dramatist crowns his descriptive power when he makes world- weary Belaruis describe Imogen, ecstatically. He unexpectedly sees her feasting upon the stored victuals in their cave and is so struck by her appearance that he wonders whether she is an earthly angel. It is ironic that they all wish that they were brothers and the distressed Imogen is somewhat alleviated in her pain by her brothers' good will. They help steer the delicate course between comedy and tragedy that the story of the play demands."}

SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt

Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline29.asp

Enroute to Milford-Haven, Imogen loses her way and arrives before the cave of Belarius. She is hungry and tired but also frightened of what she might find in the cave. So she draws her sword and enters but finds the cave empty. A little later Belarius and the brothers Guiderius and Arviragus enter, with the day's hunt. They are surprised to find Imogen dressed in boy's clothes inside the cave. She gives her name as Fidele. Although Imogen and her brothers do not recognize each other, they feel great love for each other quite spontaneously. She wishes they were her brothers, then her plight would have been different. She tells them that she is bound for Italy to meet a relative, and they make her welcome with their warmth and hospitality.

Notes In this scene, although unknown to each other, the children of Cymbeline meet: his heir and elder son, Guiderius, the younger Arviragus, and their little sister Imogen, who is disguised as a man. While the sins of the father are visited upon the sons who have suffered privation and a hard life in the mountains, Imogen has had to pay very dearly with the exile of her beloved husband, and later, his misguided accusations. But it is important that they should meet, for it is through them that the theme of reconciliation will be effected. The purity of the brothers is seen in their scorn of money that Imogen offers to them for the food. This is in dire contrast to Cloten who interprets everyone's worth in terms of economic value. This short scene with its idyllic simplicity and charm conveys fine sentiments and emotions, subdued though they are. Imogen's disguise as a boy adds particular interest to the action. The dramatist crowns his descriptive power when he makes world- weary Belaruis describe Imogen, ecstatically. He unexpectedly sees her feasting upon the stored victuals in their cave and is so struck by her appearance that he wonders whether she is an earthly angel. It is ironic that they all wish that they were brothers and the distressed Imogen is somewhat alleviated in her pain by her brothers' good will. They help steer the delicate course between comedy and tragedy that the story of the play demands.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_17_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 7

scene 7

{"name": "Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline30.asp", "summary": "This short scene, set in Rome, shows the preparations being taken for the war against Britain. Two Senators and two Tribunes discuss the declaration of war and their roles in it. Since the commoners or volunteers were away fighting wars of rebellion elsewhere, and since the forces in Gallia were too weak to take Britain, Caesar has appealed to the gentry to rise to the occasion under Lucius, who is the new general of the forces.", "analysis": "Notes This brief scene only serves to show the preparations for war, as Caesar prepares to fight the British insolence. There are indications that Rome, under Augustus Caesar, was facing rebellion not only in Britain, but elsewhere too, among the Pannonians and the Dalmatians. It, therefore, helps the audience to understand the political situation that forms the background of the play. This short scene is introduced here only with a view to make the Roman invasion a greater reality and to remind the audience that a threat to Britain is not only internal with the disappearance of first Posthumus and now Imogen but also external."}

SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt

Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline30.asp

This short scene, set in Rome, shows the preparations being taken for the war against Britain. Two Senators and two Tribunes discuss the declaration of war and their roles in it. Since the commoners or volunteers were away fighting wars of rebellion elsewhere, and since the forces in Gallia were too weak to take Britain, Caesar has appealed to the gentry to rise to the occasion under Lucius, who is the new general of the forces.

Notes This brief scene only serves to show the preparations for war, as Caesar prepares to fight the British insolence. There are indications that Rome, under Augustus Caesar, was facing rebellion not only in Britain, but elsewhere too, among the Pannonians and the Dalmatians. It, therefore, helps the audience to understand the political situation that forms the background of the play. This short scene is introduced here only with a view to make the Roman invasion a greater reality and to remind the audience that a threat to Britain is not only internal with the disappearance of first Posthumus and now Imogen but also external.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_18_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline31.asp", "summary": "Dressed in a garment belonging to Posthumus, Cloten arrives near the cave of Belarius, thinking it is the place where Imogen is to meet Posthumus. He thinks that since Posthumus's clothes fit him well, so Imogen would suit him, also. He cannot comprehend how she could reject him and choose Posthumus when all the advantages of birth, position, and wealth are on his side. He vows to behead Posthumus, molest Imogen and then send her back to her father's home. He knows Cymbeline will be angry with him, but he can depend on his mother to sort out the problems. His horse tied safely, he draws his sword and enters the cave.", "analysis": "Notes Cloten, driven mad with rage at Imogen's refusal to accept his love, now plans revenge. His love has turned sour, as it were, and he reveals himself to be wicked enough to plan to murder Posthumus and to assault Imogen. The love he claims to have for Imogen is actually his pride that is hurt, and he is willing to go to any lengths to acquire his object of desire, including violence. This soliloquy reveals Cloten at his most driven and perverse. He displaces responsibility for his actions on his mother who will placate the King if Cloten rough-handles his daughter."}

ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline31.asp

Dressed in a garment belonging to Posthumus, Cloten arrives near the cave of Belarius, thinking it is the place where Imogen is to meet Posthumus. He thinks that since Posthumus's clothes fit him well, so Imogen would suit him, also. He cannot comprehend how she could reject him and choose Posthumus when all the advantages of birth, position, and wealth are on his side. He vows to behead Posthumus, molest Imogen and then send her back to her father's home. He knows Cymbeline will be angry with him, but he can depend on his mother to sort out the problems. His horse tied safely, he draws his sword and enters the cave.

Notes Cloten, driven mad with rage at Imogen's refusal to accept his love, now plans revenge. His love has turned sour, as it were, and he reveals himself to be wicked enough to plan to murder Posthumus and to assault Imogen. The love he claims to have for Imogen is actually his pride that is hurt, and he is willing to go to any lengths to acquire his object of desire, including violence. This soliloquy reveals Cloten at his most driven and perverse. He displaces responsibility for his actions on his mother who will placate the King if Cloten rough-handles his daughter.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_20_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline34.asp", "summary": "In Cymbeline's palace, the King is anxious over the growing war and his missing daughter. The Queen is pining over the disappearance of her son and has contracted a fever and is delirious. Cymbeline is overwhelmed by these events. His beloved daughter has fled, and there is still no word of her whereabouts. Cloten is missing, and the Queen is dangerously ill. He accuses Pisanio of conspiring and assisting in Imogen's flight, but Pisanio is saved by one of the courtiers who insists that Pisanio is blameless. The Roman troops from Gallia have landed in Britain as well as the reinforcements from Italy. Although the British troops are ready to face the enemy, Cymbeline feels lost, without the support of his Queen and Cloten and Pisanio, in a soliloquy, wonders what has happened to Imogen and Posthumus, who has sent no word about Imogen's supposed death. Cloten's absence also worries Pisanio, but he can do nothing until all his doubts are cleared by time.", "analysis": "Notes With the Queen's influence weakening, Cymbeline finds himself prey to many doubts even as he faces war. His troops are ready and he bravely awaits the war, but the support and courage that Cloten and the Queen had extended earlier are now sorely missed. He feels that misfortunes have come in swarms, with Imogen gone, Cloten missing and the Queen desperately ill. His first instinct is to punish Pisanio but he gives him another chance. There is a slow change in Cymbeline as he becomes independent of the Queen's overpowering influence. This scene has very little dramatic significance but acts to intensify the atmosphere of disorder and confusion that reigns in the royal court. Pisanio's loyalty is well tested already and needs no further evidence. His patriotism and bravery are additionally noted in this scene. However, one fact is particularly revealed in this scene: Cymbeline has a tender regard for his daughter. It becomes obvious when the old King admits that she was a great part of his comfort. The Lord's intervention on behalf of Pisanio reveals that when the Queen is not on the scene the courtiers are good enough to extend their support to the court. The political and familial turmoil is shown to be intertwined in this scene and one situation cannot improve without the other also."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline34.asp

In Cymbeline's palace, the King is anxious over the growing war and his missing daughter. The Queen is pining over the disappearance of her son and has contracted a fever and is delirious. Cymbeline is overwhelmed by these events. His beloved daughter has fled, and there is still no word of her whereabouts. Cloten is missing, and the Queen is dangerously ill. He accuses Pisanio of conspiring and assisting in Imogen's flight, but Pisanio is saved by one of the courtiers who insists that Pisanio is blameless. The Roman troops from Gallia have landed in Britain as well as the reinforcements from Italy. Although the British troops are ready to face the enemy, Cymbeline feels lost, without the support of his Queen and Cloten and Pisanio, in a soliloquy, wonders what has happened to Imogen and Posthumus, who has sent no word about Imogen's supposed death. Cloten's absence also worries Pisanio, but he can do nothing until all his doubts are cleared by time.

Notes With the Queen's influence weakening, Cymbeline finds himself prey to many doubts even as he faces war. His troops are ready and he bravely awaits the war, but the support and courage that Cloten and the Queen had extended earlier are now sorely missed. He feels that misfortunes have come in swarms, with Imogen gone, Cloten missing and the Queen desperately ill. His first instinct is to punish Pisanio but he gives him another chance. There is a slow change in Cymbeline as he becomes independent of the Queen's overpowering influence. This scene has very little dramatic significance but acts to intensify the atmosphere of disorder and confusion that reigns in the royal court. Pisanio's loyalty is well tested already and needs no further evidence. His patriotism and bravery are additionally noted in this scene. However, one fact is particularly revealed in this scene: Cymbeline has a tender regard for his daughter. It becomes obvious when the old King admits that she was a great part of his comfort. The Lord's intervention on behalf of Pisanio reveals that when the Queen is not on the scene the courtiers are good enough to extend their support to the court. The political and familial turmoil is shown to be intertwined in this scene and one situation cannot improve without the other also.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_21_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline35.asp", "summary": "Belarius, along with Guiderius and Arviragus, are standing in front of their cave. All around them, the sounds of British and Roman troops getting ready for battle can be heard. The two lads are all fired up, and tell their father that they wish to join the British troops. Belarius tries in vain to persuade them not to do so; he even suggests that they retreat higher up into the hills to safety, as the death of Cloten was too recent, and would bring disaster to them. He puts forward many arguments against them joining the army, but the brothers are determined, and Belarius can do nothing but submit to their demand.", "analysis": "Notes As Belarius had earlier pointed out, it is evident that blood will tell; the two young lads respond to the military sounds around them by asking their father's blessing to join the army. As Arviragus says, they have lived away from the world for so long that he now feels ashamed that he has never fought in a battle or even ridden a horse properly. Belarius is fearful that Cloten's death will be discovered and that they will be blamed. He also fears that they will finally learn who they are. Yet he cannot keep them separated from the world they have been born into but never experienced. Therefore, when Belarius finds that they will not listen to his arguments, he has no option but to give in."}

SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline35.asp

Belarius, along with Guiderius and Arviragus, are standing in front of their cave. All around them, the sounds of British and Roman troops getting ready for battle can be heard. The two lads are all fired up, and tell their father that they wish to join the British troops. Belarius tries in vain to persuade them not to do so; he even suggests that they retreat higher up into the hills to safety, as the death of Cloten was too recent, and would bring disaster to them. He puts forward many arguments against them joining the army, but the brothers are determined, and Belarius can do nothing but submit to their demand.

Notes As Belarius had earlier pointed out, it is evident that blood will tell; the two young lads respond to the military sounds around them by asking their father's blessing to join the army. As Arviragus says, they have lived away from the world for so long that he now feels ashamed that he has never fought in a battle or even ridden a horse properly. Belarius is fearful that Cloten's death will be discovered and that they will be blamed. He also fears that they will finally learn who they are. Yet he cannot keep them separated from the world they have been born into but never experienced. Therefore, when Belarius finds that they will not listen to his arguments, he has no option but to give in.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_22_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline36.asp", "summary": "In the Roman camp, Posthumus enters with a handkerchief soaked in blood. From his soliloquy, the reader gathers that after Pisanio's report of Imogen's death, Posthumus has been stricken by remorse and wishes that he had not been so hasty in seeking vengeance. He wonders how the gods take away people who have sinned but once, and mildly at that, while allowing sinners who go on sinning to live, feeling remorseful. He wishes he had let Imogen live so that she could repent, and also to give another her another chance at happiness. Posthumus has come with the Roman army, recruited by Lucius from among the gentry. However, he now feels that he cannot take up arms against Imogen's people, and plans to disguise himself as a British peasant and fight on the British side.", "analysis": "Notes This scene serves as a connecting link between the Posthumus' plan to kill Imogen and his new ability to forgive her for what she has supposedly done. Shakespeare uses the background of war between Roman and Britain to underscore the terrible effect that violence and irrational thinking have on human relations. Posthumus has undergone a great change since he last came on stage, denigrating all women. He is now repentant and full of self- loathing. This he has acquired during a period of isolation and quiet, heart-searching meditation. Posthumus blames Pisanio for the death of Imogen, noting that servants should not follow all commands but just those they think are just. Ironically, Pisanio has done just that but Posthumus will be ignorant of his correct action for some time. That Posthumus has forgiven Imogen is a big step and will eventually lead to the re-establishment of his relationship to her as well as to Britain as can be seen in the disrobing of his Italian clothes for peasant garb and commitment to fight for the British army."}

ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline36.asp

In the Roman camp, Posthumus enters with a handkerchief soaked in blood. From his soliloquy, the reader gathers that after Pisanio's report of Imogen's death, Posthumus has been stricken by remorse and wishes that he had not been so hasty in seeking vengeance. He wonders how the gods take away people who have sinned but once, and mildly at that, while allowing sinners who go on sinning to live, feeling remorseful. He wishes he had let Imogen live so that she could repent, and also to give another her another chance at happiness. Posthumus has come with the Roman army, recruited by Lucius from among the gentry. However, he now feels that he cannot take up arms against Imogen's people, and plans to disguise himself as a British peasant and fight on the British side.

Notes This scene serves as a connecting link between the Posthumus' plan to kill Imogen and his new ability to forgive her for what she has supposedly done. Shakespeare uses the background of war between Roman and Britain to underscore the terrible effect that violence and irrational thinking have on human relations. Posthumus has undergone a great change since he last came on stage, denigrating all women. He is now repentant and full of self- loathing. This he has acquired during a period of isolation and quiet, heart-searching meditation. Posthumus blames Pisanio for the death of Imogen, noting that servants should not follow all commands but just those they think are just. Ironically, Pisanio has done just that but Posthumus will be ignorant of his correct action for some time. That Posthumus has forgiven Imogen is a big step and will eventually lead to the re-establishment of his relationship to her as well as to Britain as can be seen in the disrobing of his Italian clothes for peasant garb and commitment to fight for the British army.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_23_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline37.asp", "summary": "On the battlefield, there is fierce fighting between the Romans and the British, with Posthumus in disguise. In a skirmish with Iachimo, Posthumus is able to defeat and disarm the former, but leaves him alive. Iachimo feels the burden of guilt and remorse at the way he has wronged a British princess and feels that his guilt has left him so weak that a peasant could overpower him. On the other hand, he also claims that if the rest of the British army were equal to, or better than this rough peasant, then \"the odds / Is that we scarce are men and you are gods.\" As the battle continues, the British army is almost routed, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. All seems lost when suddenly Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Posthumus in disguise, enter. They fight bravely and rescue Cymbeline. After they leave, Lucius, attended by Imogen in boys' clothes, enters with Iachimo. Lucius advises Fidele to save herself, as she is known to run away from the battlefield. Lucius is surprised at the way the fortunes of the British have turned, and advises Iachimo to get reinforcements for a fresh attack, failing which they would have to flee.", "analysis": "Notes The scene begins with Iachimo expressing his dismay at having belied Imogen's reputation and creating such animosity between her and her husband. His expression of remorse follows on the heels of Posthumus' own confession of guilt and so it is not surprising that they end up in a skirmish, fighting it out. Although Iachimo is unaware of the peasant he is fighting against, he complains that fighting him is difficult and that it must be due to the weight of what he has done and his weakened state of mind. The combat ends in the defeat of Iachimo, but he is not killed since he is needed for the denouement. His soliloquy, however, prepares the audience to meet him later as a repentant villain. The next encounter reveals that the Romans have captured Cymbeline but that his sons and Posthumus have managed to free him. The scene ends with a short exchange between Lucius and Iachimo commenting on the strange turn of events. Most of this scene provides information that will forward the plot and allow for a reconciliation."}

SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline37.asp

On the battlefield, there is fierce fighting between the Romans and the British, with Posthumus in disguise. In a skirmish with Iachimo, Posthumus is able to defeat and disarm the former, but leaves him alive. Iachimo feels the burden of guilt and remorse at the way he has wronged a British princess and feels that his guilt has left him so weak that a peasant could overpower him. On the other hand, he also claims that if the rest of the British army were equal to, or better than this rough peasant, then "the odds / Is that we scarce are men and you are gods." As the battle continues, the British army is almost routed, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. All seems lost when suddenly Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Posthumus in disguise, enter. They fight bravely and rescue Cymbeline. After they leave, Lucius, attended by Imogen in boys' clothes, enters with Iachimo. Lucius advises Fidele to save herself, as she is known to run away from the battlefield. Lucius is surprised at the way the fortunes of the British have turned, and advises Iachimo to get reinforcements for a fresh attack, failing which they would have to flee.

Notes The scene begins with Iachimo expressing his dismay at having belied Imogen's reputation and creating such animosity between her and her husband. His expression of remorse follows on the heels of Posthumus' own confession of guilt and so it is not surprising that they end up in a skirmish, fighting it out. Although Iachimo is unaware of the peasant he is fighting against, he complains that fighting him is difficult and that it must be due to the weight of what he has done and his weakened state of mind. The combat ends in the defeat of Iachimo, but he is not killed since he is needed for the denouement. His soliloquy, however, prepares the audience to meet him later as a repentant villain. The next encounter reveals that the Romans have captured Cymbeline but that his sons and Posthumus have managed to free him. The scene ends with a short exchange between Lucius and Iachimo commenting on the strange turn of events. Most of this scene provides information that will forward the plot and allow for a reconciliation.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_24_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline38.asp", "summary": "In another part of the field, Posthumus is accosted by a British lord who asks him about the progress of the battle. Posthumus recounts that at one stage, the British army was overcome and in disarray, and the soldiers were fleeing down a narrow path leaving the King to the mercy of the enemy. Yet out of nowhere an old man accompanied by two young lads had appeared, and with their words and deeds, instilled such courage in the fleeing Britons that they turned back and fought bravely as lions, freeing the King from the clutches of the enemy. As Posthumus relates the strange story, the listener is amazed at the way the two young men had wrought such a change in the hearts of the fleeing men. Posthumus does not relay his own act of courage in this decisive battle and infers that he only acted with such bravery because he sought death. Now that Britain is victorious, Posthumus decides to rejoin the Italian army so that he may find his end at the hands of his British captors. He is so full of remorse at Imogen's death and his role in it that he wishes to lay down his life. Just then, two British captains enter and find Posthumus who claims to be Roman. He is brought before Cymbeline who delivers him over to a jailer.", "analysis": "Notes The scene is devoted to the recounting of the last valiant phase of the battle and Posthumus' own humble version of his contribution to it. Belarius and the two princes distinguish themselves in stemming the rout that had set in the British army. Posthumus is modest enough to eliminate from his account the glorious part that he himself played in turning the defeat into a decisive victory. The applause and glory are nothing to him as his interest in life has all dried up. In fact so low has he fallen in spirit that he is willing to pretend he is a Roman soldier so that he may be imprisoned and even sentenced to death for his crime against the state: his supposed murder of Imogen and the dissolution of the royal family."}

SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline38.asp

In another part of the field, Posthumus is accosted by a British lord who asks him about the progress of the battle. Posthumus recounts that at one stage, the British army was overcome and in disarray, and the soldiers were fleeing down a narrow path leaving the King to the mercy of the enemy. Yet out of nowhere an old man accompanied by two young lads had appeared, and with their words and deeds, instilled such courage in the fleeing Britons that they turned back and fought bravely as lions, freeing the King from the clutches of the enemy. As Posthumus relates the strange story, the listener is amazed at the way the two young men had wrought such a change in the hearts of the fleeing men. Posthumus does not relay his own act of courage in this decisive battle and infers that he only acted with such bravery because he sought death. Now that Britain is victorious, Posthumus decides to rejoin the Italian army so that he may find his end at the hands of his British captors. He is so full of remorse at Imogen's death and his role in it that he wishes to lay down his life. Just then, two British captains enter and find Posthumus who claims to be Roman. He is brought before Cymbeline who delivers him over to a jailer.

Notes The scene is devoted to the recounting of the last valiant phase of the battle and Posthumus' own humble version of his contribution to it. Belarius and the two princes distinguish themselves in stemming the rout that had set in the British army. Posthumus is modest enough to eliminate from his account the glorious part that he himself played in turning the defeat into a decisive victory. The applause and glory are nothing to him as his interest in life has all dried up. In fact so low has he fallen in spirit that he is willing to pretend he is a Roman soldier so that he may be imprisoned and even sentenced to death for his crime against the state: his supposed murder of Imogen and the dissolution of the royal family.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_25_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline39.asp", "summary": "Posthumus is led into a British prison and left there in chains. Strangely enough, he rejoices in the captivity because death will free him from both physical and spiritual bondage. Although his sorrow and contrition are enough to pardon him in God's eyes, he wishes to give up his life in return for Imogen's. Exhausted, he sleeps and in his sleep, he has a vision. To the accompaniment of solemn music, the ghosts of Posthumus's father, mother, and his two brothers who have died in battle, enter. They circle round the sleeping Posthumus and appeal to Jupiter to take pity on him. They recount the various unjust events in Posthumus's life, and ask Jupiter why he has allowed these to happen. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, seated upon an eagle. The ghosts grow silent as Jupiter tells them that those he loved most, he puts to the test. He then lays on Posthumus' breast a written oracular, foretelling the end of his troubles. Jupiter and the ghosts vanish, and Posthumus awakens from his sleep. He finds a parchment on his chest that contains a riddle that promises when the riddle is solved and complete then Posthumus's miseries will end, and Britain shall flourish in peace and plenty. Posthumus, however, considers it all just a dream and refuses to hope for anything. The jailers enter, and Posthumus is quite enthusiastic when they ask him if he is ready to die. When one jailer mentions that death means no more worries nor bills, Posthumus declares that he is happy to die. Just then, a messenger arrives from Cymbeline, asking for the prisoners to be brought before him. The jailers are amazed at Posthumus' eagerness as he faces death.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline39.asp

Posthumus is led into a British prison and left there in chains. Strangely enough, he rejoices in the captivity because death will free him from both physical and spiritual bondage. Although his sorrow and contrition are enough to pardon him in God's eyes, he wishes to give up his life in return for Imogen's. Exhausted, he sleeps and in his sleep, he has a vision. To the accompaniment of solemn music, the ghosts of Posthumus's father, mother, and his two brothers who have died in battle, enter. They circle round the sleeping Posthumus and appeal to Jupiter to take pity on him. They recount the various unjust events in Posthumus's life, and ask Jupiter why he has allowed these to happen. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, seated upon an eagle. The ghosts grow silent as Jupiter tells them that those he loved most, he puts to the test. He then lays on Posthumus' breast a written oracular, foretelling the end of his troubles. Jupiter and the ghosts vanish, and Posthumus awakens from his sleep. He finds a parchment on his chest that contains a riddle that promises when the riddle is solved and complete then Posthumus's miseries will end, and Britain shall flourish in peace and plenty. Posthumus, however, considers it all just a dream and refuses to hope for anything. The jailers enter, and Posthumus is quite enthusiastic when they ask him if he is ready to die. When one jailer mentions that death means no more worries nor bills, Posthumus declares that he is happy to die. Just then, a messenger arrives from Cymbeline, asking for the prisoners to be brought before him. The jailers are amazed at Posthumus' eagerness as he faces death.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_0_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 1

act 1 scene 1

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene1", "summary": "Two gentlemen are talking in the palace of Cymbeline, King of Britain. The First Gentleman says that all the courtiers are frowning, reflecting the sorrowful mood of the King. He explains the reason: the King's daughter, Imogen, has married Posthumus Leonatus, a poor but worthy man, against the wishes of her father and his current wife, the Queen. The King has banished Posthumus and imprisoned Imogen. The King and Queen had wanted Imogen to marry Cloten, the Queen's son by a previous husband. . The First Gentleman says that despite their sad appearance, the courtiers are secretly glad about the marriage, as Cloten is \"too bad for bad report\" . In contrast, he says Imogen's chosen husband is both outwardly handsome and inwardly good. He is the son of Sicilius, who won military glory fighting for King Cymbeline's father, Tenantius, against the Romans. Sicilius earned the surname Leonatus for his bravery. Besides Posthumus, Sicilius also had two other sons, who died in battle, \"with their swords in hand\" , whereupon Sicilius died of grief. Sicilius' wife was pregnant and died giving birth to Posthumus. . Since Posthumus was now an orphan, the King took him under his care and brought him up. Posthumus grew to be loved and respected in the court. The First Gentleman says that his virtue is demonstrated by the fact that Imogen, the King's daughter and heir, has chosen him. Imogen is the King's only child. He once had two sons, but twenty years ago, both were stolen from the nursery when the eldest was three and the youngest a baby. The Second Gentleman is surprised that the King's children were so poorly guarded, and the search so slow that it could not trace them. . The gentlemen end their talk as the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen enter. .", "analysis": ". Little is known about the historical Cymbeline, son of Theomantius . He became King of Britain in 33 BC, when it was an outpost of the Roman empire. He reigned for 35 years, leaving two sons, Guiderius and Arvigarus. He was brought up in Rome and was absolved by Augustus Caesar of paying tribute. Subsequently, tribute was demanded and refused, but the chronicler Holinshed, one of Shakespeare's main sources, is unsure whether Cymbeline or some other King refused to pay. Caesar then invaded Britain. Holinshed wrote that British chroniclers claim the Romans were twice defeated in battle, but comments that Latin sources claimed ultimate victory for the Romans. Shakespeare, for the purposes of his play, has Cymbeline refuse to pay the tribute. . The play's first scene is an expository one in that it gives the background to the story and tells us something about the main characters. It sets up a stark contrast between Imogen's two suitors: the Queen's son Cloten, an unworthy man, and the King's ward, Posthumus, as virtuous as he is attractive. . It also introduces two major themes of the play. The first is outward appearance versus inward truth . At court, the two are at odds, leading to a hypocritical atmosphere. Related to this theme is outward nobility of birth , which is not earned and which can be superficial, versus inward nobility of character , which must be earned and runs deep. Imogen, who is both well-born and appreciates true goodness, unites both. However, in her decision to marry the poor but worthy Posthumus, she has initiated a conflict with her parents, who are unable to see beyond his undistinguished birth. . The disappearance of the King's sons carries intense symbolic importance. The Romance tradition of literature often featured a king who was wounded or disabled in some way. When the king, the symbolic head of a nation, was sick, his country was sick too: crops failed, disease and famine thrived. The hero of the story went on a quest to find the regenerative \"cure\" for the king's ailment and, by extension, his country. In this tradition, to which all Shakespeare's Romance plays belong, the cure is often found by someone from the younger generation, which represents regeneration, fertility, and vigorous new life. . In Cymbeline, the fact that the King has lost his sons leaves him cut off from this life-giving quality. Only Imogen is left of the younger generation, but the King has rejected her. Severed from the regenerative root, the King and his court are left to wither and decay in destructive emotions like resentment and revenge. Through reference to the Romance tradition, we expect that Cymbeline's cure will involve being reunited with his sons and reconciled with Imogen."}

ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene1

Two gentlemen are talking in the palace of Cymbeline, King of Britain. The First Gentleman says that all the courtiers are frowning, reflecting the sorrowful mood of the King. He explains the reason: the King's daughter, Imogen, has married Posthumus Leonatus, a poor but worthy man, against the wishes of her father and his current wife, the Queen. The King has banished Posthumus and imprisoned Imogen. The King and Queen had wanted Imogen to marry Cloten, the Queen's son by a previous husband. . The First Gentleman says that despite their sad appearance, the courtiers are secretly glad about the marriage, as Cloten is "too bad for bad report" . In contrast, he says Imogen's chosen husband is both outwardly handsome and inwardly good. He is the son of Sicilius, who won military glory fighting for King Cymbeline's father, Tenantius, against the Romans. Sicilius earned the surname Leonatus for his bravery. Besides Posthumus, Sicilius also had two other sons, who died in battle, "with their swords in hand" , whereupon Sicilius died of grief. Sicilius' wife was pregnant and died giving birth to Posthumus. . Since Posthumus was now an orphan, the King took him under his care and brought him up. Posthumus grew to be loved and respected in the court. The First Gentleman says that his virtue is demonstrated by the fact that Imogen, the King's daughter and heir, has chosen him. Imogen is the King's only child. He once had two sons, but twenty years ago, both were stolen from the nursery when the eldest was three and the youngest a baby. The Second Gentleman is surprised that the King's children were so poorly guarded, and the search so slow that it could not trace them. . The gentlemen end their talk as the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen enter. .

. Little is known about the historical Cymbeline, son of Theomantius . He became King of Britain in 33 BC, when it was an outpost of the Roman empire. He reigned for 35 years, leaving two sons, Guiderius and Arvigarus. He was brought up in Rome and was absolved by Augustus Caesar of paying tribute. Subsequently, tribute was demanded and refused, but the chronicler Holinshed, one of Shakespeare's main sources, is unsure whether Cymbeline or some other King refused to pay. Caesar then invaded Britain. Holinshed wrote that British chroniclers claim the Romans were twice defeated in battle, but comments that Latin sources claimed ultimate victory for the Romans. Shakespeare, for the purposes of his play, has Cymbeline refuse to pay the tribute. . The play's first scene is an expository one in that it gives the background to the story and tells us something about the main characters. It sets up a stark contrast between Imogen's two suitors: the Queen's son Cloten, an unworthy man, and the King's ward, Posthumus, as virtuous as he is attractive. . It also introduces two major themes of the play. The first is outward appearance versus inward truth . At court, the two are at odds, leading to a hypocritical atmosphere. Related to this theme is outward nobility of birth , which is not earned and which can be superficial, versus inward nobility of character , which must be earned and runs deep. Imogen, who is both well-born and appreciates true goodness, unites both. However, in her decision to marry the poor but worthy Posthumus, she has initiated a conflict with her parents, who are unable to see beyond his undistinguished birth. . The disappearance of the King's sons carries intense symbolic importance. The Romance tradition of literature often featured a king who was wounded or disabled in some way. When the king, the symbolic head of a nation, was sick, his country was sick too: crops failed, disease and famine thrived. The hero of the story went on a quest to find the regenerative "cure" for the king's ailment and, by extension, his country. In this tradition, to which all Shakespeare's Romance plays belong, the cure is often found by someone from the younger generation, which represents regeneration, fertility, and vigorous new life. . In Cymbeline, the fact that the King has lost his sons leaves him cut off from this life-giving quality. Only Imogen is left of the younger generation, but the King has rejected her. Severed from the regenerative root, the King and his court are left to wither and decay in destructive emotions like resentment and revenge. Through reference to the Romance tradition, we expect that Cymbeline's cure will involve being reunited with his sons and reconciled with Imogen.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_2_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 3

act 1 scene 3

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene3", "summary": "The First Lord advises Cloten to change his shirt, which smells as a result of his fighting with Posthumus, though the Lord, in an attempt to flatter Cloten, tries unconvincingly to suggest that it is the air outside Cloten's shirt that is unwholesome. Cloten only sees the need to change his shirt if it were bloody, and asks if Posthumus is hurt. The Second Lord reveals in an aside to the audience that he is not, but the First Lord tries to flatter Cloten by saying it would be remarkable if Posthumus were not hurt. The Second Lord continues to address the audience in asides revealing Cloten's cowardice and Posthumus's bravery in the fight. Cloten claims he wishes the onlookers had not parted them, and the Second Lord says in an aside that he wishes Posthumus had killed Cloten. Cloten is astonished that Imogen could prefer Posthumus to himself. The First lord replies that her beauty exceeds her intelligence.", "analysis": ". The Second Lord echoes Imogen's wish in the previous scene that Posthumus had killed Cloten. This sets up an expectation that Cloten may indeed be disposed of. The contrast between the First Lord's flattering remarks to Cloten and the Second Lord's contempt for him, expressed in asides to the audience, reveal the hypocrisy and underlying discontent at court, where people say one thing but think another. Such disunity in Shakespeare indicates an unsustainable situation, since if truth is to prevail, that which is false must be destroyed. Cloten's vanity and lack of self-knowledge are plain in this, our first sight of him. Cloten speaks in prose, revealing his unrefined nature, whereas Imogen and Posthumus address each other in blank verse, as befits their more refined characters. Cloten also smells bad, which in Shakespeare is a sure sign of an uncivilized nature."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene3

The First Lord advises Cloten to change his shirt, which smells as a result of his fighting with Posthumus, though the Lord, in an attempt to flatter Cloten, tries unconvincingly to suggest that it is the air outside Cloten's shirt that is unwholesome. Cloten only sees the need to change his shirt if it were bloody, and asks if Posthumus is hurt. The Second Lord reveals in an aside to the audience that he is not, but the First Lord tries to flatter Cloten by saying it would be remarkable if Posthumus were not hurt. The Second Lord continues to address the audience in asides revealing Cloten's cowardice and Posthumus's bravery in the fight. Cloten claims he wishes the onlookers had not parted them, and the Second Lord says in an aside that he wishes Posthumus had killed Cloten. Cloten is astonished that Imogen could prefer Posthumus to himself. The First lord replies that her beauty exceeds her intelligence.

. The Second Lord echoes Imogen's wish in the previous scene that Posthumus had killed Cloten. This sets up an expectation that Cloten may indeed be disposed of. The contrast between the First Lord's flattering remarks to Cloten and the Second Lord's contempt for him, expressed in asides to the audience, reveal the hypocrisy and underlying discontent at court, where people say one thing but think another. Such disunity in Shakespeare indicates an unsustainable situation, since if truth is to prevail, that which is false must be destroyed. Cloten's vanity and lack of self-knowledge are plain in this, our first sight of him. Cloten speaks in prose, revealing his unrefined nature, whereas Imogen and Posthumus address each other in blank verse, as befits their more refined characters. Cloten also smells bad, which in Shakespeare is a sure sign of an uncivilized nature.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_3_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 4

act 1 scene 4

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene4", "summary": "Imogen questions Pisanio about his last sight of Posthumus and hopes he will write. Posthumus's final words were about Imogen as he unwillingly sailed away from her. Imogen regrets that she did not have time to say all that she had wanted to her husband - her worries that Posthumus would be tempted away from her by Italian women, and her desire that he should think of her at certain pre-arranged time - before Cymbeline came in and interrupted them. A lady enters and tells Imogen that the Queen wishes to see her.", "analysis": ". The love between the young couple is reinforced by Pisanio's account of Posthumus's actions on leaving. The language of the seasons and nature's cycles runs through all the Romance plays. Here, Imogen likens her father's interruption of her meeting with Posthumus to the \"tyrannous breathing of the north\" that \"shakes all our buds from growing\" . The young lovers embody the regenerative and life-giving warm spring season , whereas Cymbeline represents the chill north wind that prevents the growth of their love."}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene4

Imogen questions Pisanio about his last sight of Posthumus and hopes he will write. Posthumus's final words were about Imogen as he unwillingly sailed away from her. Imogen regrets that she did not have time to say all that she had wanted to her husband - her worries that Posthumus would be tempted away from her by Italian women, and her desire that he should think of her at certain pre-arranged time - before Cymbeline came in and interrupted them. A lady enters and tells Imogen that the Queen wishes to see her.

. The love between the young couple is reinforced by Pisanio's account of Posthumus's actions on leaving. The language of the seasons and nature's cycles runs through all the Romance plays. Here, Imogen likens her father's interruption of her meeting with Posthumus to the "tyrannous breathing of the north" that "shakes all our buds from growing" . The young lovers embody the regenerative and life-giving warm spring season , whereas Cymbeline represents the chill north wind that prevents the growth of their love.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_7_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 1

act 2 scene 1

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene1", "summary": "Cloten is playing bowls with some Lords and losing. A Lord asks Cloten if he knows of the Italian visitor to court, Iachimo, a friend of Posthumus's. Cloten does not, and goes to seek him out. The Second Lord, left alone, marvels \"That such a crafty devil as is his mother / Should yield the world this ass!\" . She is a woman who \"Bears all down with her brain,\" whereas Cloten cannot take two from twenty. The Lord pities Imogen for her unhappy position between her father ruled by her stepmother, the stepmother \"hourly coining plots\" , and a hateful suitor who wants to divorce her from her husband. He prays that Imogen holds firm.", "analysis": ". This scene adds little to the action of the play, and much of the dialogue is of poor quality, leading some critics to suspect that it is not Shakespeare's but has been interpolated by an unknown hand. Its main function seems to be to further expose Cloten's unrefined nature, to compare his stupidity with his mother's cunning, and to establish that he did not know of Iachimo's presence at court."}

ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit

Act 2 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene1

Cloten is playing bowls with some Lords and losing. A Lord asks Cloten if he knows of the Italian visitor to court, Iachimo, a friend of Posthumus's. Cloten does not, and goes to seek him out. The Second Lord, left alone, marvels "That such a crafty devil as is his mother / Should yield the world this ass!" . She is a woman who "Bears all down with her brain," whereas Cloten cannot take two from twenty. The Lord pities Imogen for her unhappy position between her father ruled by her stepmother, the stepmother "hourly coining plots" , and a hateful suitor who wants to divorce her from her husband. He prays that Imogen holds firm.

. This scene adds little to the action of the play, and much of the dialogue is of poor quality, leading some critics to suspect that it is not Shakespeare's but has been interpolated by an unknown hand. Its main function seems to be to further expose Cloten's unrefined nature, to compare his stupidity with his mother's cunning, and to establish that he did not know of Iachimo's presence at court.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_8_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 2

act 2 scene 2

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene2", "summary": "The scene is set in Imogen's bedroom. Iachimo's trunk is placed in it. After she goes to sleep, Iachimo emerges from the trunk. He is tempted by her beauty, but resists the urge to touch and kiss her. His plan is to note details of the room and identifying marks on her body, in order to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He removes her bracelet, the parting gift from her husband, which he says will help in the \"madding\" of Posthumus . He also notes a mole on her left breast. When he feels he has enough evidence, he gets back into the trunk.", "analysis": ". The atmosphere of sexual menace in this scene is palpable. Iachimo, leaning over the sleeping and defenseless Imogen and noting the intimate details of her body, is committing a kind of rape, a psychological violation of the marriage between her and Posthumus. This notion is reinforced by the book she has been reading , which tells of treason and rape. Iachimo appears to liken himself to a raven , a continuation of the predator and prey imagery that runs through the play. His line \" Though this is a heavenly angel, hell is here\" leaves no doubt as to the depraved state of Iachimo's soul as compared with that of Imogen."}

SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk

Act 2 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene2

The scene is set in Imogen's bedroom. Iachimo's trunk is placed in it. After she goes to sleep, Iachimo emerges from the trunk. He is tempted by her beauty, but resists the urge to touch and kiss her. His plan is to note details of the room and identifying marks on her body, in order to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He removes her bracelet, the parting gift from her husband, which he says will help in the "madding" of Posthumus . He also notes a mole on her left breast. When he feels he has enough evidence, he gets back into the trunk.

. The atmosphere of sexual menace in this scene is palpable. Iachimo, leaning over the sleeping and defenseless Imogen and noting the intimate details of her body, is committing a kind of rape, a psychological violation of the marriage between her and Posthumus. This notion is reinforced by the book she has been reading , which tells of treason and rape. Iachimo appears to liken himself to a raven , a continuation of the predator and prey imagery that runs through the play. His line " Though this is a heavenly angel, hell is here" leaves no doubt as to the depraved state of Iachimo's soul as compared with that of Imogen.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_9_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 3

act 2 scene 3

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene3", "summary": "Cloten is playing some Lords, either at dice or cards, and losing again. Some musicians enter; Cloten has employed them to serenade Imogen, which they do. The King and Queen enter. Cymbeline inquires whether Imogen has come out of her room. When Cloten says she has not, Cymbeline says that in time, Imogen will forget Posthumus and then she will be Cloten's. The Queen advises him to obey Imogen in everything except when she sends him away. A messenger announces that some ambassadors from Rome, including one called Lucius, have arrived. Cymbeline knows that Rome is angry with him, but he will receive Lucius, who is a worthy man, according to the honor of the Emperor. He asks Cloten to greet Imogen and then to follow him and the Queen to meet the Roman. Cloten, left alone, plans to bribe one of Imogen's ladies to buy access to her. Gold can do anything, he says, even have an honest man killed and save a thief. He knocks at Imogen's door. A Lady emerges, and Cloten offers her gold to speak for him. Imogen enters. She tells Cloten that she does not care for him, and indeed, she hates him. Cloten says she owes her father obedience. Because of her royal status, she does not have free choice and cannot marry a \"base slave.\" Imogen angrily defends her husband, saying that Cloten, even if he were the god Jupiter's son, would be \"too base / To be his groom\" . Imogen calls Pisanio and send him to ask one of her ladies to search for her bracelet. She is sure that she had it last night, because she kissed it. Cloten is offended by Imogen's statement that Posthumus's \"meanest garment\" is dearer to her than Cloten, and threatens to tell her father. Imogen suggests he tell the Queen too, and is in no doubt that she will think the worst of her. Cloten vows revenge.", "analysis": ". Cloten employs lewd imagery when talking of Imogen : \"penetrate,\" \"fingering\" and \"try with tongue too\" are ostensibly about music but have sexual double meanings. The delicate song that follows Cloten's lewd speech, \"Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, / And Phoebus gins arise,\" reflects the split between the superficially civilized surface and the brutally vulgar. The inappropriateness of Cloten's attitude to Imogen is underscored by his own reference to her ladies as \"Diana's rangers\" , Diana being the goddess of chastity. Cloten's plan to use gold to bribe Imogen's ladies is significant, as Imogen has previously used the imagery of gold to convey the true worth of Posthumus. Gold is traditionally seen as the incorruptible metal, as it does not tarnish, but Cloten wants to use it to corrupt innocence. There is profound irony in Imogen's hope that her bracelet has not gone to tell Posthumus that she is kissing something or someone other than him, since we know, where Imogen does not, that Iachimo plans to use this bracelet as proof that she is unfaithful. Imogen's steadfastness comes across in this scene, as she fearlessly defends herself and Posthumus against Cloten's onslaught."}

SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit

Act 2 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene3

Cloten is playing some Lords, either at dice or cards, and losing again. Some musicians enter; Cloten has employed them to serenade Imogen, which they do. The King and Queen enter. Cymbeline inquires whether Imogen has come out of her room. When Cloten says she has not, Cymbeline says that in time, Imogen will forget Posthumus and then she will be Cloten's. The Queen advises him to obey Imogen in everything except when she sends him away. A messenger announces that some ambassadors from Rome, including one called Lucius, have arrived. Cymbeline knows that Rome is angry with him, but he will receive Lucius, who is a worthy man, according to the honor of the Emperor. He asks Cloten to greet Imogen and then to follow him and the Queen to meet the Roman. Cloten, left alone, plans to bribe one of Imogen's ladies to buy access to her. Gold can do anything, he says, even have an honest man killed and save a thief. He knocks at Imogen's door. A Lady emerges, and Cloten offers her gold to speak for him. Imogen enters. She tells Cloten that she does not care for him, and indeed, she hates him. Cloten says she owes her father obedience. Because of her royal status, she does not have free choice and cannot marry a "base slave." Imogen angrily defends her husband, saying that Cloten, even if he were the god Jupiter's son, would be "too base / To be his groom" . Imogen calls Pisanio and send him to ask one of her ladies to search for her bracelet. She is sure that she had it last night, because she kissed it. Cloten is offended by Imogen's statement that Posthumus's "meanest garment" is dearer to her than Cloten, and threatens to tell her father. Imogen suggests he tell the Queen too, and is in no doubt that she will think the worst of her. Cloten vows revenge.

. Cloten employs lewd imagery when talking of Imogen : "penetrate," "fingering" and "try with tongue too" are ostensibly about music but have sexual double meanings. The delicate song that follows Cloten's lewd speech, "Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, / And Phoebus gins arise," reflects the split between the superficially civilized surface and the brutally vulgar. The inappropriateness of Cloten's attitude to Imogen is underscored by his own reference to her ladies as "Diana's rangers" , Diana being the goddess of chastity. Cloten's plan to use gold to bribe Imogen's ladies is significant, as Imogen has previously used the imagery of gold to convey the true worth of Posthumus. Gold is traditionally seen as the incorruptible metal, as it does not tarnish, but Cloten wants to use it to corrupt innocence. There is profound irony in Imogen's hope that her bracelet has not gone to tell Posthumus that she is kissing something or someone other than him, since we know, where Imogen does not, that Iachimo plans to use this bracelet as proof that she is unfaithful. Imogen's steadfastness comes across in this scene, as she fearlessly defends herself and Posthumus against Cloten's onslaught.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_12_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 2

act 3 scene 2

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene2", "summary": "Pisanio is reading a letter from Posthumus revealing that he accuses Imogen of adultery. A liar has prevailed over Posthumus's \"too ready hearing,\" and Imogen is \"punish'd for her truth\" . Pisanio observes that Posthumus's mind, compared with Imogen, has sunk to the level of his fortune. Posthumus asks Pisanio to murder Imogen. He shall have the opportunity when he delivers a letter to her. If to do so is to do good service, says Pisanio, then he shall not be counted a good servant; he will disobey the order and not tell Imogen of it. Imogen enters and Pisanio gives her a letter from Posthumus, which she reads. He writes that he will brave her father's wrath in order to be restored by seeing her. He is at Milford Haven, and hints that she must follow her heart's prompting . Imogen is immediately excited by the thought of going to see Posthumus, and asks how long it will take to ride there. Pisanio is less enthusiastic, because he fears that she is riding to her destruction. But she insists that the only way forward for her is to go to Milford Haven and Posthumus.", "analysis": ". Pisanio uses the imagery of disease and poison to express Posthumus's unwarranted jealousy . But he makes clear that Posthumus's being a victim of such onslaughts does not absolve him of responsibility: Iachimo has simply \" prevail'd / On thy too ready hearing\" . Pisanio has followed Cornelius in disobeying his master for a virtuous purpose. Both Posthumus and the Queen have divorced themselves from truth, and in such cases, the true servant must prevent them from doing evil, if necessary by disobeying orders."}

SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt

Act 3 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene2

Pisanio is reading a letter from Posthumus revealing that he accuses Imogen of adultery. A liar has prevailed over Posthumus's "too ready hearing," and Imogen is "punish'd for her truth" . Pisanio observes that Posthumus's mind, compared with Imogen, has sunk to the level of his fortune. Posthumus asks Pisanio to murder Imogen. He shall have the opportunity when he delivers a letter to her. If to do so is to do good service, says Pisanio, then he shall not be counted a good servant; he will disobey the order and not tell Imogen of it. Imogen enters and Pisanio gives her a letter from Posthumus, which she reads. He writes that he will brave her father's wrath in order to be restored by seeing her. He is at Milford Haven, and hints that she must follow her heart's prompting . Imogen is immediately excited by the thought of going to see Posthumus, and asks how long it will take to ride there. Pisanio is less enthusiastic, because he fears that she is riding to her destruction. But she insists that the only way forward for her is to go to Milford Haven and Posthumus.

. Pisanio uses the imagery of disease and poison to express Posthumus's unwarranted jealousy . But he makes clear that Posthumus's being a victim of such onslaughts does not absolve him of responsibility: Iachimo has simply " prevail'd / On thy too ready hearing" . Pisanio has followed Cornelius in disobeying his master for a virtuous purpose. Both Posthumus and the Queen have divorced themselves from truth, and in such cases, the true servant must prevent them from doing evil, if necessary by disobeying orders.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_16_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 6

act 3 scene 6

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene6", "summary": "In Wales, near Belarius's cave, Imogen enters disguised as a boy. She is lost, has slept rough for two nights, and is on the point of collapse from lack of food. She reflects that to lie when prosperous is a greater crime than to lie out of need, and so falsehood is \"worse in kings than beggars\" . On this basis, Posthumus is among the false ones. She notices Belarius's cave. She fears to make herself known, but starvation gives her courage. She calls out, but receives no answer, so draws her sword and enters the cave.", "analysis": ". Imogen's clear-sightedness is evident in this scene. She does not try to attenuate Posthumus's guilt but recognizes that he is false even as she states her love for him. The chance that Imogen should come across the cave where her lost brothers live can strike modern audiences as coincidental to the point of absurdity. But such remarkable happenings, particularly involving lost royal children, are part of the Romance tradition. Some modern critics have embraced the magic elements of Romance and placed them within the framework of Jungian psychology, which sees events and characters as different aspects of the Self. In this framework, the aim is to bring to conscious awareness all the 'lost' aspects of the Self, resulting in unity of life and purpose. Thus, the lost royal children can be seen as representing the youthfulness and energy that the court has lost. They can also represent parts of Imogen's scattered self. She has been rejected or abused by the major male figures in her life, and to be embraced by her brothers must come as a healing experience."}

SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt

Act 3 Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene6

In Wales, near Belarius's cave, Imogen enters disguised as a boy. She is lost, has slept rough for two nights, and is on the point of collapse from lack of food. She reflects that to lie when prosperous is a greater crime than to lie out of need, and so falsehood is "worse in kings than beggars" . On this basis, Posthumus is among the false ones. She notices Belarius's cave. She fears to make herself known, but starvation gives her courage. She calls out, but receives no answer, so draws her sword and enters the cave.

. Imogen's clear-sightedness is evident in this scene. She does not try to attenuate Posthumus's guilt but recognizes that he is false even as she states her love for him. The chance that Imogen should come across the cave where her lost brothers live can strike modern audiences as coincidental to the point of absurdity. But such remarkable happenings, particularly involving lost royal children, are part of the Romance tradition. Some modern critics have embraced the magic elements of Romance and placed them within the framework of Jungian psychology, which sees events and characters as different aspects of the Self. In this framework, the aim is to bring to conscious awareness all the 'lost' aspects of the Self, resulting in unity of life and purpose. Thus, the lost royal children can be seen as representing the youthfulness and energy that the court has lost. They can also represent parts of Imogen's scattered self. She has been rejected or abused by the major male figures in her life, and to be embraced by her brothers must come as a healing experience.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_17_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 7

act 3 scene 7

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene7", "summary": "Belarius congratulates Guiderius for being most successful in the hunt, and names him as master of the feast. Arviragus and he will play cook and servant. The boys are both weary. Belarius notices Imogen in the cave, and remarks that if she were not eating their food, he would think her a fairy. He next thinks that she is an angel. Imogen explains that she has stolen nothing and was going to leave them money for what she has eaten. Guiderius is not impressed, as gold and silver \"turn to dirt\" , and is only admired by those \"who worship dirty gods\" . Imogen tells him that had she not helped herself to the food, she would have died of starvation. She tells them she is going to Milford Haven and gives her name as Fidele, which means 'faithful' in French. She says a relative of hers has just embarked at Milford for Italy. Belarius bids her welcome, asking her not to measure their minds by the \"rude\" place they live in . Guiderius seems to feel an attraction towards her, saying her would court her if she were a woman. Arviragus welcomes her as a friend. Aside to the audience, she wishes they had been her brothers, for then she would not have been Cymbeline's sole heir, and Posthumus would have been more her financial equal. The boys notice her distress and sympathize with her. Imogen reflects that great men could not surpass the two boys. She would change her sex to be their companion, since Posthumus has proved false. Belarius invites her to tell as much of her story as she wishes, after they have eaten.", "analysis": ". ' Magic sleep' is one of the themes of the Romance plays. It generally marks some transformative change in the characters' lives. It is significant that both Imogen and the lost royal sons arrive at the cave very tired. The mood is heightened by Belarius's first impression of Imogen, that she is a fairy, and his second, that she is an angel. Imogen wishes that she had been poorer and offered \"more equal ballasting\" with Posthumus uses another image of weight and worth, this time to express the balance of power in her relationship ."}

SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt

Act 3 Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene7

Belarius congratulates Guiderius for being most successful in the hunt, and names him as master of the feast. Arviragus and he will play cook and servant. The boys are both weary. Belarius notices Imogen in the cave, and remarks that if she were not eating their food, he would think her a fairy. He next thinks that she is an angel. Imogen explains that she has stolen nothing and was going to leave them money for what she has eaten. Guiderius is not impressed, as gold and silver "turn to dirt" , and is only admired by those "who worship dirty gods" . Imogen tells him that had she not helped herself to the food, she would have died of starvation. She tells them she is going to Milford Haven and gives her name as Fidele, which means 'faithful' in French. She says a relative of hers has just embarked at Milford for Italy. Belarius bids her welcome, asking her not to measure their minds by the "rude" place they live in . Guiderius seems to feel an attraction towards her, saying her would court her if she were a woman. Arviragus welcomes her as a friend. Aside to the audience, she wishes they had been her brothers, for then she would not have been Cymbeline's sole heir, and Posthumus would have been more her financial equal. The boys notice her distress and sympathize with her. Imogen reflects that great men could not surpass the two boys. She would change her sex to be their companion, since Posthumus has proved false. Belarius invites her to tell as much of her story as she wishes, after they have eaten.

. ' Magic sleep' is one of the themes of the Romance plays. It generally marks some transformative change in the characters' lives. It is significant that both Imogen and the lost royal sons arrive at the cave very tired. The mood is heightened by Belarius's first impression of Imogen, that she is a fairy, and his second, that she is an angel. Imogen wishes that she had been poorer and offered "more equal ballasting" with Posthumus uses another image of weight and worth, this time to express the balance of power in her relationship .

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_19_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 1

act 4 scene 1

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene1", "summary": "Cloten, dressed in Posthumus's clothes, is in Wales, near the place where Imogen is supposed to meet Posthumus. He says the clothes fit him well, and thus why should Imogen not prove \"fit\" for him, too ? He feels that he compares well to Posthumus in youth, looks and strength, and surpasses him in birth and advantages. He predicts that soon he shall have raped Imogen, cut Posthumus's clothes to pieces in front of him, and cut off Posthumus's head. The he plans to send Imogen home to face her father. Cymbeline may be angry with Cloten for treating Imogen roughly, but the Queen will take Cloten's part and make him appear worthy of praise.", "analysis": ". Cloten's superficial awareness is again highlighted in his naeve faith that wearing Posthumus's clothes will play some part in allowing him to steal his wife. Bound up on the level of outward appearance, Cloten has no concept of true worth."}

ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit

Act 4 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene1

Cloten, dressed in Posthumus's clothes, is in Wales, near the place where Imogen is supposed to meet Posthumus. He says the clothes fit him well, and thus why should Imogen not prove "fit" for him, too ? He feels that he compares well to Posthumus in youth, looks and strength, and surpasses him in birth and advantages. He predicts that soon he shall have raped Imogen, cut Posthumus's clothes to pieces in front of him, and cut off Posthumus's head. The he plans to send Imogen home to face her father. Cymbeline may be angry with Cloten for treating Imogen roughly, but the Queen will take Cloten's part and make him appear worthy of praise.

. Cloten's superficial awareness is again highlighted in his naeve faith that wearing Posthumus's clothes will play some part in allowing him to steal his wife. Bound up on the level of outward appearance, Cloten has no concept of true worth.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_21_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 3

act 4 scene 3

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene3", "summary": "Cymbeline asks how his wife is. She has run mad with a fever at Cloten's absence, and her life is in danger. The King is forlorn at the loss of Imogen and the possible loss of the Queen, as well as the absence of Cloten at a time when a frightening war looms. He believes Pisanio knows something about Imogen's departure, and threatens to torture him until he reveals it. Pisanio counters that he knows nothing, but asserts his loyalty to the King. The First Lord backs up Pisanio, saying that the day she went missing, he was at court. There is a search party looking for Cloten. The King lets Pisanio off the hook for now. The First Lord tells the King that the Roman forces have landed, together with the Roman gentlemen sent by the Senate. He reassures the King that the British forces are ready. Cymbeline longs for the advice of Cloten and the Queen. The King and courtiers leave Pisanio alone. Pisanio worries that he has not heard from Posthumus since he wrote telling him that Imogen had been killed. Nor has he heard from Imogen or anything of Cloten. Pisanio repeats that he is only false in order to be honest; and the wars shall prove he loves his country.", "analysis": ". This scene is unique in that it pushes Cymbeline into the foreground. But he only emphasizes his unkingly nature by lamenting his comfortless state, with his daughter, wife and Cloten all unavailable to him at a time when he is nervous about the war. Cymbeline's uncertain nature compares unfavorably with the youthful bravery of his lost sons, which features prominently in the next scene."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit

Act 4 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene3

Cymbeline asks how his wife is. She has run mad with a fever at Cloten's absence, and her life is in danger. The King is forlorn at the loss of Imogen and the possible loss of the Queen, as well as the absence of Cloten at a time when a frightening war looms. He believes Pisanio knows something about Imogen's departure, and threatens to torture him until he reveals it. Pisanio counters that he knows nothing, but asserts his loyalty to the King. The First Lord backs up Pisanio, saying that the day she went missing, he was at court. There is a search party looking for Cloten. The King lets Pisanio off the hook for now. The First Lord tells the King that the Roman forces have landed, together with the Roman gentlemen sent by the Senate. He reassures the King that the British forces are ready. Cymbeline longs for the advice of Cloten and the Queen. The King and courtiers leave Pisanio alone. Pisanio worries that he has not heard from Posthumus since he wrote telling him that Imogen had been killed. Nor has he heard from Imogen or anything of Cloten. Pisanio repeats that he is only false in order to be honest; and the wars shall prove he loves his country.

. This scene is unique in that it pushes Cymbeline into the foreground. But he only emphasizes his unkingly nature by lamenting his comfortless state, with his daughter, wife and Cloten all unavailable to him at a time when he is nervous about the war. Cymbeline's uncertain nature compares unfavorably with the youthful bravery of his lost sons, which features prominently in the next scene.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_22_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 4

act 4 scene 4

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene4", "summary": "Guiderius notes that he, his brother, and Belarius are in danger from the Romans. Belarius suggests they retreat higher into the mountains. He says that because of Cloten's killing, they cannot go for protection to the King. If they are caught, they will be tortured and killed. Arviragus thinks that the King will be too busy with the war to look into their origins, but Belarius points out that he is well known in the army, and besides, the King has not deserved their service or love. But Guiderius and Arviragus believe that they should all go to fight in the wars. Guiderius says he and his brother are not known by anyone at court, and Belarius is forgotten and \"o'ergrown\" , possibly meaning bearded and unrecognizable, or simply grown out of their thoughts. Guiderius and Arviragus ask for Belarius's blessing to go to war. Belarius replies that since they value their young lives so slightly, there is no reason why he should set more value on his old one. He joins them as they go off to fight.", "analysis": ". The courage of Guiderius and Arviragus, contrasted with Cymbeline's lack of kingly valor in the previous scene, leaves no doubt that it is time for a regime change. Shakespeare's plays uphold the divinely ordained nature of kingship; thus, those who kill, depose or usurp a rightful king must always pay a price. But running alongside this is the idea that kingship is part of the great cycle of nature, in which old, sick and decaying branches wither and die, to be replaced by young, vigorous growth. Cymbeline is the decayed king, while his lost sons, nurtured in the womb of the wild Welsh countryside, are now ripe to assume royal roles."}

SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt

Act 4 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene4

Guiderius notes that he, his brother, and Belarius are in danger from the Romans. Belarius suggests they retreat higher into the mountains. He says that because of Cloten's killing, they cannot go for protection to the King. If they are caught, they will be tortured and killed. Arviragus thinks that the King will be too busy with the war to look into their origins, but Belarius points out that he is well known in the army, and besides, the King has not deserved their service or love. But Guiderius and Arviragus believe that they should all go to fight in the wars. Guiderius says he and his brother are not known by anyone at court, and Belarius is forgotten and "o'ergrown" , possibly meaning bearded and unrecognizable, or simply grown out of their thoughts. Guiderius and Arviragus ask for Belarius's blessing to go to war. Belarius replies that since they value their young lives so slightly, there is no reason why he should set more value on his old one. He joins them as they go off to fight.

. The courage of Guiderius and Arviragus, contrasted with Cymbeline's lack of kingly valor in the previous scene, leaves no doubt that it is time for a regime change. Shakespeare's plays uphold the divinely ordained nature of kingship; thus, those who kill, depose or usurp a rightful king must always pay a price. But running alongside this is the idea that kingship is part of the great cycle of nature, in which old, sick and decaying branches wither and die, to be replaced by young, vigorous growth. Cymbeline is the decayed king, while his lost sons, nurtured in the womb of the wild Welsh countryside, are now ripe to assume royal roles.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_23_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 1

act 5 scene 1

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene1", "summary": "Posthumus is now at the Roman camp in Britain, having joined the Roman forces. He carries with him a bloodstained cloth, sent to him by Pisanio as proof of Imogen's murder. He repents that he had Imogen killed , a wife better than himself, for straying just a little. In an example of dramatic irony , he wishes that Pisanio had obeyed only his just commands, and that the gods had saved Imogen and struck him with more vengeance. Though he has come to Britain to fight against his wife's kingdom, he feels this to be wrong-he has done enough by killing Imogen and will give no wound to her country. He plans to replace his Roman clothes with those of a British peasant, and fight with the Britons against the Romans.", "analysis": ". Posthumus's penitence is somewhat unsatisfying and fails to command much sympathy. He regrets ordering Imogen's killing, but still believes she is guilty. Thus, though he has recovered some sense of perspective regarding her alleged sin, he fails to give her the trust she deserves. As we have seen with Imogen, the shedding and adoption of clothing can carry symbolic weight. Posthumus's decision to shed his Roman soldier's clothes and adopt a British peasant's clothing carries many meanings: his attempt to make amends to Imogen and Britain; his abandonment of attempts to control and punish others and willingness to surrender to his fate; and his penitent attempt to replace impressive clothing with inward worth. He will show more valor than his garments suggest, fight as an unknown soldier without the benefit of his martial reputation, and \"begin / To fashion less without, and more within\" . Note the confusion of roles adopted by Posthumus and Imogen. Imogen, a Briton, has disguised herself as a boy and is serving the commander of the Roman army. Posthumus, another Briton, has been exiled to Rome, is supposed to be serving in the Roman army, and arrived in Britain dressed as a Roman, but has secretly defected to the British cause and is now dressed as a poor Briton. Both characters will, in their disguised roles, find a deeper inner truth than they previously knew."}

ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit

Act 5 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene1

Posthumus is now at the Roman camp in Britain, having joined the Roman forces. He carries with him a bloodstained cloth, sent to him by Pisanio as proof of Imogen's murder. He repents that he had Imogen killed , a wife better than himself, for straying just a little. In an example of dramatic irony , he wishes that Pisanio had obeyed only his just commands, and that the gods had saved Imogen and struck him with more vengeance. Though he has come to Britain to fight against his wife's kingdom, he feels this to be wrong-he has done enough by killing Imogen and will give no wound to her country. He plans to replace his Roman clothes with those of a British peasant, and fight with the Britons against the Romans.

. Posthumus's penitence is somewhat unsatisfying and fails to command much sympathy. He regrets ordering Imogen's killing, but still believes she is guilty. Thus, though he has recovered some sense of perspective regarding her alleged sin, he fails to give her the trust she deserves. As we have seen with Imogen, the shedding and adoption of clothing can carry symbolic weight. Posthumus's decision to shed his Roman soldier's clothes and adopt a British peasant's clothing carries many meanings: his attempt to make amends to Imogen and Britain; his abandonment of attempts to control and punish others and willingness to surrender to his fate; and his penitent attempt to replace impressive clothing with inward worth. He will show more valor than his garments suggest, fight as an unknown soldier without the benefit of his martial reputation, and "begin / To fashion less without, and more within" . Note the confusion of roles adopted by Posthumus and Imogen. Imogen, a Briton, has disguised herself as a boy and is serving the commander of the Roman army. Posthumus, another Briton, has been exiled to Rome, is supposed to be serving in the Roman army, and arrived in Britain dressed as a Roman, but has secretly defected to the British cause and is now dressed as a poor Briton. Both characters will, in their disguised roles, find a deeper inner truth than they previously knew.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_24_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 2

act 5 scene 2

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene2", "summary": "Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army enter at one side of the stage, and the British army at another, with Posthumus following, dressed as a poor soldier. There is a skirmish between Iachimo and Posthumus, who disarms Iachimo and leaves. Iachimo, left alone, is penitent that he slandered Imogen, the princess of Britain, and says that his guilt is robbing him of his courage. Otherwise, how could this poor soldier have subdued him, a professional soldier? . The battle continues. The Britons retreat in disarray and panic, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus enter and, helped by Posthumus, rescue Cymbeline. Then Lucius, Iachimo and Imogen enter. Lucius sends Imogen away from the fighting, for her safety. Iachimo warns Lucius that the British are bringing in reinforcements. Lucius says they too must bring in more troops, or retreat. .", "analysis": ". Coming fast on the heels of Posthumus' penitence is Iachimo's. Both are perhaps less rewarding and dramatic than they should be, since we do not see the journey that led them to this point. . The decay into which Cymbeline's kingdom has fallen is clear from the shameful disorder into which his army descends. The fact that his lost sons become his rescuer emphasizes the regenerative theme of the new world redeeming the old. The cure for the court's and the nation's sickness lies in the sons' hands. Belarius's involvement is satisfying, since it expiates his sin of stealing the royal children: he heals where once he wounded."}

SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt

Act 5 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene2

Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army enter at one side of the stage, and the British army at another, with Posthumus following, dressed as a poor soldier. There is a skirmish between Iachimo and Posthumus, who disarms Iachimo and leaves. Iachimo, left alone, is penitent that he slandered Imogen, the princess of Britain, and says that his guilt is robbing him of his courage. Otherwise, how could this poor soldier have subdued him, a professional soldier? . The battle continues. The Britons retreat in disarray and panic, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus enter and, helped by Posthumus, rescue Cymbeline. Then Lucius, Iachimo and Imogen enter. Lucius sends Imogen away from the fighting, for her safety. Iachimo warns Lucius that the British are bringing in reinforcements. Lucius says they too must bring in more troops, or retreat. .

. Coming fast on the heels of Posthumus' penitence is Iachimo's. Both are perhaps less rewarding and dramatic than they should be, since we do not see the journey that led them to this point. . The decay into which Cymbeline's kingdom has fallen is clear from the shameful disorder into which his army descends. The fact that his lost sons become his rescuer emphasizes the regenerative theme of the new world redeeming the old. The cure for the court's and the nation's sickness lies in the sons' hands. Belarius's involvement is satisfying, since it expiates his sin of stealing the royal children: he heals where once he wounded.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_25_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 3

act 5 scene 3

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene3", "summary": "Posthumus is talking to a British Lord, who fled the battle. Posthumus says there is no shame in this, since all seemed lost for the Britons, until the gods intervened. He tells the Lord how an old man and two boys-obviously Belarius, Arviragus and Guiderius-turned the battle around by stopping the Britons from fleeing and making them fight the Romans. The Romans are defeated, and Lucius has been taken prisoner. Posthumus, disappointed that he did not die in battle, has dressed again in Roman clothing. He comes forward and gives himself up to the Britons, wishing to be taken prisoner and put to death. They capture him and plan to take him to the King.", "analysis": ". Posthumus commands more sympathy in this scene than previously. Giving himself up to the Britons to be put to death is arguably a just punishment for his actions. Cymbeline, in another bird image, is compared to a bird without wings ; the Romans are like a predatory animal, \"Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring\" . However, the Britons win because the gods help them . This is one of the play's most notable instances of supernatural intervention-though it is dramatically unconvincing, as is confirmed by the Lord's reaction to Posthumus's account of it-and gives a foretaste of the elements that will follow in the next scene."}

SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes

Act 5 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene3

Posthumus is talking to a British Lord, who fled the battle. Posthumus says there is no shame in this, since all seemed lost for the Britons, until the gods intervened. He tells the Lord how an old man and two boys-obviously Belarius, Arviragus and Guiderius-turned the battle around by stopping the Britons from fleeing and making them fight the Romans. The Romans are defeated, and Lucius has been taken prisoner. Posthumus, disappointed that he did not die in battle, has dressed again in Roman clothing. He comes forward and gives himself up to the Britons, wishing to be taken prisoner and put to death. They capture him and plan to take him to the King.

. Posthumus commands more sympathy in this scene than previously. Giving himself up to the Britons to be put to death is arguably a just punishment for his actions. Cymbeline, in another bird image, is compared to a bird without wings ; the Romans are like a predatory animal, "Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring" . However, the Britons win because the gods help them . This is one of the play's most notable instances of supernatural intervention-though it is dramatically unconvincing, as is confirmed by the Lord's reaction to Posthumus's account of it-and gives a foretaste of the elements that will follow in the next scene.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_8_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "Act 3, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-3-scene-1", "summary": "We drop in on the duke of Florence at his Italian court. The duke is leading the Florentine army against Siena, and he's a little miffed that the king of France has refused to join his war efforts. Two French lords Dumaine chime in, saying that they think their king has his reasons for wanting to stay out of it. The first lord Dumaine points out that a bunch of young French noblemen have volunteered to fight and suggests it will be a good way for them to blow off some steam. We learn that everyone is headed for the battlefield the next day.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

Act 3, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-3-scene-1

We drop in on the duke of Florence at his Italian court. The duke is leading the Florentine army against Siena, and he's a little miffed that the king of France has refused to join his war efforts. Two French lords Dumaine chime in, saying that they think their king has his reasons for wanting to stay out of it. The first lord Dumaine points out that a bunch of young French noblemen have volunteered to fight and suggests it will be a good way for them to blow off some steam. We learn that everyone is headed for the battlefield the next day.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_15_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-4-scene-1", "summary": "Outside the soldiers' camp in Florence, the first lord Dumaine and several soldiers hide in the bushes. They're waiting to ambush Paroles, who is supposed to be trying to retrieve the drum he lost on the battlefield. Paroles shows up and starts talking to himself. He admits that he has no intention of trying to get his drum back. That would be way too dangerous. Instead, he's just going to hang out here for three hours until it's time to go back to the camp. Paroles tries to come up with a story to convince his pals that he got hurt trying to recover the drum. Maybe he should give himself a black eye and a fat lip? Or maybe he should tear his clothes to shreds and break his sword to make it look like he got into a fight with some enemy soldiers? Will his friends even believe his story? The lords Dumaine and the interpreter leap out of the bushes with their swords. Ah ha! They start yelling and speaking in gibberish so Paroles will think they're Russian soldiers. Paroles begs for his life and offers to give them a bunch of information about his unit if they'll spare his life. They blindfold Paroles and a soldier runs off to get Bertram. The proof is in the pudding.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Act 4, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-4-scene-1

Outside the soldiers' camp in Florence, the first lord Dumaine and several soldiers hide in the bushes. They're waiting to ambush Paroles, who is supposed to be trying to retrieve the drum he lost on the battlefield. Paroles shows up and starts talking to himself. He admits that he has no intention of trying to get his drum back. That would be way too dangerous. Instead, he's just going to hang out here for three hours until it's time to go back to the camp. Paroles tries to come up with a story to convince his pals that he got hurt trying to recover the drum. Maybe he should give himself a black eye and a fat lip? Or maybe he should tear his clothes to shreds and break his sword to make it look like he got into a fight with some enemy soldiers? Will his friends even believe his story? The lords Dumaine and the interpreter leap out of the bushes with their swords. Ah ha! They start yelling and speaking in gibberish so Paroles will think they're Russian soldiers. Paroles begs for his life and offers to give them a bunch of information about his unit if they'll spare his life. They blindfold Paroles and a soldier runs off to get Bertram. The proof is in the pudding.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_20_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-5-scene-1", "summary": "Meanwhile, Helen, the widow, and Diana have arrived in Marseilles, France, in search of the King. As we know, the King isn't there. They bump into an austringer and find out that the King is actually in Roussillon, which means the women had traveled all this way for nothing. Helen is not about to give up. She laces up her riding shoes and says \"All's well that ends well yet, / Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit.\" Helen then passes the austringer a note and promises him a bunch of money if he gives it to the King for her. Helen and company saddle up for the trip to Roussillon.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

Act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-5-scene-1

Meanwhile, Helen, the widow, and Diana have arrived in Marseilles, France, in search of the King. As we know, the King isn't there. They bump into an austringer and find out that the King is actually in Roussillon, which means the women had traveled all this way for nothing. Helen is not about to give up. She laces up her riding shoes and says "All's well that ends well yet, / Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit." Helen then passes the austringer a note and promises him a bunch of money if he gives it to the King for her. Helen and company saddle up for the trip to Roussillon.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scene 1

act 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1", "summary": "At the opening of this play, the main figures of the plot are weighed down with thoughts of two recent deaths. \"Young Bertram,\" the Count of Rousillon , has lost his father, as has Helena, the beautiful daughter of a famed physician, Gerard de Narbon, \"whose skill was almost as great as his honesty.\" Bertram's mother is further distressed that she must say farewell to her son, now a ward of the ailing king of France. Opening the play, she exclaims: \"In delivering my son from me , I bury a second husband.\" As an older lord and a close family friend, Lafeu assures the Countess that in the king she shall find someone as good as a second husband for herself and a second father for Bertram. Once mother and son have said their goodbyes and he has departed, Helena delivers a soliloquy in which she reveals a double reason for her sadness. \"I am undone; there is no living, none, if Bertram be away.\" A \"follower\" of Bertram, named Parolles, interrupts her and engages her in an extended dialogue on the subject of virginity. He pledges that he will \"return a perfect courtier\" from Paris, where he is about to go with Bertram. A second soliloquy, this time by Helena, reveals her to be resolute in her pledge to pursue her unlikely attempt at capturing Bertram's heart: \" . . . my project may deceive me, but my intents are fixed, and will not leave me.\"", "analysis": "A gloomy mood at the opening of the play is often customary for a Shakespearean comedy. But amidst the general lamentation over departures and deaths, there is some emotional ambiguity which sets a tone for this \"problem play,\" as All's Well has been called by some critics. Lafeu remarks on Helena's tears at the Countess' praise, whereupon the older woman kindly says that Helena must not cry lest people think that she is \"affecting\" or putting on her sad demeanor. Helena's answer -- \"I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too\" -- seems puzzling, until we learn in her soliloquy that she is crying for the sake of her unacknowledged lover, and not for her deceased father. Helena keeps to herself much of the time, partly because she may be embarrassed at the feelings she has for a person beyond her station, socially. In the first moments of the play, she is uneasy, aware that Bertram is \"so far above me.\" One wonders what Bertram's feelings in this first scene may be. Though some editors have disputed the placement of Lafeu's second line in the following exchange, it seems possible that the wise, older gentleman is reacting to Bertram's abruptness in cutting off his mother's speech. Lafeu: Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, Excessive grief the enemy to the living. Countess: If the living be enemy to the grief, The excess makes it soon mortal. Bertram: Madam, I desire your holy wishes. Lafeu: How understand we that? There is something of a gentle hand slap in the tone of Lafeu's last line. Bertram may be speaking rudely, overstepping the quite normal impatience of a young man about to leave home for a more adventuresome life in Paris. Consider for yourself if this line -- \"How understand we that?\" -- makes sense here, or if it might better fit in just before the words \"moderate lamentation,\" where some editors place it. There is an abrupt shift in tone at Parolles' entrance. Helena confides that he is a \"notorious liar\" whom she tolerates only because of his association with Bertram. The conversation between the two, saturated in polite obscenity, gives the audience a clear view of the play's heroine as someone who is not so romantic and frail that she cannot survive in the gritty world of court sexuality. Parolles argues conventionally that virginity is nonsensical since it goes against nature and since it condemns, as it were, its own mother, and furthermore, he says that it loses its value proportionately with age. Helena can bandy easily enough with this affected man of the world and can ask in her own private interest, \"How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?\" But her mind is fixed on Bertram, for he will soon appear at court in Paris. Notice the way that her lines are broken to indicate breathlessness and distraction as she imagines Bertram there amidst pretty mistresses: . . . with a world of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms that blinking Cupid gossips . Now shall he -- I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court's a learning place, and he is one -- Helena insults Parolles, calling him a coward and an overdressed fool, and he beats a hasty retreat. Her feistiness is evident. Helena's second soliloquy differs from the first in its view of fate. Now the focus is on individual determination. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. The exchange between Helena and Parolles seems to have had the effect of bolstering her courage."}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1

At the opening of this play, the main figures of the plot are weighed down with thoughts of two recent deaths. "Young Bertram," the Count of Rousillon , has lost his father, as has Helena, the beautiful daughter of a famed physician, Gerard de Narbon, "whose skill was almost as great as his honesty." Bertram's mother is further distressed that she must say farewell to her son, now a ward of the ailing king of France. Opening the play, she exclaims: "In delivering my son from me , I bury a second husband." As an older lord and a close family friend, Lafeu assures the Countess that in the king she shall find someone as good as a second husband for herself and a second father for Bertram. Once mother and son have said their goodbyes and he has departed, Helena delivers a soliloquy in which she reveals a double reason for her sadness. "I am undone; there is no living, none, if Bertram be away." A "follower" of Bertram, named Parolles, interrupts her and engages her in an extended dialogue on the subject of virginity. He pledges that he will "return a perfect courtier" from Paris, where he is about to go with Bertram. A second soliloquy, this time by Helena, reveals her to be resolute in her pledge to pursue her unlikely attempt at capturing Bertram's heart: " . . . my project may deceive me, but my intents are fixed, and will not leave me."

A gloomy mood at the opening of the play is often customary for a Shakespearean comedy. But amidst the general lamentation over departures and deaths, there is some emotional ambiguity which sets a tone for this "problem play," as All's Well has been called by some critics. Lafeu remarks on Helena's tears at the Countess' praise, whereupon the older woman kindly says that Helena must not cry lest people think that she is "affecting" or putting on her sad demeanor. Helena's answer -- "I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too" -- seems puzzling, until we learn in her soliloquy that she is crying for the sake of her unacknowledged lover, and not for her deceased father. Helena keeps to herself much of the time, partly because she may be embarrassed at the feelings she has for a person beyond her station, socially. In the first moments of the play, she is uneasy, aware that Bertram is "so far above me." One wonders what Bertram's feelings in this first scene may be. Though some editors have disputed the placement of Lafeu's second line in the following exchange, it seems possible that the wise, older gentleman is reacting to Bertram's abruptness in cutting off his mother's speech. Lafeu: Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, Excessive grief the enemy to the living. Countess: If the living be enemy to the grief, The excess makes it soon mortal. Bertram: Madam, I desire your holy wishes. Lafeu: How understand we that? There is something of a gentle hand slap in the tone of Lafeu's last line. Bertram may be speaking rudely, overstepping the quite normal impatience of a young man about to leave home for a more adventuresome life in Paris. Consider for yourself if this line -- "How understand we that?" -- makes sense here, or if it might better fit in just before the words "moderate lamentation," where some editors place it. There is an abrupt shift in tone at Parolles' entrance. Helena confides that he is a "notorious liar" whom she tolerates only because of his association with Bertram. The conversation between the two, saturated in polite obscenity, gives the audience a clear view of the play's heroine as someone who is not so romantic and frail that she cannot survive in the gritty world of court sexuality. Parolles argues conventionally that virginity is nonsensical since it goes against nature and since it condemns, as it were, its own mother, and furthermore, he says that it loses its value proportionately with age. Helena can bandy easily enough with this affected man of the world and can ask in her own private interest, "How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?" But her mind is fixed on Bertram, for he will soon appear at court in Paris. Notice the way that her lines are broken to indicate breathlessness and distraction as she imagines Bertram there amidst pretty mistresses: . . . with a world of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms that blinking Cupid gossips . Now shall he -- I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court's a learning place, and he is one -- Helena insults Parolles, calling him a coward and an overdressed fool, and he beats a hasty retreat. Her feistiness is evident. Helena's second soliloquy differs from the first in its view of fate. Now the focus is on individual determination. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. The exchange between Helena and Parolles seems to have had the effect of bolstering her courage.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_3_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 2.scene 1

act 2

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1", "summary": "In Paris, the king wishes his young warriors well as they leave for the Italian wars: \" . . . be you the sons! Of worthy Frenchmen . . . see that you come / Not to woo honor, but to wed it.\" He adds a sly note to \"beware the Italian women!\" Bertram, who is unhappy that he must linger behind -- and be told that he is \"too young\" and that he must wait until \"the next year\" -- succumbs to Parolles' and the other lords' urging to steal away on his own, for \"there's honour in the theft.\" Lafeu and the king now exchange formal greetings, and the Rousillon elder statesman politely urges the king to shake off despair: . . . O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will my noble grapes . . . if my royal fox Could reach them. I have seen a medicine That's able to breathe life into a stone. Soon, Lafeu introduces Helena, \"Doctor She,\" who explains her presence and describes her deceased father's special cure: And, hearing your high majesty is touched With that malignant cause wherein the honor Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it and my appliance With all bound humbleness. After a short debate between himself and Helena, the king decides to give her a chance to cure him. She offers her life as the penalty should she fail; and as the reward for success: Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand With husband in thy power I will command. The sickly king, amazed by this bold young woman, agrees, and then he asks to be helped from the stage: Unquestioned, welcome and undoubted blest. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.", "analysis": "The framework of this scene provides insights into the two central characters, although Bertram and Helena are not seen together. There is something puppyish about Bertram; his feelings are hurt deeply because the rest of the young noblemen are riding off to battle while he must remain behind. Shakespeare paints a picture of youthful petulance and malleability in this part of the scene, as Parolles acts as a tempter and as a bad influence to Bertram. His advice is to ignore the king's command and, furthermore, to study the ways of the courtly gentlemen and soldiers in order to become a perfectly fashionable man of the world -- presumably like Parolles himself. Of course, the audience can see right through Parolles' bombast. One imagines the other noblemen urging Bertram and Parolles into their company with their tongues tucked firmly into their cheeks. Parolles typically stresses fashion when talking to his companion: \"Be more expressive to them, for they wear themselves in the cap of time; there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.\" The reference here to \"devil\" is Shakespeare's way of underlining a similarity in this situation to the \"prodigal son\" stories in the Bible and other traditional sources. Consider Helena's behavior in the latter section of the scene. As a woman, she is conventionally conceived of as being frail; the thought of her being a professional is absurd; and the notion that she -- a mere woman -- could cure a king would normally be beyond imagining. Nevertheless, she overcomes the king's doubts, which are, given his time, reasonable enough. He fears that people will think that he's downright dotty if it were known that a \"maiden\" is attending him as a physician: I say we must not so stain our judgment or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady to empirics , Or to dissever so our great self and our credit, To esteem a senseless help, when help past sense we deem. Using her skill of rhetoric, larded with aphoristic remarks like, Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. Helena finally sways the king to give her a chance. Perhaps she nudges him over the edge by hinting that she is a divine emissary: But most it is presumption in us when The help of Heaven we count the act of men. Some critics have observed a trace of the fairy tale formula in this section of the play, in which the young virgin \"magically\" cures an ailing king. This may be so, but one cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer doggedness of Shakespeare's heroine. Her effort of will commands the end of the scene, contrasting with Bertram's jellyfish compliance at its opening."}

Actus Secundus. Enter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the Florentine warre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets. King. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles Doe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell: Share the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all The guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd, And is enough for both Lord.G. 'Tis our hope sir, After well entred souldiers, to returne And finde your grace in health King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confesse he owes the mallady That doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords, Whether I liue or die, be you the sonnes Of worthy French men: let higher Italy (Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last Monarchy) see that you come Not to wooe honour, but to wed it, when The brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke, That fame may cry you loud: I say farewell L.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty King. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them, They say our French, lacke language to deny If they demand: beware of being Captiues Before you serue Bo. Our hearts receiue your warnings King. Farewell, come hether to me 1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs Parr. 'Tis not his fault the spark 2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres Parr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres Rossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with, Too young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early Parr. And thy minde stand too't boy, Steale away brauely Rossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke, Creeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry, Till honour be bought vp, and no sword worne But one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away 1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft Parr. Commit it Count 2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell Ros. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body 1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine 2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles Parr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne, good sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You shall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine Spurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on his sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it: say to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me Lo.G. We shall noble Captaine Parr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will ye doe? Ross. Stay the King Parr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble Lords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of too cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they weare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster true gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of the most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell Ross. And I will doe so Parr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie sword-men. Exeunt. Enter Lafew. L.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings King. Ile see thee to stand vp L.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon, I would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand vp King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate And askt thee mercy for't Laf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus, Will you be cur'd of your infirmitie? King. No Laf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe? Yes but you will, my noble grapes, and if My royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine That's able to breath life into a stone, Quicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari With sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch Is powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay To giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand And write to her a loue-line King. What her is this? Laf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd, If you will see her: now by my faith and honour, If seriously I may conuay my thoughts In this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke With one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession, Wisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more Then I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her? For that is her demand, and know her businesse? That done, laugh well at me King. Now good Lafew, Bring in the admiration, that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondring how thou tookst it Laf. Nay, Ile fit you, And not be all day neither King. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues Laf. Nay, come your waies. Enter Hellen. King. This haste hath wings indeed Laf. Nay, come your waies, This is his Maiestie, say your minde to him, A Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors His Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle, That dare leaue two together, far you well. Enter. King. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs? Hel. I my good Lord, Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did professe, well found King. I knew him Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him, Knowing him is enough: on's bed of death, Many receits he gaue me, chieflie one, Which as the dearest issue of his practice And of his olde experience, th' onlie darling, He bad me store vp, as a triple eye, Safer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so, And hearing your high Maiestie is toucht With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humblenesse King. We thanke you maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and The congregated Colledge haue concluded, That labouring Art can neuer ransome nature From her inaydible estate: I say we must not So staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malladie To empericks, or to disseuer so Our great selfe and our credit, to esteeme A sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme Hell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines: I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly intreating from your royall thoughts, A modest one to beare me backe againe King. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull: Thou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue, As one neere death to those that wish him liue: But what at full I know, thou knowst no part, I knowing all my perill, thou no Art Hell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try, Since you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie: He that of greatest workes is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne, When Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne From simple sources: and great Seas haue dried When Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied. Oft expectation failes, and most oft there Where most it promises: and oft it hits, Where hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts King. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide, Thy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid, Proffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward Hel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard, It is not so with him that all things knowes As 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes: But most it is presumption in vs, when The help of heauen we count the act of men. Deare sir, to my endeauors giue consent, Of heauen, not me, make an experiment. I am not an Imposture, that proclaime My selfe against the leuill of mine aime, But know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure, My Art is not past power, nor you past cure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sunne shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnall ring, Ere twice in murke and occidentall dampe Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe: Or foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse Hath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe: What is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie, Health shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye King. Vpon thy certainty and confidence, What dar'st thou venter? Hell. Taxe of impudence, A strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name Seard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended Kin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerfull sound, within an organ weake: And what impossibility would slay In common sence, sence saues another way: Thy life is deere, for all that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all That happines and prime, can happy call: Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate, Sweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try, That ministers thine owne death if I die Hel. If I breake time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, vnpittied let me die, And well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee, But if I helpe, what doe you promise me Kin. Make thy demand Hel. But will you make it euen? Kin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe Hel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royall bloud of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state: But such a one thy vassall, whom I know Is free for me to aske, thee to bestow Kin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd, Thy will by my performance shall be seru'd: So make the choice of thy owne time, for I Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye: More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know, could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest Vnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest. Giue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed, As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. Florish. Exit. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Lady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height of your breeding Clown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly taught, I know my businesse is but to the Court Lady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall, when you put off that with such contempt, but to the Court? Clo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners, hee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot make a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing, has neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the Court, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men Lady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all questions Clo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes, the pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke, or any buttocke Lady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney, as your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as Tibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday, a Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole, the Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a wrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth, nay as the pudding to his skin Lady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for all questions? Clo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable, it will fit any question Lady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands Clo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned should speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs to't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no harme to learne Lady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a foole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer La. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier? Clo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them La. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you Clo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me La. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely meate Clo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you La. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke Clo. O Lord sir, spare not me La. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and spare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping: you would answere very well to a whipping if you were but bound too't Clo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord sir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer La. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine it so merrily with a foole Clo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen La. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this, And vrge her to a present answer backe, Commend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne, This is not much Clo. Not much commendation to them La. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand me Clo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges La. Hast you agen. Exeunt. Enter Count, Lafew, and Parolles. Ol.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our Philosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar things supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming knowledge, when we should submit our selues to an vnknowne feare Par. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that hath shot out in our latter times Ros. And so 'tis Ol.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists Par. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus Ol.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes Par. Right so I say Ol.Laf. That gaue him out incureable Par. Why there 'tis, so say I too Ol.Laf. Not to be help'd Par. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a- Ol.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death Par. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said Ol.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world Par. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you shall reade it in what do ye call there Ol.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly Actor Par. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same Ol.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee I speake in respect- Par. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the breefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the- Ol.Laf. Very hand of heauen Par. I, so I say Ol.Laf. In a most weake- Par. And debile minister great power, great trancendence, which should indeede giue vs a further vse to be made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee Old Laf. Generally thankfull. Enter King, Hellen, and attendants. Par. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes the King Ol.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a maide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why he's able to leade her a Carranto Par. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen? Ol.Laf. Fore God I thinke so King. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court, Sit my preseruer by thy patients side, And with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue The confirmation of my promis'd guift, Which but attends thy naming. Enter 3 or 4 Lords. Faire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell Of Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing, Ore whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice I haue to vse; thy franke election make, Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake Hel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris; Fall when loue please, marry to each but one Old Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture My mouth no more were broken then these boyes, And writ as little beard King. Peruse them well: Not one of those, but had a Noble father. She addresses her to a Lord. Hel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd the king to health All. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you Hel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest That I protest, I simply am a Maide: Please it your Maiestie, I haue done already: The blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee, We blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused; Let the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer, Wee'l nere come there againe King. Make choise and see, Who shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee Hel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly, And to imperiall loue, that God most high Do my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite? 1.Lo. And grant it Hel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute Ol.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw Ames-ace for my life Hel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes, Before I speake too threatningly replies: Loue make your fortunes twentie times aboue Her that so wishes, and her humble loue 2.Lo. No better if you please Hel. My wish receiue, Which great loue grant, and so I take my leaue Ol.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons of mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them to'th Turke to make Eunuches of Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take, Ile neuer do you wrong for your owne sake: Blessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed Finde fairer fortune, if you euer wed Old Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none haue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the French nere got em La. You are too young, too happie, and too good To make your selfe a sonne out of my blood 4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so Ol.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father drunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth of fourteene: I haue knowne thee already Hel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue Me and my seruice, euer whilst I liue Into your guiding power: This is the man King. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy wife Ber. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes In such a busines, giue me leaue to vse The helpe of mine owne eies King. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's done for mee? Ber. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know why I should marrie her King. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly bed Ber. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe Must answer for your raising? I knowe her well: Shee had her breeding at my fathers charge: A poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine Rather corrupt me euer King. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which I can build vp: strange is it that our bloods Of colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction: yet stands off In differences so mightie. If she bee All that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st) A poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st Of vertue for the name: but doe not so: From lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th' doers deede. Where great additions swell's, and vertue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone, Is good without a name? Vilenesse is so: The propertie by what is is, should go, Not by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire, In these, to Nature shee's immediate heire: And these breed honour: that is honours scorne, Which challenges it selfe as honours borne, And is not like the sire: Honours thriue, When rather from our acts we them deriue Then our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue Debosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue: A lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe, Where dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe. Of honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide? If thou canst like this creature, as a maide, I can create the rest: Vertue, and shee Is her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee Ber. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't King. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue to choose Hel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad: Let the rest go King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so ennobled, Is as 'twere borne so King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat Ber. I take her hand Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre. Exeunt. Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding. Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you Par. Your pleasure sir Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master? Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake? Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master? Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion? Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which title age cannot bring thee Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple Par. Well, I shall be wiser Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation Laf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Enter. Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Enter Lafew. Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master Laf. Who? God Par. I sir Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Exit Enter Count Rossillion. Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer Par. What's the matter sweet-heart? Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her Par. What? what sweet heart? Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure? Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me. Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow Par. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard A yong man maried, is a man that's mard: Therefore away, and leaue her brauely: go, The King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so. Exit Enter Helena and Clowne. Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well? Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's very merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen she's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but yet she is not well Hel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's not verie well? Clo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things Hel. What two things? Clo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send her quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly. Enter Parolles. Par. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie Hel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine owne good fortune Par. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to keepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's my old Ladie? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say Par. Why I say nothing Clo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans tongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie little of nothing Par. Away, th'art a knaue Clo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a knaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene truth sir Par. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found thee Clo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you taught to finde me? Clo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole may you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the encrease of laughter Par. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed. Madam, my Lord will go awaie to night, A verie serrious businesse call's on him: The great prerogatiue and rite of loue, Which as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge, But puts it off to a compell'd restraint: Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets Which they distill now in the curbed time, To make the comming houre oreflow with ioy, And pleasure drowne the brim Hel. What's his will else? Par. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king, And make this hast as your owne good proceeding, Strengthned with what Apologie you thinke May make it probable neede Hel. What more commands hee? Par. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie Attend his further pleasure Hel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will Par. I shall report it so. Exit Par. Hell. I pray you come sirrah. Exit Enter Lafew and Bertram. Laf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a souldier Ber. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe Laf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance Ber. And by other warranted testimonie Laf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke for a bunting Ber. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge, and accordinglie valiant Laf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and transgrest against his valour, and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent: Heere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue the amitie. Enter Parolles. Par. These things shall be done sir Laf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor? Par. Sir? Laf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman, a verie good Tailor Ber. Is shee gone to the king? Par. Shee is Ber. Will shee away to night? Par. As you'le haue her Ber. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure, Giuen order for our horses, and to night, When I should take possession of the Bride, And ere I doe begin Laf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end of a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a known truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should bee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine Ber. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and you Monsieur? Par. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my Lords displeasure Laf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and spurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and out of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question for your residence Ber. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord Laf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's prayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of me, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule of this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of heauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know their natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better of you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but we must do good against euill Par. An idle Lord, I sweare Ber. I thinke so Par. Why do you not know him? Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech Giues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you Spoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue For present parting, onely he desires Some priuate speech with you Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not meruaile Helen at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration, and required office On my particular. Prepar'd I was not For such a businesse, therefore am I found So much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you, That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse then aske why I intreate you, For my respects are better then they seeme, And my appointments haue in them a neede Greater then shewes it selfe at the first view, To you that know them not. This to my mother, 'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so I leaue you to your wisedome Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient seruant Ber. Come, come, no more of that Hel. And euer shall With true obseruance seeke to eeke out that Wherein toward me my homely starres haue faild To equall my great fortune Ber. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell: Hie home Hel. Pray sir your pardon Ber. Well, what would you say? Hel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is, But like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale What law does vouch mine owne Ber. What would you haue? Hel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed, I would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes, Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse Ber. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse Hel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord: Where are my other men? Monsieur, farwell. Exit Ber. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come, Whilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme: Away, and for our flight Par. Brauely, Coragio.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1

In Paris, the king wishes his young warriors well as they leave for the Italian wars: " . . . be you the sons! Of worthy Frenchmen . . . see that you come / Not to woo honor, but to wed it." He adds a sly note to "beware the Italian women!" Bertram, who is unhappy that he must linger behind -- and be told that he is "too young" and that he must wait until "the next year" -- succumbs to Parolles' and the other lords' urging to steal away on his own, for "there's honour in the theft." Lafeu and the king now exchange formal greetings, and the Rousillon elder statesman politely urges the king to shake off despair: . . . O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will my noble grapes . . . if my royal fox Could reach them. I have seen a medicine That's able to breathe life into a stone. Soon, Lafeu introduces Helena, "Doctor She," who explains her presence and describes her deceased father's special cure: And, hearing your high majesty is touched With that malignant cause wherein the honor Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it and my appliance With all bound humbleness. After a short debate between himself and Helena, the king decides to give her a chance to cure him. She offers her life as the penalty should she fail; and as the reward for success: Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand With husband in thy power I will command. The sickly king, amazed by this bold young woman, agrees, and then he asks to be helped from the stage: Unquestioned, welcome and undoubted blest. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.

The framework of this scene provides insights into the two central characters, although Bertram and Helena are not seen together. There is something puppyish about Bertram; his feelings are hurt deeply because the rest of the young noblemen are riding off to battle while he must remain behind. Shakespeare paints a picture of youthful petulance and malleability in this part of the scene, as Parolles acts as a tempter and as a bad influence to Bertram. His advice is to ignore the king's command and, furthermore, to study the ways of the courtly gentlemen and soldiers in order to become a perfectly fashionable man of the world -- presumably like Parolles himself. Of course, the audience can see right through Parolles' bombast. One imagines the other noblemen urging Bertram and Parolles into their company with their tongues tucked firmly into their cheeks. Parolles typically stresses fashion when talking to his companion: "Be more expressive to them, for they wear themselves in the cap of time; there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell." The reference here to "devil" is Shakespeare's way of underlining a similarity in this situation to the "prodigal son" stories in the Bible and other traditional sources. Consider Helena's behavior in the latter section of the scene. As a woman, she is conventionally conceived of as being frail; the thought of her being a professional is absurd; and the notion that she -- a mere woman -- could cure a king would normally be beyond imagining. Nevertheless, she overcomes the king's doubts, which are, given his time, reasonable enough. He fears that people will think that he's downright dotty if it were known that a "maiden" is attending him as a physician: I say we must not so stain our judgment or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady to empirics , Or to dissever so our great self and our credit, To esteem a senseless help, when help past sense we deem. Using her skill of rhetoric, larded with aphoristic remarks like, Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. Helena finally sways the king to give her a chance. Perhaps she nudges him over the edge by hinting that she is a divine emissary: But most it is presumption in us when The help of Heaven we count the act of men. Some critics have observed a trace of the fairy tale formula in this section of the play, in which the young virgin "magically" cures an ailing king. This may be so, but one cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer doggedness of Shakespeare's heroine. Her effort of will commands the end of the scene, contrasting with Bertram's jellyfish compliance at its opening.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_7_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3

{"name": "Scenes 1-2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scenes-12", "summary": "In twenty-three lines, Shakespeare introduces the city of Florence, Italy, to the play while that city's duke puzzles aloud to a French nobleman about the king of France's neutrality in the Italian wars. The French lord concurs: \"Holy seems the quarrel / Upon your Grace's part; black and fearful / On the opposer.\" In Scene 2, the clown has returned to Rousillon, where he delivers a letter from Bertram to his mother advising her that he has run away from his marriage; in the letter, he says: \"If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance.\" This upsets the Countess: \"This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, / To fly the favours of so good a King.\" Helena's distress, when she reads Bertram's letter to her, compounds the feeling. She labels his note a \"passport\" -- that is, a license to beg on the open road -- and says that it is a \"dreadful sentence.\" When thou canst get the ring upon my finger,Which never shall come off, and show me a childBegotten of thy body that I am father to, then callMe husband; but in such a \"then\" I write a \"Never.\" The Countess disavows Bertram as her son and then asks whether or not he is still traveling in the company of Parolles, the \"very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.\" The scene ends with a monologue by Helena, who vows to leave France to clear the way for Bertram to return home from the dangerous wars: No; come thou home, Rousillon,Whence honor but of danger wins a scar,As oft it loses all. I will be gone, -- My being here it is that holds thee hence.Shall I stay here to do it? No, no.", "analysis": "No doubt the clown has altered his appearance, somewhat, to be like the fashionable set that he mingled with in Paris. His attitude toward \"mere provincials\" has taken a radical turn too. Isbel was the wench whom he begged permission to marry in Act I, but now, I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court.Our old lings and ourIsbels o'th' country are nothing like yourOld lings, and your Isbels o' th' court. The Countess, for her part, responds to her \"altered\" son, young Bertram. Note the number of times that he is referred to by her and others as a \"boy,\" implying immaturity. She cannot understand his disobedience to the king in refusing to honor Helena, especially since Helena is such a fine person. The Countess' words are meant to assuage poor Helena's grief, but they seem harsh to her son: I prithee, lady, have a better cheer.If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,Thou robb'st me of a moiety . He was my son,But I do wash his name out of my bloodAnd thou art all my child. The \"dreadful sentence\" which Helena reads conjures up further associations with fairy tales and stories of legend. Here, one should remember the reference to the archetypal \"curing of the king\" story earlier in the play. Shakespeare uses a tradition in which a beleaguered bride must accomplish several \"impossible\" tasks, or overcome a number of severe trials in order to prove herself, and win the love of the man whom she loves. The plot elements in the rest of the play hinge on this \"sentence,\" as Helena sets out to solve the riddle and overcome the obstacles which Bertram has set. She must get the ring from his finger , and she must also become pregnant -- despite Bertram's avowed dislike of her. In a play which has far fewer passages of sheer poetic beauty than we have come to expect from Shakespeare, Helena's soliloquy here, expressing her torment, stands out even if it does use fairly commonplace metaphors: And is it I that drive thee from the sportive court, Where thou wast shot at with fair eyes, To be the mark of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim, move the still-peering air That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!"}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

Scenes 1-2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scenes-12

In twenty-three lines, Shakespeare introduces the city of Florence, Italy, to the play while that city's duke puzzles aloud to a French nobleman about the king of France's neutrality in the Italian wars. The French lord concurs: "Holy seems the quarrel / Upon your Grace's part; black and fearful / On the opposer." In Scene 2, the clown has returned to Rousillon, where he delivers a letter from Bertram to his mother advising her that he has run away from his marriage; in the letter, he says: "If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance." This upsets the Countess: "This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, / To fly the favours of so good a King." Helena's distress, when she reads Bertram's letter to her, compounds the feeling. She labels his note a "passport" -- that is, a license to beg on the open road -- and says that it is a "dreadful sentence." When thou canst get the ring upon my finger,Which never shall come off, and show me a childBegotten of thy body that I am father to, then callMe husband; but in such a "then" I write a "Never." The Countess disavows Bertram as her son and then asks whether or not he is still traveling in the company of Parolles, the "very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness." The scene ends with a monologue by Helena, who vows to leave France to clear the way for Bertram to return home from the dangerous wars: No; come thou home, Rousillon,Whence honor but of danger wins a scar,As oft it loses all. I will be gone, -- My being here it is that holds thee hence.Shall I stay here to do it? No, no.

No doubt the clown has altered his appearance, somewhat, to be like the fashionable set that he mingled with in Paris. His attitude toward "mere provincials" has taken a radical turn too. Isbel was the wench whom he begged permission to marry in Act I, but now, I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court.Our old lings and ourIsbels o'th' country are nothing like yourOld lings, and your Isbels o' th' court. The Countess, for her part, responds to her "altered" son, young Bertram. Note the number of times that he is referred to by her and others as a "boy," implying immaturity. She cannot understand his disobedience to the king in refusing to honor Helena, especially since Helena is such a fine person. The Countess' words are meant to assuage poor Helena's grief, but they seem harsh to her son: I prithee, lady, have a better cheer.If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,Thou robb'st me of a moiety . He was my son,But I do wash his name out of my bloodAnd thou art all my child. The "dreadful sentence" which Helena reads conjures up further associations with fairy tales and stories of legend. Here, one should remember the reference to the archetypal "curing of the king" story earlier in the play. Shakespeare uses a tradition in which a beleaguered bride must accomplish several "impossible" tasks, or overcome a number of severe trials in order to prove herself, and win the love of the man whom she loves. The plot elements in the rest of the play hinge on this "sentence," as Helena sets out to solve the riddle and overcome the obstacles which Bertram has set. She must get the ring from his finger , and she must also become pregnant -- despite Bertram's avowed dislike of her. In a play which has far fewer passages of sheer poetic beauty than we have come to expect from Shakespeare, Helena's soliloquy here, expressing her torment, stands out even if it does use fairly commonplace metaphors: And is it I that drive thee from the sportive court, Where thou wast shot at with fair eyes, To be the mark of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim, move the still-peering air That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_11_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scene 1

act 4

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1", "summary": "One of the French lords and a band of soldiers set a trap for Parolles as previously planned. They capture and blindfold him and speak in a hilarious nonsense language which he takes to be Russian -- that is, \"Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.\" To save his life, Parolles, as predicted, immediately volunteers to betray anyone and anything: Oh, let me live! And all the secrets of our camp I'll show, Their force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that Which you will wonder at.", "analysis": "For Parolles, the Falstaffian mock-motto, \"Discretion is the better part of valor,\" seems to apply. There is no real surprise in his behavior, although his captors marvel at his self-knowledge: Parolles: What shall I say I have done? It must be a veryPlausive invention that carries it.They begin to smoke me , anddisgracesHave of late knocked too often at my door.I find My tongue is too foolhardy.First Lord : This is the first truth that e'er thine ownTongue was guilty of.Second Lord: Is it possible he should know what he is, andBe that he is? There is a sly joke embedded in this scene, in which the \"man of words\" is tricked by a plot which makes use of some assorted syllables of a gobbledygook language that Parolles thinks is Russian."}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1

One of the French lords and a band of soldiers set a trap for Parolles as previously planned. They capture and blindfold him and speak in a hilarious nonsense language which he takes to be Russian -- that is, "Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo." To save his life, Parolles, as predicted, immediately volunteers to betray anyone and anything: Oh, let me live! And all the secrets of our camp I'll show, Their force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that Which you will wonder at.

For Parolles, the Falstaffian mock-motto, "Discretion is the better part of valor," seems to apply. There is no real surprise in his behavior, although his captors marvel at his self-knowledge: Parolles: What shall I say I have done? It must be a veryPlausive invention that carries it.They begin to smoke me , anddisgracesHave of late knocked too often at my door.I find My tongue is too foolhardy.First Lord : This is the first truth that e'er thine ownTongue was guilty of.Second Lord: Is it possible he should know what he is, andBe that he is? There is a sly joke embedded in this scene, in which the "man of words" is tricked by a plot which makes use of some assorted syllables of a gobbledygook language that Parolles thinks is Russian.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_15_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5

{"name": "Scenes 1-2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-12", "summary": "Helena, the widow and Diana are in pursuit of the king, whom they know to have traveled to Marseilles. Once there, they learn from a gentleman that the king has left in haste for Rousillon. Helena asks him to speed ahead with a message for the king. In Rousillon, Parolles is begging the clown to deliver a letter of his own to Lafeu, when that gentleman appears. After teasing Parolles about his fallen status, Lafeu shows pity and bids Parolles to follow him to the count's palace , saying, \"Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat.\"", "analysis": "Noteworthy here is the clown's relish in teasing Parolles with numerous scatological references to the \"stench\" he finds himself in with Fortune and society -- \"Fortune's close-stool\" and \"a purn of Fortune\" -- and Lafeu's contrasting good-humored forgiveness of the knavish fellow."}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

Scenes 1-2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-12

Helena, the widow and Diana are in pursuit of the king, whom they know to have traveled to Marseilles. Once there, they learn from a gentleman that the king has left in haste for Rousillon. Helena asks him to speed ahead with a message for the king. In Rousillon, Parolles is begging the clown to deliver a letter of his own to Lafeu, when that gentleman appears. After teasing Parolles about his fallen status, Lafeu shows pity and bids Parolles to follow him to the count's palace , saying, "Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat."

Noteworthy here is the clown's relish in teasing Parolles with numerous scatological references to the "stench" he finds himself in with Fortune and society -- "Fortune's close-stool" and "a purn of Fortune" -- and Lafeu's contrasting good-humored forgiveness of the knavish fellow.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_1_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scenes 1-3

act 1, scenes 1-3

{"name": "Act I, Scenes i-iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section1/", "summary": "Helena, the daughter of a famous doctor, has been the ward of the Countess of Rousillon, a wise and kindly old noblewoman, since her father's death. The Countess' husband has also recently died, and her son Count Bertram, a brave, handsome, but callow young man, is sent to serve the King of France, his liege lord. . Helena is in love with Bertram, but hopelessly, since he is a nobleman and she a commoner. As he departs for the King's Court, she banters with Parolles, an unsavory character who has managed to gain Bertram's ear despite being a liar and a coward. They discuss chastity in coarse terms, with Parolles recommending that she find a husband and lose her virginity quickly. As they speak Helena conceives a plan that she hopes will gain her the hand of Bertram. Bertram arrives at the King's court, where the cautious monarch has recently decided to stay out of a war involving Austria and the Duke of Florence--with the caveat that any French noblemen who wish to involve themselves in the conflict are free to go. Greeting Bertram, the King laments the loss of the young man's father, and then remarks that he wishes Helena's father were still living, because only such a great doctor could now save his life. Meanwhile, in Rousillon, the Countess walks about and chats with the coarse, bawdy Clown who once served her husband. Her Steward joins them and informs the Countess that he overheard Helena declaring her love for Bertram; the noblewoman sends for her ward immediately. After much dissembling, Helena admits to loving the Countess' son, and then immediately declares her plan to go to the King's palace and offer her services as a doctor, using the medical knowledge that her father taught her. The Countess, while expressing her doubts that the King and the royal doctors will accept the help of a young woman, gives her blessing, and sends Helena on her way.", "analysis": "Commentary The play opens on a dark, somber note: as Bertram departs, his mother recalls her husband's passing, and Bertram comments that \"I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew.\" Lafew, the wise old nobleman, makes an attempt at comforting them by saying that the King will act as a husband and father to the family, but this only leads into a discussion of the King's illness, and how he has abandoned all hope of a cure--which, in turn, leads them to speak of the recent death of Helena's father. This conversation is useful to the audience, since it fills in the background details before the action of the play begins, but its heavy emphasis on illness and death casts a pall over the scene. Indeed, the entire older generation in All's Well That Ends Well is nearing death--the King, the Countess, and Lafew are all figures of wisdom, offering sage advice to the headstrong young, but they are also figures of decay and decrepitude. The Countess and Lafew speak repeatedly of their own feebleness and impending deaths; the King's life will be saved by Helena, but it is clearly only a reprieve, and he seems to lack energy, especially in his refusal to take part in the war that so many of his young nobles flock to join. In sum, the play presents a \"generation gap\"--a stark contrast between the weakness of the older generation and the vitality of the younger characters . The shadow that mortality casts on the action is one reason why this play has often been termed a \"problem comedy,\" or \"dark comedy.\" Another reason is the nature of the younger generation, who are poised to inherit from their wiser, aging elders. Bertram, the supposed romantic hero, possesses most of the appropriate attributes--everyone admits that he is handsome, dashing, and brave, and certainly, Helena speaks highly of him, describing his \"bright radiance and collateral light / . . . His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls\" in the glowing terms of a would-be lover. But, significantly, she only mentions, and we only observe, the superficial qualities of the man. When he shows his true colors later, his image will be tarnished significantly. Helena, meanwhile, is more appealing--her worth is evident despite her low birth--and already her resourcefulness is on display as she assumes the male role of physician and plans a journey to Paris. But her fixation on Bertram, while determined, will come to seem almost monomaniacal--it is her defining character trait, in the end. Her love, she admits, is a kind of \"idolatrous fancy,\" but she will not release her hold on it. There is a bitter edge to her humor, too, a coarseness that other Shakespearean heroines lack; her conversation with Parolles, filled with sexual innuendo, displays a cynicism about relations between the sexes that is seems jarring coming from a romantic heroine. The cynicism is appropriate to Parolles, of course, who seems cast as the villain in the early going. Eventually, his essential harmlessness will be revealed--he is a minor rogue, whose boasts and lies are dangerous, but not deadly."}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

Act I, Scenes i-iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section1/

Helena, the daughter of a famous doctor, has been the ward of the Countess of Rousillon, a wise and kindly old noblewoman, since her father's death. The Countess' husband has also recently died, and her son Count Bertram, a brave, handsome, but callow young man, is sent to serve the King of France, his liege lord. . Helena is in love with Bertram, but hopelessly, since he is a nobleman and she a commoner. As he departs for the King's Court, she banters with Parolles, an unsavory character who has managed to gain Bertram's ear despite being a liar and a coward. They discuss chastity in coarse terms, with Parolles recommending that she find a husband and lose her virginity quickly. As they speak Helena conceives a plan that she hopes will gain her the hand of Bertram. Bertram arrives at the King's court, where the cautious monarch has recently decided to stay out of a war involving Austria and the Duke of Florence--with the caveat that any French noblemen who wish to involve themselves in the conflict are free to go. Greeting Bertram, the King laments the loss of the young man's father, and then remarks that he wishes Helena's father were still living, because only such a great doctor could now save his life. Meanwhile, in Rousillon, the Countess walks about and chats with the coarse, bawdy Clown who once served her husband. Her Steward joins them and informs the Countess that he overheard Helena declaring her love for Bertram; the noblewoman sends for her ward immediately. After much dissembling, Helena admits to loving the Countess' son, and then immediately declares her plan to go to the King's palace and offer her services as a doctor, using the medical knowledge that her father taught her. The Countess, while expressing her doubts that the King and the royal doctors will accept the help of a young woman, gives her blessing, and sends Helena on her way.

Commentary The play opens on a dark, somber note: as Bertram departs, his mother recalls her husband's passing, and Bertram comments that "I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew." Lafew, the wise old nobleman, makes an attempt at comforting them by saying that the King will act as a husband and father to the family, but this only leads into a discussion of the King's illness, and how he has abandoned all hope of a cure--which, in turn, leads them to speak of the recent death of Helena's father. This conversation is useful to the audience, since it fills in the background details before the action of the play begins, but its heavy emphasis on illness and death casts a pall over the scene. Indeed, the entire older generation in All's Well That Ends Well is nearing death--the King, the Countess, and Lafew are all figures of wisdom, offering sage advice to the headstrong young, but they are also figures of decay and decrepitude. The Countess and Lafew speak repeatedly of their own feebleness and impending deaths; the King's life will be saved by Helena, but it is clearly only a reprieve, and he seems to lack energy, especially in his refusal to take part in the war that so many of his young nobles flock to join. In sum, the play presents a "generation gap"--a stark contrast between the weakness of the older generation and the vitality of the younger characters . The shadow that mortality casts on the action is one reason why this play has often been termed a "problem comedy," or "dark comedy." Another reason is the nature of the younger generation, who are poised to inherit from their wiser, aging elders. Bertram, the supposed romantic hero, possesses most of the appropriate attributes--everyone admits that he is handsome, dashing, and brave, and certainly, Helena speaks highly of him, describing his "bright radiance and collateral light / . . . His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls" in the glowing terms of a would-be lover. But, significantly, she only mentions, and we only observe, the superficial qualities of the man. When he shows his true colors later, his image will be tarnished significantly. Helena, meanwhile, is more appealing--her worth is evident despite her low birth--and already her resourcefulness is on display as she assumes the male role of physician and plans a journey to Paris. But her fixation on Bertram, while determined, will come to seem almost monomaniacal--it is her defining character trait, in the end. Her love, she admits, is a kind of "idolatrous fancy," but she will not release her hold on it. There is a bitter edge to her humor, too, a coarseness that other Shakespearean heroines lack; her conversation with Parolles, filled with sexual innuendo, displays a cynicism about relations between the sexes that is seems jarring coming from a romantic heroine. The cynicism is appropriate to Parolles, of course, who seems cast as the villain in the early going. Eventually, his essential harmlessness will be revealed--he is a minor rogue, whose boasts and lies are dangerous, but not deadly.

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All's Well That Ends Well.act 2.scene 1

act 2, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell16.asp", "summary": "This scene opens in the King's palace in Paris. The King is accompanied by Bertram, Parolles, and several young lords who are ready to leave for the Florentine wars. The King exhorts them to fight valiantly in the true French spirit; in a lighter vein, he tells them to watch out for Florentine girls. Bertram, who is not allowed to accompany the lords to battle because of his youth, decides, at the urging of Parolles and others, to sneak off to war. Parolles and Bertram leave in pursuit of the departing lords after Parolles decides it might be a good idea for them to ingratiate themselves with the other soldiers. In the meantime, Lafeu enters. He kneels before the King and tells him a lady doctor has arrived who believes she can cure him. The King agrees to see her, and Lafeu re-enters with Helena. After Lafeu leaves, Helena introduces herself as the daughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon. She tells the King she can cure him with her father's remedy. The King is doubtful that she can succeed, especially when she proposes to cure him within the space of twenty-four hours. Helena strikes a deal with the King that if she is unable to cure him, he can kill her on the spot. But if she succeeds, he must allow her to choose a husband from among the noble bachelors of the court as payment for her services.", "analysis": "Notes This scene is important mostly for the way it depicts first the hero, then the heroine, of the play. The scene opens with Bertram denied a chance at military victory because of his youth. He is petulant, eager, and enthusiastic. He feels left out and rejected by the lords and the King who are used to valors in life. This young impressionability in Bertram is further heightened in the way that Parolles counsels him, advises him, seeks to shape him into the kind of man he would like to be. Parolles, acting as a tempter, persuades Bertram that youth should not stop him; instead he tells his friend to take matters into his own hands and sneak off to battle. Bertram, utterly impressionable and spineless, does everything Parolles tells him to do. In direct contrast, young, confident, and determined Helena boldly petitions the King for a chance to prove herself. She comes before him, not only young but also a woman, and proposes that he allow her an honest chance to cure him. After some persuading, Helena succeeds in speaking for herself honestly and openly. She strikes up a bold and confident deal with the king, proving that she is not in need of flattering counselors and false praises and suggestions in order to achieve what she wants. If she cures the King, she will be able to choose anyone she wants for a husband; of course, she has Bertram in mind. Throughout this scene, Helena proves herself to be self-driven, ambitious, and doggedly determined; she knows what she wants and is not afraid to go after it. In sharp contrast, Bertram is weak, easily led, and in need of both confidence and direction; he has no idea of what he really wants in life, but allows Parolles to influence all his decisions. It is important to notice the importance that Parolles places on clothing and fashion. He is the main character in the play to establish the theme of appearance vs. reality. He always seeks to be perfectly dressed, as if to hide his very imperfect being. The audience, however, can easily see right through his appearance to his rotten core. At the end of the drama, when his true self has been revealed to all, including Bertram, he will be shabbily dressed."}

Actus Secundus. Enter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the Florentine warre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets. King. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles Doe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell: Share the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all The guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd, And is enough for both Lord.G. 'Tis our hope sir, After well entred souldiers, to returne And finde your grace in health King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confesse he owes the mallady That doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords, Whether I liue or die, be you the sonnes Of worthy French men: let higher Italy (Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last Monarchy) see that you come Not to wooe honour, but to wed it, when The brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke, That fame may cry you loud: I say farewell L.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty King. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them, They say our French, lacke language to deny If they demand: beware of being Captiues Before you serue Bo. Our hearts receiue your warnings King. Farewell, come hether to me 1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs Parr. 'Tis not his fault the spark 2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres Parr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres Rossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with, Too young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early Parr. And thy minde stand too't boy, Steale away brauely Rossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke, Creeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry, Till honour be bought vp, and no sword worne But one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away 1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft Parr. Commit it Count 2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell Ros. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body 1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine 2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles Parr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne, good sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You shall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine Spurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on his sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it: say to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me Lo.G. We shall noble Captaine Parr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will ye doe? Ross. Stay the King Parr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble Lords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of too cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they weare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster true gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of the most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell Ross. And I will doe so Parr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie sword-men. Exeunt. Enter Lafew. L.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings King. Ile see thee to stand vp L.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon, I would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand vp King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate And askt thee mercy for't Laf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus, Will you be cur'd of your infirmitie? King. No Laf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe? Yes but you will, my noble grapes, and if My royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine That's able to breath life into a stone, Quicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari With sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch Is powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay To giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand And write to her a loue-line King. What her is this? Laf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd, If you will see her: now by my faith and honour, If seriously I may conuay my thoughts In this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke With one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession, Wisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more Then I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her? For that is her demand, and know her businesse? That done, laugh well at me King. Now good Lafew, Bring in the admiration, that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondring how thou tookst it Laf. Nay, Ile fit you, And not be all day neither King. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues Laf. Nay, come your waies. Enter Hellen. King. This haste hath wings indeed Laf. Nay, come your waies, This is his Maiestie, say your minde to him, A Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors His Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle, That dare leaue two together, far you well. Enter. King. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs? Hel. I my good Lord, Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did professe, well found King. I knew him Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him, Knowing him is enough: on's bed of death, Many receits he gaue me, chieflie one, Which as the dearest issue of his practice And of his olde experience, th' onlie darling, He bad me store vp, as a triple eye, Safer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so, And hearing your high Maiestie is toucht With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humblenesse King. We thanke you maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and The congregated Colledge haue concluded, That labouring Art can neuer ransome nature From her inaydible estate: I say we must not So staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malladie To empericks, or to disseuer so Our great selfe and our credit, to esteeme A sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme Hell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines: I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly intreating from your royall thoughts, A modest one to beare me backe againe King. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull: Thou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue, As one neere death to those that wish him liue: But what at full I know, thou knowst no part, I knowing all my perill, thou no Art Hell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try, Since you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie: He that of greatest workes is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne, When Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne From simple sources: and great Seas haue dried When Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied. Oft expectation failes, and most oft there Where most it promises: and oft it hits, Where hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts King. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide, Thy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid, Proffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward Hel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard, It is not so with him that all things knowes As 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes: But most it is presumption in vs, when The help of heauen we count the act of men. Deare sir, to my endeauors giue consent, Of heauen, not me, make an experiment. I am not an Imposture, that proclaime My selfe against the leuill of mine aime, But know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure, My Art is not past power, nor you past cure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sunne shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnall ring, Ere twice in murke and occidentall dampe Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe: Or foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse Hath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe: What is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie, Health shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye King. Vpon thy certainty and confidence, What dar'st thou venter? Hell. Taxe of impudence, A strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name Seard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended Kin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerfull sound, within an organ weake: And what impossibility would slay In common sence, sence saues another way: Thy life is deere, for all that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all That happines and prime, can happy call: Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate, Sweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try, That ministers thine owne death if I die Hel. If I breake time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, vnpittied let me die, And well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee, But if I helpe, what doe you promise me Kin. Make thy demand Hel. But will you make it euen? Kin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe Hel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royall bloud of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state: But such a one thy vassall, whom I know Is free for me to aske, thee to bestow Kin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd, Thy will by my performance shall be seru'd: So make the choice of thy owne time, for I Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye: More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know, could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest Vnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest. Giue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed, As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. Florish. Exit. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Lady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height of your breeding Clown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly taught, I know my businesse is but to the Court Lady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall, when you put off that with such contempt, but to the Court? Clo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners, hee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot make a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing, has neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the Court, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men Lady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all questions Clo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes, the pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke, or any buttocke Lady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney, as your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as Tibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday, a Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole, the Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a wrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth, nay as the pudding to his skin Lady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for all questions? Clo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable, it will fit any question Lady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands Clo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned should speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs to't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no harme to learne Lady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a foole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer La. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier? Clo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them La. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you Clo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me La. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely meate Clo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you La. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke Clo. O Lord sir, spare not me La. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and spare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping: you would answere very well to a whipping if you were but bound too't Clo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord sir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer La. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine it so merrily with a foole Clo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen La. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this, And vrge her to a present answer backe, Commend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne, This is not much Clo. Not much commendation to them La. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand me Clo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges La. Hast you agen. Exeunt. Enter Count, Lafew, and Parolles. Ol.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our Philosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar things supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming knowledge, when we should submit our selues to an vnknowne feare Par. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that hath shot out in our latter times Ros. And so 'tis Ol.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists Par. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus Ol.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes Par. Right so I say Ol.Laf. That gaue him out incureable Par. Why there 'tis, so say I too Ol.Laf. Not to be help'd Par. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a- Ol.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death Par. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said Ol.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world Par. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you shall reade it in what do ye call there Ol.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly Actor Par. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same Ol.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee I speake in respect- Par. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the breefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the- Ol.Laf. Very hand of heauen Par. I, so I say Ol.Laf. In a most weake- Par. And debile minister great power, great trancendence, which should indeede giue vs a further vse to be made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee Old Laf. Generally thankfull. Enter King, Hellen, and attendants. Par. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes the King Ol.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a maide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why he's able to leade her a Carranto Par. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen? Ol.Laf. Fore God I thinke so King. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court, Sit my preseruer by thy patients side, And with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue The confirmation of my promis'd guift, Which but attends thy naming. Enter 3 or 4 Lords. Faire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell Of Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing, Ore whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice I haue to vse; thy franke election make, Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake Hel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris; Fall when loue please, marry to each but one Old Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture My mouth no more were broken then these boyes, And writ as little beard King. Peruse them well: Not one of those, but had a Noble father. She addresses her to a Lord. Hel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd the king to health All. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you Hel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest That I protest, I simply am a Maide: Please it your Maiestie, I haue done already: The blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee, We blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused; Let the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer, Wee'l nere come there againe King. Make choise and see, Who shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee Hel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly, And to imperiall loue, that God most high Do my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite? 1.Lo. And grant it Hel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute Ol.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw Ames-ace for my life Hel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes, Before I speake too threatningly replies: Loue make your fortunes twentie times aboue Her that so wishes, and her humble loue 2.Lo. No better if you please Hel. My wish receiue, Which great loue grant, and so I take my leaue Ol.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons of mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them to'th Turke to make Eunuches of Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take, Ile neuer do you wrong for your owne sake: Blessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed Finde fairer fortune, if you euer wed Old Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none haue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the French nere got em La. You are too young, too happie, and too good To make your selfe a sonne out of my blood 4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so Ol.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father drunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth of fourteene: I haue knowne thee already Hel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue Me and my seruice, euer whilst I liue Into your guiding power: This is the man King. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy wife Ber. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes In such a busines, giue me leaue to vse The helpe of mine owne eies King. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's done for mee? Ber. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know why I should marrie her King. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly bed Ber. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe Must answer for your raising? I knowe her well: Shee had her breeding at my fathers charge: A poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine Rather corrupt me euer King. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which I can build vp: strange is it that our bloods Of colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction: yet stands off In differences so mightie. If she bee All that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st) A poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st Of vertue for the name: but doe not so: From lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th' doers deede. Where great additions swell's, and vertue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone, Is good without a name? Vilenesse is so: The propertie by what is is, should go, Not by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire, In these, to Nature shee's immediate heire: And these breed honour: that is honours scorne, Which challenges it selfe as honours borne, And is not like the sire: Honours thriue, When rather from our acts we them deriue Then our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue Debosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue: A lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe, Where dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe. Of honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide? If thou canst like this creature, as a maide, I can create the rest: Vertue, and shee Is her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee Ber. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't King. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue to choose Hel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad: Let the rest go King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so ennobled, Is as 'twere borne so King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat Ber. I take her hand Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre. Exeunt. Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding. Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you Par. Your pleasure sir Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master? Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake? Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master? Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion? Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which title age cannot bring thee Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple Par. Well, I shall be wiser Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation Laf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Enter. Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Enter Lafew. Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master Laf. Who? God Par. I sir Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Exit Enter Count Rossillion. Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer Par. What's the matter sweet-heart? Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her Par. What? what sweet heart? Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure? Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me. Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow Par. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard A yong man maried, is a man that's mard: Therefore away, and leaue her brauely: go, The King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so. Exit Enter Helena and Clowne. Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well? Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's very merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen she's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but yet she is not well Hel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's not verie well? Clo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things Hel. What two things? Clo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send her quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly. Enter Parolles. Par. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie Hel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine owne good fortune Par. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to keepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's my old Ladie? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say Par. Why I say nothing Clo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans tongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie little of nothing Par. Away, th'art a knaue Clo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a knaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene truth sir Par. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found thee Clo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you taught to finde me? Clo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole may you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the encrease of laughter Par. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed. Madam, my Lord will go awaie to night, A verie serrious businesse call's on him: The great prerogatiue and rite of loue, Which as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge, But puts it off to a compell'd restraint: Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets Which they distill now in the curbed time, To make the comming houre oreflow with ioy, And pleasure drowne the brim Hel. What's his will else? Par. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king, And make this hast as your owne good proceeding, Strengthned with what Apologie you thinke May make it probable neede Hel. What more commands hee? Par. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie Attend his further pleasure Hel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will Par. I shall report it so. Exit Par. Hell. I pray you come sirrah. Exit Enter Lafew and Bertram. Laf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a souldier Ber. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe Laf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance Ber. And by other warranted testimonie Laf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke for a bunting Ber. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge, and accordinglie valiant Laf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and transgrest against his valour, and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent: Heere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue the amitie. Enter Parolles. Par. These things shall be done sir Laf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor? Par. Sir? Laf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman, a verie good Tailor Ber. Is shee gone to the king? Par. Shee is Ber. Will shee away to night? Par. As you'le haue her Ber. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure, Giuen order for our horses, and to night, When I should take possession of the Bride, And ere I doe begin Laf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end of a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a known truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should bee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine Ber. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and you Monsieur? Par. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my Lords displeasure Laf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and spurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and out of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question for your residence Ber. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord Laf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's prayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of me, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule of this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of heauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know their natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better of you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but we must do good against euill Par. An idle Lord, I sweare Ber. I thinke so Par. Why do you not know him? Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech Giues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you Spoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue For present parting, onely he desires Some priuate speech with you Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not meruaile Helen at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration, and required office On my particular. Prepar'd I was not For such a businesse, therefore am I found So much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you, That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse then aske why I intreate you, For my respects are better then they seeme, And my appointments haue in them a neede Greater then shewes it selfe at the first view, To you that know them not. This to my mother, 'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so I leaue you to your wisedome Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient seruant Ber. Come, come, no more of that Hel. And euer shall With true obseruance seeke to eeke out that Wherein toward me my homely starres haue faild To equall my great fortune Ber. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell: Hie home Hel. Pray sir your pardon Ber. Well, what would you say? Hel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is, But like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale What law does vouch mine owne Ber. What would you haue? Hel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed, I would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes, Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse Ber. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse Hel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord: Where are my other men? Monsieur, farwell. Exit Ber. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come, Whilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme: Away, and for our flight Par. Brauely, Coragio.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell16.asp

This scene opens in the King's palace in Paris. The King is accompanied by Bertram, Parolles, and several young lords who are ready to leave for the Florentine wars. The King exhorts them to fight valiantly in the true French spirit; in a lighter vein, he tells them to watch out for Florentine girls. Bertram, who is not allowed to accompany the lords to battle because of his youth, decides, at the urging of Parolles and others, to sneak off to war. Parolles and Bertram leave in pursuit of the departing lords after Parolles decides it might be a good idea for them to ingratiate themselves with the other soldiers. In the meantime, Lafeu enters. He kneels before the King and tells him a lady doctor has arrived who believes she can cure him. The King agrees to see her, and Lafeu re-enters with Helena. After Lafeu leaves, Helena introduces herself as the daughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon. She tells the King she can cure him with her father's remedy. The King is doubtful that she can succeed, especially when she proposes to cure him within the space of twenty-four hours. Helena strikes a deal with the King that if she is unable to cure him, he can kill her on the spot. But if she succeeds, he must allow her to choose a husband from among the noble bachelors of the court as payment for her services.

Notes This scene is important mostly for the way it depicts first the hero, then the heroine, of the play. The scene opens with Bertram denied a chance at military victory because of his youth. He is petulant, eager, and enthusiastic. He feels left out and rejected by the lords and the King who are used to valors in life. This young impressionability in Bertram is further heightened in the way that Parolles counsels him, advises him, seeks to shape him into the kind of man he would like to be. Parolles, acting as a tempter, persuades Bertram that youth should not stop him; instead he tells his friend to take matters into his own hands and sneak off to battle. Bertram, utterly impressionable and spineless, does everything Parolles tells him to do. In direct contrast, young, confident, and determined Helena boldly petitions the King for a chance to prove herself. She comes before him, not only young but also a woman, and proposes that he allow her an honest chance to cure him. After some persuading, Helena succeeds in speaking for herself honestly and openly. She strikes up a bold and confident deal with the king, proving that she is not in need of flattering counselors and false praises and suggestions in order to achieve what she wants. If she cures the King, she will be able to choose anyone she wants for a husband; of course, she has Bertram in mind. Throughout this scene, Helena proves herself to be self-driven, ambitious, and doggedly determined; she knows what she wants and is not afraid to go after it. In sharp contrast, Bertram is weak, easily led, and in need of both confidence and direction; he has no idea of what he really wants in life, but allows Parolles to influence all his decisions. It is important to notice the importance that Parolles places on clothing and fashion. He is the main character in the play to establish the theme of appearance vs. reality. He always seeks to be perfectly dressed, as if to hide his very imperfect being. The audience, however, can easily see right through his appearance to his rotten core. At the end of the drama, when his true self has been revealed to all, including Bertram, he will be shabbily dressed.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_8_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell21.asp", "summary": "This scene shifts to Florence. The Duke enters accompanied by two French lords and soldiers who are discussing the imminent war. The Duke expresses his astonishment at the French King's refusal to help. The First Lord refuses to divulge the reasons for the French King's refusal, but the Second Lord quips that the younger lords will soon come to Florence to exercise their talents in military exploits.", "analysis": "Notes This brief scene provides the necessary background to the Florentine wars. The setting shifts to Florence, a necessary move for the coming action of the play, in which Bertram tries to escape his wife. Helena, with plans of her own, sets out on a pilgrimage for Florence. The scene also reiterates the theme of military honor, which Bertram so eagerly seeks. He will arrive here because he values the honor he thinks military exploits will bring. Several young lords echo his feeling, giving the impression that the eagerness for war belongs to the young and inexperienced.. ACT III, SCENE 2 Summary This scene shifts back to Rousillon and opens with a conversation between the Countess and the clown. The Countess expresses satisfaction at the way things have turned out. Her only grudge is that Bertram is not accompanying Helena home. The clown says that Bertram had appeared to be very melancholic. Taking up Bertram's letter, the Countess remarks that she will read what he has written and find out when he intends to come home. The clown remarks that he has dropped his intentions of marrying Isbel since he has been at court, for he has found a great difference between the Isbels of the country and Isbels of the court. The clown leaves while the Countess is reading the letter. The contents of the letter shock the Countess, who is afraid Bertram's foolish actions will anger the King. The clown re-enters with the news that Bertram has run away. As the clown leaves, Helena enters along with some gentlemen. She has already heard about her abandonment and is heartbroken. One of the gentlemen attempts to console Helena. The Countess tells her to be patient. She says that she has experienced so many situations of grief and joy that they have lost the capacity to move her excessively. Then she asks the gentlemen if they know where Bertram has gone. The Countess is told that Bertram has gone off to serve the Duke of Florence in battle. Helena shows her the letter she has received, in which Bertram states that he will never be her husband until she can obtain the ring that he always wears on his finger and becomes pregnant with his child. He also tells her he will never return to France as long as she is alive. The gentlemen who have brought this letter express their apology for its sorrowful contents and inform the Countess that Parolles is accompanying and advising Bertram. The Countess is incensed at Bertram's conduct and says that he does not deserve to have Helena's love. The Countess further denounces Parolles as a \"tainted fellow, full of wickedness\" who is corrupting her son by encouraging him in his waywardness. The Countess asks the gentlemen, who are returning to Florence, to tell Bertram that he will never regain the honor that he has lost by abandoning his wife. She gives them a letter for Bertram in which she disowns him. The Countess and the gentlemen leave together. Helena, left alone, begins to cry. She blames herself for Bertram's being in the war. She prays for his safety and expresses her belief that if Bertram is killed in battle, it will be her fault. She desperately wants Bertram to return to Rousillon, away from battle. Since it is her presence in France that keeps him away, she decides to sneak away at night, hoping he will consider it safe, and return. Notes The central event in this scene is the delivery of Bertram's letter. It is important to note that while Helena is deeply hurt by Bertram's callous behavior, she does not show any resentment towards him. Instead of feeling anger at her shoddy treatment, she is driven by a sense of guilt and blames herself for his departure. She even worries about him being killed, which would be her fault, and thinks, \"Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast; I am the caitiff that do hold him to't; And though I kill him not, I am the cause; His death was so effected\". Her concern for him and lack of regard for the way she has been treated are almost pathetic. There is a distinct contrast between the reactions of the Countess and Helena to Bertram's letter. While Helena blames herself for driving Bertram away, the Countess is explicit in her denunciation of her son. Like many others, she refers to her son as a boy, indicating his extreme immaturity. She is angry that he does not follow the King's desires and honor Helena. She remarks furiously, \"Nothing in France until he have no wife! / There's nothing here that is too good for him / But only she, and she deserves a lord / That twenty such rude boys might tend upon / And hourly call mistress\". The Countess is deeply shocked by Bertram's rash behavior and makes the statement that Bertram cannot hope to win back the honor that he has lost by mistreating his wife, not even as a hero of war. Her words reiterate Lafeu's earlier idea -- that virtuous deeds are more important that noble birth, and that noble birth can never make up for virtue-less actions. Several other characters also spout this view at various points in the play. The terms of the riddling letter are cruelly blunt but do provide a clear and decisive course of action for the impetuous and determined Helena. As a result of Bertram's letter, Helena formulates her plan to steal away in the cover of darkness. Perhaps this will bring Bertram back to France. Once again, she makes her own destiny."}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell21.asp

This scene shifts to Florence. The Duke enters accompanied by two French lords and soldiers who are discussing the imminent war. The Duke expresses his astonishment at the French King's refusal to help. The First Lord refuses to divulge the reasons for the French King's refusal, but the Second Lord quips that the younger lords will soon come to Florence to exercise their talents in military exploits.

Notes This brief scene provides the necessary background to the Florentine wars. The setting shifts to Florence, a necessary move for the coming action of the play, in which Bertram tries to escape his wife. Helena, with plans of her own, sets out on a pilgrimage for Florence. The scene also reiterates the theme of military honor, which Bertram so eagerly seeks. He will arrive here because he values the honor he thinks military exploits will bring. Several young lords echo his feeling, giving the impression that the eagerness for war belongs to the young and inexperienced.. ACT III, SCENE 2 Summary This scene shifts back to Rousillon and opens with a conversation between the Countess and the clown. The Countess expresses satisfaction at the way things have turned out. Her only grudge is that Bertram is not accompanying Helena home. The clown says that Bertram had appeared to be very melancholic. Taking up Bertram's letter, the Countess remarks that she will read what he has written and find out when he intends to come home. The clown remarks that he has dropped his intentions of marrying Isbel since he has been at court, for he has found a great difference between the Isbels of the country and Isbels of the court. The clown leaves while the Countess is reading the letter. The contents of the letter shock the Countess, who is afraid Bertram's foolish actions will anger the King. The clown re-enters with the news that Bertram has run away. As the clown leaves, Helena enters along with some gentlemen. She has already heard about her abandonment and is heartbroken. One of the gentlemen attempts to console Helena. The Countess tells her to be patient. She says that she has experienced so many situations of grief and joy that they have lost the capacity to move her excessively. Then she asks the gentlemen if they know where Bertram has gone. The Countess is told that Bertram has gone off to serve the Duke of Florence in battle. Helena shows her the letter she has received, in which Bertram states that he will never be her husband until she can obtain the ring that he always wears on his finger and becomes pregnant with his child. He also tells her he will never return to France as long as she is alive. The gentlemen who have brought this letter express their apology for its sorrowful contents and inform the Countess that Parolles is accompanying and advising Bertram. The Countess is incensed at Bertram's conduct and says that he does not deserve to have Helena's love. The Countess further denounces Parolles as a "tainted fellow, full of wickedness" who is corrupting her son by encouraging him in his waywardness. The Countess asks the gentlemen, who are returning to Florence, to tell Bertram that he will never regain the honor that he has lost by abandoning his wife. She gives them a letter for Bertram in which she disowns him. The Countess and the gentlemen leave together. Helena, left alone, begins to cry. She blames herself for Bertram's being in the war. She prays for his safety and expresses her belief that if Bertram is killed in battle, it will be her fault. She desperately wants Bertram to return to Rousillon, away from battle. Since it is her presence in France that keeps him away, she decides to sneak away at night, hoping he will consider it safe, and return. Notes The central event in this scene is the delivery of Bertram's letter. It is important to note that while Helena is deeply hurt by Bertram's callous behavior, she does not show any resentment towards him. Instead of feeling anger at her shoddy treatment, she is driven by a sense of guilt and blames herself for his departure. She even worries about him being killed, which would be her fault, and thinks, "Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast; I am the caitiff that do hold him to't; And though I kill him not, I am the cause; His death was so effected". Her concern for him and lack of regard for the way she has been treated are almost pathetic. There is a distinct contrast between the reactions of the Countess and Helena to Bertram's letter. While Helena blames herself for driving Bertram away, the Countess is explicit in her denunciation of her son. Like many others, she refers to her son as a boy, indicating his extreme immaturity. She is angry that he does not follow the King's desires and honor Helena. She remarks furiously, "Nothing in France until he have no wife! / There's nothing here that is too good for him / But only she, and she deserves a lord / That twenty such rude boys might tend upon / And hourly call mistress". The Countess is deeply shocked by Bertram's rash behavior and makes the statement that Bertram cannot hope to win back the honor that he has lost by mistreating his wife, not even as a hero of war. Her words reiterate Lafeu's earlier idea -- that virtuous deeds are more important that noble birth, and that noble birth can never make up for virtue-less actions. Several other characters also spout this view at various points in the play. The terms of the riddling letter are cruelly blunt but do provide a clear and decisive course of action for the impetuous and determined Helena. As a result of Bertram's letter, Helena formulates her plan to steal away in the cover of darkness. Perhaps this will bring Bertram back to France. Once again, she makes her own destiny.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_15_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell28.asp", "summary": "This scene moves to the widow's house in Florence. Helena is trying to convince the widow that she is Bertram's wife. She is exasperated and says that she does not know how else to assure the widow that she is telling the truth. The widow is suspicious and does not want to get involved in Helena's plan to win Bertram back. Helena offers the widow a purse of gold coins in exchange for her help with additional payment when the plan is finished. Helena tells the widow that when Bertram comes around again, Diana should pretend to yield to his advances and demand from him the ring that he always wears on his finger. Since the ring is a family heirloom that has been handed down from one generation to another, Bertram will be reluctant to part with it but will eventually do so in order to win Diana. Diana should fix a time and place for a secret meeting between the two, and when Bertram arrives, Helena will take the girl's place in bed with Bertram.", "analysis": "Notes In this scene, the clever Helena reveals her deceptive plan for winning Bertram back. By offering monetary payment, she convinces the widow to help her; she also convinces her that the deceitful actions have an honorable result, for a wife and husband will be together as they should. This is one of the first times Helena alludes to her apparent philosophy that all is truly well as long as it ends well. It is important to realize that the audience is supportive of, rather than appalled by, all the deception happening on the stage. The deceptive scheme against Parolles is meant to reveal his truly detestable nature, and the deceptive scheme against Bertram is to win him over to Helena. ACT IV, SCENE 1 Summary The scene opens outside the Florentine camp. The Lords enter, prepared to ambush. Parolles then enters, talking to himself. The Lords listen as Parolles confesses first that he knows he is a liar, and second, that it seems everyone else is beginning to notice. He is, of course, too frightened to go after the drum, so he begins concocting lies about why he does not have it. The Lords marvel at Parolles' self-awareness that he is a cad. Finally, the Lords capture Parolles, cover his eyes, and begin to talk in a nonsense language to him. Frightened, Parolles does exactly as predicted and promises to betray Bertram and all his other comrades if only his \"captors\" will not hurt him. They take him away and go to find Bertram, so that he can hear for himself. Notes In this scene, the Lords marvel that Parolles is aware of his own deceitful nature, and yet he does nothing to change it. This further convinces them of his despicable nature, and they are glad they have a plan to expose his true self to Bertram. The Lords know that any honorable man who recognizes weaknesses in himself would try to improve; but Parolles has no desire to better himself. Although Bertram has been much like the despicable Parolles in the early part of the play, Bertram, unlike his friend, finally comes to his senses and realizes how terribly he has been acting. While Parolles is a flat character who never changes, Bertram, in contrast, has some measure of redemption later in the play."}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell28.asp

This scene moves to the widow's house in Florence. Helena is trying to convince the widow that she is Bertram's wife. She is exasperated and says that she does not know how else to assure the widow that she is telling the truth. The widow is suspicious and does not want to get involved in Helena's plan to win Bertram back. Helena offers the widow a purse of gold coins in exchange for her help with additional payment when the plan is finished. Helena tells the widow that when Bertram comes around again, Diana should pretend to yield to his advances and demand from him the ring that he always wears on his finger. Since the ring is a family heirloom that has been handed down from one generation to another, Bertram will be reluctant to part with it but will eventually do so in order to win Diana. Diana should fix a time and place for a secret meeting between the two, and when Bertram arrives, Helena will take the girl's place in bed with Bertram.

Notes In this scene, the clever Helena reveals her deceptive plan for winning Bertram back. By offering monetary payment, she convinces the widow to help her; she also convinces her that the deceitful actions have an honorable result, for a wife and husband will be together as they should. This is one of the first times Helena alludes to her apparent philosophy that all is truly well as long as it ends well. It is important to realize that the audience is supportive of, rather than appalled by, all the deception happening on the stage. The deceptive scheme against Parolles is meant to reveal his truly detestable nature, and the deceptive scheme against Bertram is to win him over to Helena. ACT IV, SCENE 1 Summary The scene opens outside the Florentine camp. The Lords enter, prepared to ambush. Parolles then enters, talking to himself. The Lords listen as Parolles confesses first that he knows he is a liar, and second, that it seems everyone else is beginning to notice. He is, of course, too frightened to go after the drum, so he begins concocting lies about why he does not have it. The Lords marvel at Parolles' self-awareness that he is a cad. Finally, the Lords capture Parolles, cover his eyes, and begin to talk in a nonsense language to him. Frightened, Parolles does exactly as predicted and promises to betray Bertram and all his other comrades if only his "captors" will not hurt him. They take him away and go to find Bertram, so that he can hear for himself. Notes In this scene, the Lords marvel that Parolles is aware of his own deceitful nature, and yet he does nothing to change it. This further convinces them of his despicable nature, and they are glad they have a plan to expose his true self to Bertram. The Lords know that any honorable man who recognizes weaknesses in himself would try to improve; but Parolles has no desire to better himself. Although Bertram has been much like the despicable Parolles in the early part of the play, Bertram, unlike his friend, finally comes to his senses and realizes how terribly he has been acting. While Parolles is a flat character who never changes, Bertram, in contrast, has some measure of redemption later in the play.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_20_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell34.asp", "summary": "Helena arrives in Marseilles with the widow, Diana, and two attendants. Again, she promises to repay them handsomely for their efforts on her behalf. A gentleman appears on the street, and Helena asks for directions to the King, only to discover that the King has already left for Paris. At first the party of women are discouraged, thinking all their efforts have been wasted. But Helena retains her confidence and asserts that all's well that ends well although at present the situation appears to be bleak. Helena asks the gentleman to deliver a letter to the King, and assures him he will be rewarded for his pains. She tells the gentleman she will follow him to Rousillon as quickly as she can. The gentleman agrees to this, and Helena and the other women prepare for another journey.", "analysis": "Notes The pace of the action increases when Helena arrives in Marseilles only to find that the King has left for Rousillon. There is a sense of urgency, a race against time. This short scene moves the action quite rapidly and inevitably toward the final confrontation scene--a scene in which everyone converges on the court at Rousillon. ACT V, SCENE 2 Summary Parolles and the clown enter the inner court of the Countess' palace in Rousillon. Parolles gives the clown a letter for Lafeu. Parolles, no longer well-dressed and proud, comments on his present state of disfavor. He reminds the clown that they had been friends when he used to wear fresher clothes; but now he smells of Fortune's displeasure. The clown replies that Fortune's displeasure stinks. Lafeu enters and the clown leaves the two of them alone. Parolles grovels for Lafeu's forgiveness, and Lafeu, after a few wise comments about Parolles being to blame, graciously forgives Parolles. Notes This scene marks the final stage of Parolles' downfall as he grovels for forgiveness. Lafeu graciously pardons Parolles, and the two are reconciled. The importance of this scene has to do with the nature of Shakespearean comedy. Even the lowliest characters at the end of a comedy must be reconciled so that all loose ends are tied up, good feeling abounds, and everything ends well."}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell34.asp

Helena arrives in Marseilles with the widow, Diana, and two attendants. Again, she promises to repay them handsomely for their efforts on her behalf. A gentleman appears on the street, and Helena asks for directions to the King, only to discover that the King has already left for Paris. At first the party of women are discouraged, thinking all their efforts have been wasted. But Helena retains her confidence and asserts that all's well that ends well although at present the situation appears to be bleak. Helena asks the gentleman to deliver a letter to the King, and assures him he will be rewarded for his pains. She tells the gentleman she will follow him to Rousillon as quickly as she can. The gentleman agrees to this, and Helena and the other women prepare for another journey.

Notes The pace of the action increases when Helena arrives in Marseilles only to find that the King has left for Rousillon. There is a sense of urgency, a race against time. This short scene moves the action quite rapidly and inevitably toward the final confrontation scene--a scene in which everyone converges on the court at Rousillon. ACT V, SCENE 2 Summary Parolles and the clown enter the inner court of the Countess' palace in Rousillon. Parolles gives the clown a letter for Lafeu. Parolles, no longer well-dressed and proud, comments on his present state of disfavor. He reminds the clown that they had been friends when he used to wear fresher clothes; but now he smells of Fortune's displeasure. The clown replies that Fortune's displeasure stinks. Lafeu enters and the clown leaves the two of them alone. Parolles grovels for Lafeu's forgiveness, and Lafeu, after a few wise comments about Parolles being to blame, graciously forgives Parolles. Notes This scene marks the final stage of Parolles' downfall as he grovels for forgiveness. Lafeu graciously pardons Parolles, and the two are reconciled. The importance of this scene has to do with the nature of Shakespearean comedy. Even the lowliest characters at the end of a comedy must be reconciled so that all loose ends are tied up, good feeling abounds, and everything ends well.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_1.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scene 1

act 1, scene 1

{"name": "act 1, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/novel-summary", "summary": "At the court of Count Rossillion, the Countess is morning her husband, who recently died, and sending off her son to the King of France as a ward. Bertram, her son and therefore the new count, does not want to go but knows that he must. Lafew, a minister, and Helena, a young lady who serves the countess, are also present at the farewell. They discuss that the King of France is ill with an ulcer, and they wish that Helena's recently deceased father were still alive to cure him because her father is a world-renowned physician. The Countess tells Helena not to grieve so vehemently for her father, and after the farewell's end, Helena reveals to the audience that her grief is more about the fact that Bertram is leaving because she is in love with him. Her position, however, dictates that she could never have him. Her friend Parolles enters and they have a lively conversation about virginity but he then has to leave to go to the French court with Bertram. Since the King of France needs to be healed, Helena comes up with a plan to help though she doesn't reveal how", "analysis": ""}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

act 1, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/novel-summary

At the court of Count Rossillion, the Countess is morning her husband, who recently died, and sending off her son to the King of France as a ward. Bertram, her son and therefore the new count, does not want to go but knows that he must. Lafew, a minister, and Helena, a young lady who serves the countess, are also present at the farewell. They discuss that the King of France is ill with an ulcer, and they wish that Helena's recently deceased father were still alive to cure him because her father is a world-renowned physician. The Countess tells Helena not to grieve so vehemently for her father, and after the farewell's end, Helena reveals to the audience that her grief is more about the fact that Bertram is leaving because she is in love with him. Her position, however, dictates that she could never have him. Her friend Parolles enters and they have a lively conversation about virginity but he then has to leave to go to the French court with Bertram. Since the King of France needs to be healed, Helena comes up with a plan to help though she doesn't reveal how

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/All's Well That Ends Well/section_4_part_1.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "act 3, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act3-scene1-act3-scene2", "summary": "The Duke of Florence is disappointed that the King of France does not offer him any official aid in his war", "analysis": ""}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

act 3, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act3-scene1-act3-scene2

The Duke of Florence is disappointed that the King of France does not offer him any official aid in his war

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/All's Well That Ends Well/section_10_part_1.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act5-scene1-act5-scene2", "summary": "Helena, the Widow, and Diana arrive at the King's palace in Marseille and approach a gentleman there asking to see the King. The gentleman tells her that the King when to Rossillion, and Helena begs that he deliver a message there for her since he will make it there before her. He agrees and they all leave to part immediately", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act5-scene1-act5-scene2

Helena, the Widow, and Diana arrive at the King's palace in Marseille and approach a gentleman there asking to see the King. The gentleman tells her that the King when to Rossillion, and Helena begs that he deliver a message there for her since he will make it there before her. He agrees and they all leave to part immediately

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Jew of Malta/section_2_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 2

act 2

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section3/", "summary": "Act II opens with Barabas again bemoaning the loss of his money as he approaches what used to be his mansion in the dead of night. He compares himself to a man close to death or a soldier who is scarred with the memory of his \"former riches. \" The protagonist's anguish is alleviated somewhat by Abigail, who appears above him having retrieved his hidden stash. She throws down the treasure, and in his ecstasy Barabas shouts, \"Oh girl, oh gold, oh beauty, oh my bliss!\" as he hugs the moneybags. Abigail warns her father to leave as the nuns will soon be arising for the day's first worship. Barabas exits, still eulogizing over his daughter and the dawn. He vows to sing over his recovered gold as the \"morning lark\" does her young. The action returns to the governor, Ferneze, who is meeting the vice-admiral of Spain, Martin del Bosco. He states that he has many Turkish slaves to sell, captured during a skirmish between some of his ships and those of the Ottoman fleet. Ferneze regrets that the slaves cannot be sold in Malta, since there is an alliance between his state and the Turks. Bosco persuades the governor to break this alliance, saying that the Spanish king will send military support if Malta's enemies attack. The governor agrees to this proposal and appoints Bosco Malta's general. The Spaniard points to the behavior of the garrison at Rhodes, whom he says fought to the death in order to repel the Turkish forces. Both statesmen agree to give their lives to defend the island against Calymath, and Ferneze leaves pronouncing a neat rhyme, \"we are resolved, / Honour is bought with blood and not with gold.\"", "analysis": "In Act II, scene i, Barabas appears to be a caricature of Machiavellian avariciousness as perceived by Elizabethan society. Barabas states that he is more grieved by the loss of his wealth than he would be at the loss of his life. Light and dark imagery plays a key role in this short scene. Barabas stalks through the darkness of the night, alluding to his own black mood, and awaits reunion with his gold. When this happens, Barabas's language changes completely; he launches into a poetic rapture that dazzles with overblown emotion and light imagery. Implicitly, Barabas compares the glow of dawn to that of gold when he pronounces, \"Now Phoebus ope the eyelids of the day.\" Marlowe suggests that Barabas's love for his daughter is intertwined with his joy at recovering his money. Indeed, it is difficult to determine what it is that Barabas rejoices at, since his language is quite ambiguous. His exclamations of \"h girl, oh gold\" are similar in many ways to lines in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, where a character asserts that he overheard \"Shylock\" shout \"O my ducats! Oh my daughter!\" In this instance, however, Barabas's cries are those of elation rather than despair. Marlowe thus highlights his protagonist's emotive response to money. The belief that others place in religion is secularized in the character of Barabas;he is a man with faith after all, but his hopes of redemption are rooted in financial gain rather than heavenly salvation. In the next scene, the first of many oaths are broken that will be foresworn within the play. Ferneze breaks his league with the Turks in order to gain material advantage and military protection from the Spanish. Although this is really an example of shrewd statecraft as Machiavelli might have supported--the Spanish are bound by religion and trade interests to help the Maltese--Del Bosco and Ferneze disguise the financial motivations behind their agreement by couching it in terms of honor and morality. The governor's last lines are misleading, for in fact the two men have struck a commercial deal by which the Turkish slaves will be sold for Spanish profit. In turn, the Maltese will be freed from their financial obligations to the Turks. Ferneze is not alone in his careful accounting of benefits and disadvantages. This motif of calculation--both for self-interest and the interest of the state--runs throughout the play and is employed by nearly all of its characters. Everyone knows what it is that he or she wants and will scheme to get it, disguising his or her real intentions if necessary."}

ACT II. Enter BARABAS, with a light. [53] BARABAS. Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, [54] And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vex'd and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians. The incertain pleasures of swift-footed time Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair; And of my former riches rests no more But bare remembrance; like a soldier's scar, That has no further comfort for his maim.-- O Thou, that with a fiery pillar ledd'st The sons of Israel through the dismal shades, Light Abraham's offspring; and direct the hand Of Abigail this night! or let the day Turn to eternal darkness after this!-- No sleep can fasten on my watchful eyes, Nor quiet enter my distemper'd thoughts, Till I have answer of my Abigail. Enter ABIGAIL above. ABIGAIL. Now have I happily espied a time To search the plank my father did appoint; And here, behold, unseen, where I have found The gold, the pearls, and jewels, which he hid. BARABAS. Now I remember those old women's words, Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night About the place where treasure hath been hid: And now methinks that I am one of those; For, whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. ABIGAIL. Now that my father's fortune were so good As but to be about this happy place! 'Tis not so happy: yet, when we parted last, He said he would attend me in the morn. Then, gentle Sleep, where'er his body rests, Give charge to Morpheus that he may dream A golden dream, and of [55] the sudden wake, [56] Come and receive the treasure I have found. BARABAS. Bueno para todos mi ganado no era: [57] As good go on, as sit so sadly thus.-- But stay: what star shines yonder in the east? [58] The loadstar of my life, if Abigail.-- Who's there? ABIGAIL. Who's that? BARABAS. Peace, Abigail! 'tis I. ABIGAIL. Then, father, here receive thy happiness. BARABAS. Hast thou't? ABIGAIL. Here.[throws down bags] Hast thou't? There's more, and more, and more. BARABAS. O my girl, My gold, my fortune, my felicity, Strength to my soul, death to mine enemy; Welcome the first beginner of my bliss! O Abigail, Abigail, that I had thee here too! Then my desires were fully satisfied: But I will practice thy enlargement thence: O girl! O gold! O beauty! O my bliss! [Hugs the bags.] ABIGAIL. Father, it draweth towards midnight now, And 'bout this time the nuns begin to wake; To shun suspicion, therefore, let us part. BARABAS. Farewell, my joy, and by my fingers take A kiss from him that sends it from his soul. [Exit ABIGAIL above.] Now, Phoebus, ope the eye-lids of the day. And, for the raven, wake the morning lark, That I may hover with her in the air, Singing o'er these, as she does o'er her young. Hermoso placer de los dineros. [59] [Exit.] Enter FERNEZE, [60] MARTIN DEL BOSCO, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS. FERNEZE. Now, captain, tell us whither thou art bound? Whence is thy ship that anchors in our road? And why thou cam'st ashore without our leave? MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Governor of Malta, hither am I bound; My ship, the Flying Dragon, is of Spain, And so am I; Del Bosco is my name, Vice-admiral unto the Catholic King. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis true, my lord; therefore entreat [61] him well. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Our fraught is Grecians, Turks, and Afric Moors; For late upon the coast of Corsica, Because we vail'd not [62] to the Turkish [63] fleet, Their creeping galleys had us in the chase: But suddenly the wind began to rise, And then we luff'd and tack'd, [64] and fought at ease: Some have we fir'd, and many have we sunk; But one amongst the rest became our prize: The captain's slain; the rest remain our slaves, Of whom we would make sale in Malta here. FERNEZE. Martin del Bosco, I have heard of thee: Welcome to Malta, and to all of us! But to admit a sale of these thy Turks, We may not, nay, we dare not give consent, By reason of a tributary league. FIRST KNIGHT. Del Bosco, as thou lov'st and honour'st us, Persuade our governor against the Turk: This truce we have is but in hope of gold, And with that sum he craves might we wage war. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Will knights of Malta be in league with Turks, And buy it basely too for sums of gold? My lord, remember that, to Europe's shame, The Christian isle of Rhodes, from whence you came, Was lately lost, and you were stated [65] here To be at deadly enmity with Turks. FERNEZE. Captain, we know it; but our force is small. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. What is the sum that Calymath requires? FERNEZE. A hundred thousand crowns. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. My lord and king hath title to this isle, And he means quickly to expel you hence; Therefore be rul'd by me, and keep the gold: I'll write unto his majesty for aid, And not depart until I see you free. FERNEZE. On this condition shall thy Turks be sold.-- Go, officers, and set them straight in show.-- [Exeunt OFFICERS.] Bosco, thou shalt be Malta's general; We and our warlike knights will follow thee Against these barbarous misbelieving Turks. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. So shall you imitate those you succeed; For, when their hideous force environ'd Rhodes, Small though the number was that kept the town, They fought it out, and not a man surviv'd To bring the hapless news to Christendom. FERNEZE. So will we fight it out: come, let's away. Proud daring Calymath, instead of gold, We'll send thee bullets wrapt in smoke and fire: Claim tribute where thou wilt, we are resolv'd,-- Honour is bought with blood, and not with gold. [Exeunt.] Enter OFFICERS, [66] with ITHAMORE and other SLAVES. FIRST OFFICER. This is the market-place; here let 'em stand: Fear not their sale, for they'll be quickly bought. SECOND OFFICER. Every one's price is written on his back, And so much must they yield, or not be sold. FIRST OFFICER. Here comes the Jew: had not his goods been seiz'd, He'd give us present money for them all. Enter BARABAS. BARABAS. In spite of these swine-eating Christians, (Unchosen nation, never circumcis'd, Poor villains, such as were [67] ne'er thought upon Till Titus and Vespasian conquer'd us,) Am I become as wealthy as I was. They hop'd my daughter would ha' been a nun; But she's at home, and I have bought a house As great and fair as is the governor's: And there, in spite of Malta, will I dwell, Having Ferneze's hand; whose heart I'll have, Ay, and his son's too, or it shall go hard. I am not of the tribe of Levi, I, That can so soon forget an injury. We Jews can fawn like spaniels when we please; And when we grin we bite; yet are our looks As innocent and harmless as a lamb's. I learn'd in Florence how to kiss my hand, Heave up my shoulders when they call me dog, And duck as low as any bare-foot friar; Hoping to see them starve upon a stall, Or else be gather'd for in our synagogue, That, when the offering-basin comes to me, Even for charity I may spit into't.-- Here comes Don Lodowick, the governor's son, One that I love for his good father's sake. Enter LODOWICK. LODOWICK. I hear the wealthy Jew walked this way: I'll seek him out, and so insinuate, That I may have a sight of Abigail, For Don Mathias tells me she is fair. BARABAS. Now will I shew myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Yond' walks the Jew: now for fair Abigail. BARABAS. Ay, ay, no doubt but she's at your command. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Barabas, thou know'st I am the governor's son. BARABAS. I would you were his father too, sir! that's all the harm I wish you.--The slave looks like a hog's cheek new-singed. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Whither walk'st thou, Barabas? BARABAS. No further: 'tis a custom held with us, That when we speak with Gentiles like to you, We turn into [68] the air to purge ourselves; For unto us the promise doth belong. LODOWICK. Well, Barabas, canst help me to a diamond? BARABAS. O, sir, your father had my diamonds: Yet I have one left that will serve your turn.-- I mean my daughter; but, ere he shall have her, I'll sacrifice her on a pile of wood: I ha' the poison of the city [69] for him, And the white leprosy. [Aside.] LODOWICK. What sparkle does it give without a foil? BARABAS. The diamond that I talk of ne'er was foil'd:-- But, when he touches it, it will be foil'd.-- [70] [Aside.] Lord Lodowick, it sparkles bright and fair. LODOWICK. Is it square or pointed? pray, let me know. BARABAS. Pointed it is, good sir,--but not for you. [Aside.] LODOWICK. I like it much the better. BARABAS. So do I too. LODOWICK. How shews it by night? BARABAS. Outshines Cynthia's rays:-- You'll like it better far o' nights than days. [Aside.] LODOWICK. And what's the price? BARABAS. Your life, an if you have it [Aside].--O my lord, We will not jar about the price: come to my house, And I will give't your honour--with a vengeance. [Aside.] LODOWICK. No, Barabas, I will deserve it first. BARABAS. Good sir, Your father has deserv'd it at my hands, Who, of mere charity and Christian ruth, To bring me to religious purity, And, as it were, in catechising sort, To make me mindful of my mortal sins, Against my will, and whether I would or no, Seiz'd all I had, and thrust me out o' doors, And made my house a place for nuns most chaste. LODOWICK. No doubt your soul shall reap the fruit of it. BARABAS. Ay, but, my lord, the harvest is far off: And yet I know the prayers of those nuns And holy friars, having money for their pains, Are wondrous;--and indeed do no man good;-- [Aside.] And, seeing they are not idle, but still doing, 'Tis likely they in time may reap some fruit, I mean, in fullness of perfection. LODOWICK. Good Barabas, glance not at our holy nuns. BARABAS. No, but I do it through a burning zeal,-- Hoping ere long to set the house a-fire; For, though they do a while increase and multiply, I'll have a saying to that nunnery.-- [71] [Aside.] As for the diamond, sir, I told you of, Come home, and there's no price shall make us part, Even for your honourable father's sake,-- It shall go hard but I will see your death.-- [Aside.] But now I must be gone to buy a slave. LODOWICK. And, Barabas, I'll bear thee company. BARABAS. Come, then; here's the market-place.-- What's the price of this slave? two hundred crowns! do the Turks weigh so much? FIRST OFFICER. Sir, that's his price. BARABAS. What, can he steal, that you demand so much? Belike he has some new trick for a purse; An if he has, he is worth three hundred plates, [72] So that, being bought, the town-seal might be got To keep him for his life-time from the gallows: The sessions-day is critical to thieves, And few or none scape but by being purg'd. LODOWICK. Rat'st thou this Moor but at two hundred plates? FIRST OFFICER. No more, my lord. BARABAS. Why should this Turk be dearer than that Moor? FIRST OFFICER. Because he is young, and has more qualities. BARABAS. What, hast the philosopher's stone? an thou hast, break my head with it, I'll forgive thee. SLAVE. [73] No, sir; I can cut and shave. BARABAS. Let me see, sirrah; are you not an old shaver? SLAVE. Alas, sir, I am a very youth! BARABAS. A youth! I'll buy you, and marry you to Lady Vanity, [74] if you do well. SLAVE. I will serve you, sir. BARABAS. Some wicked trick or other: it may be, under colour of shaving, thou'lt cut my throat for my goods. Tell me, hast thou thy health well? SLAVE. Ay, passing well. BARABAS. So much the worse: I must have one that's sickly, an't be but for sparing victuals: 'tis not a stone of beef a-day will maintain you in these chops.--Let me see one that's somewhat leaner. FIRST OFFICER. Here's a leaner; how like you him? BARABAS. Where wast thou born? ITHAMORE. In Thrace; brought up in Arabia. BARABAS. So much the better; thou art for my turn. An hundred crowns? I'll have him; there's the coin. [Gives money.] FIRST OFFICER. Then mark him, sir, and take him hence. BARABAS. Ay, mark him, you were best; for this is he That by my help shall do much villany.-- [Aside.] My lord, farewell.--Come, sirrah; you are mine.-- As for the diamond, it shall be yours: I pray, sir, be no stranger at my house; All that I have shall be at your command. Enter MATHIAS and KATHARINE. [75] MATHIAS. What make the Jew and Lodowick so private? I fear me 'tis about fair Abigail. [Aside.] BARABAS. [to LODOWICK.] Yonder comes Don Mathias; let us stay: [76] He loves my daughter, and she holds him dear; But I have sworn to frustrate both their hopes, And be reveng'd upon the--governor. [Aside.] [Exit LODOWICK.] KATHARINE. This Moor is comeliest, is he not? speak, son. MATHIAS. No, this is the better, mother, view this well. BARABAS. Seem not to know me here before your mother, Lest she mistrust the match that is in hand: When you have brought her home, come to my house; Think of me as thy father: son, farewell. MATHIAS. But wherefore talk'd Don Lodowick with you? BARABAS. Tush, man! we talk'd of diamonds, not of Abigail. KATHARINE. Tell me, Mathias, is not that the Jew? BARABAS. As for the comment on the Maccabees, I have it, sir, and 'tis at your command. MATHIAS. Yes, madam, and my talk with him was [77] About the borrowing of a book or two. KATHARINE. Converse not with him; he is cast off from heaven.-- Thou hast thy crowns, fellow.--Come, let's away. MATHIAS. Sirrah Jew, remember the book. BARABAS. Marry, will I, sir. [Exeunt KATHARlNE and MATHIAS.] FIRST OFFICER. Come, I have made a reasonable market; let's away. [Exeunt OFFICERS with SLAVES.] BARABAS. Now let me know thy name, and therewithal Thy birth, condition, and profession. ITHAMORE. Faith, sir, my birth is but mean; my name's Ithamore; my profession what you please. BARABAS. Hast thou no trade? then listen to my words, And I will teach [thee] that shall stick by thee: First, be thou void of these affections, Compassion, love, vain hope, and heartless fear; Be mov'd at nothing, see thou pity none, But to thyself smile when the Christians moan. ITHAMORE. O, brave, master! [78] I worship your nose [79] for this. BARABAS. As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights, And kill sick people groaning under walls: Sometimes I go about and poison wells; And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, I am content to lose some of my crowns, That I may, walking in my gallery, See 'em go pinion'd along by my door. Being young, I studied physic, and began To practice first upon the Italian; There I enrich'd the priests with burials, And always kept the sexton's arms in ure [80] With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells: And, after that, was I an engineer, And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany, Under pretence of helping Charles the Fifth, Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems: Then, after that, was I an usurer, And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, And tricks belonging unto brokery, I fill'd the gaols with bankrupts in a year, And with young orphans planted hospitals; And every moon made some or other mad, And now and then one hang himself for grief, Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll How I with interest tormented him. But mark how I am blest for plaguing them;-- I have as much coin as will buy the town. But tell me now, how hast thou spent thy time? ITHAMORE. Faith, master, In setting Christian villages on fire, Chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. One time I was an hostler in an inn, And in the night-time secretly would I steal To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats: Once at Jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, I strewed powder on the marble stones, And therewithal their knees would rankle so, That I have laugh'd a-good [81] to see the cripples Go limping home to Christendom on stilts. BARABAS. Why, this is something: make account of me As of thy fellow; we are villains both; Both circumcised; we hate Christians both: Be true and secret; thou shalt want no gold. But stand aside; here comes Don Lodowick. Enter LODOWICK. [82] LODOWICK. O, Barabas, well met; Where is the diamond you told me of? BARABAS. I have it for you, sir: please you walk in with me.-- What, ho, Abigail! open the door, I say! Enter ABIGAIL, with letters. ABIGAIL. In good time, father; here are letters come ]From Ormus, and the post stays here within. BARABAS. Give me the letters.--Daughter, do you hear? Entertain Lodowick, the governor's son, With all the courtesy you can afford, Provided that you keep your maidenhead: Use him as if he were a Philistine; Dissemble, swear, protest, vow love to him: [83] He is not of the seed of Abraham.-- [Aside to her.] I am a little busy, sir; pray, pardon me.-- Abigail, bid him welcome for my sake. ABIGAIL. For your sake and his own he's welcome hither. BARABAS. Daughter, a word more: kiss him, speak him fair, And like a cunning Jew so cast about, That ye be both made sure [84] ere you come out. [Aside to her.] ABIGAIL. O father, Don Mathias is my love! BARABAS. I know it: yet, I say, make love to him; Do, it is requisite it should be so.-- [Aside to her.] Nay, on my life, it is my factor's hand; But go you in, I'll think upon the account. [Exeunt ABIGAIL and LODOWICK into the house.] The account is made, for Lodovico [85] dies. My factor sends me word a merchant's fled That owes me for a hundred tun of wine: I weigh it thus much[snapping his fingers]! I have wealth enough; For now by this has he kiss'd Abigail, And she vows love to him, and he to her. As sure as heaven rain'd manna for the Jews, So sure shall he and Don Mathias die: His father was my chiefest enemy. Enter MATHIAS. Whither goes Don Mathias? stay a while. MATHIAS. Whither, but to my fair love Abigail? BARABAS. Thou know'st, and heaven can witness it is true, That I intend my daughter shall be thine. MATHIAS. Ay, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much. BARABAS. O, heaven forbid I should have such a thought! Pardon me though I weep: the governor's son Will, whether I will or no, have Abigail; He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings. MATHIAS. Does she receive them? BARABAS. She! no, Mathias, no, but sends them back; And, when he comes, she locks herself up fast; Yet through the key-hole will he talk to her, While she runs to the window, looking out When you should come and hale him from the door. MATHIAS. O treacherous Lodowick! BARABAS. Even now, as I came home, he slipt me in, And I am sure he is with Abigail. MATHIAS. I'll rouse him thence. BARABAS. Not for all Malta; therefore sheathe your sword; If you love me, no quarrels in my house; But steal you in, and seem to see him not: I'll give him such a warning ere he goes, As he shall have small hopes of Abigail. Away, for here they come. Re-enter LODOWICK and ABIGAIL. MATHIAS. What, hand in hand! I cannot suffer this. BARABAS. Mathias, as thou lov'st me, not a word. MATHIAS. Well, let it pass; another time shall serve. [Exit into the house.] LODOWICK. Barabas, is not that the widow's son? BARABAS. Ay, and take heed, for he hath sworn your death. LODOWICK. My death! what, is the base-born peasant mad? BARABAS. No, no; but happily [86] he stands in fear Of that which you, I think, ne'er dream upon,-- My daughter here, a paltry silly girl. LODOWICK. Why, loves she Don Mathias? BARABAS. Doth she not with her smiling answer you? ABIGAIL. He has my heart; I smile against my will. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Barabas, thou know'st I have lov'd thy daughter long. BARABAS. And so has she done you, even from a child. LODOWICK. And now I can no longer hold my mind. BARABAS. Nor I the affection that I bear to you. LODOWICK. This is thy diamond; tell me, shall I have it? BARABAS. Win it, and wear it; it is yet unsoil'd. [87] O, but I know your lordship would disdain To marry with the daughter of a Jew: And yet I'll give her many a golden cross [88] With Christian posies round about the ring. LODOWICK. 'Tis not thy wealth, but her that I esteem; Yet crave I thy consent. BARABAS. And mine you have; yet let me talk to her.-- This offspring of Cain, this Jebusite, That never tasted of the Passover, Nor e'er shall see the land of Canaan, Nor our Messias that is yet to come; This gentle maggot, Lodowick, I mean, Must be deluded: let him have thy hand, But keep thy heart till Don Mathias comes. [Aside to her.] ABIGAIL. What, shall I be betroth'd to Lodowick? BARABAS. It's no sin to deceive a Christian; For they themselves hold it a principle, Faith is not to be held with heretics: But all are heretics that are not Jews; This follows well, and therefore, daughter, fear not.-- [Aside to her.] I have entreated her, and she will grant. LODOWICK. Then, gentle Abigail, plight thy faith to me. ABIGAIL. I cannot choose, seeing my father bids: Nothing but death shall part my love and me. LODOWICK. Now have I that for which my soul hath long'd. BARABAS. So have not I; but yet I hope I shall. [Aside.] ABIGAIL. O wretched Abigail, what hast thou [89] done? [Aside.] LODOWICK. Why on the sudden is your colour chang'd? ABIGAIL. I know not: but farewell; I must be gone. BARABAS. Stay her, but let her not speak one word more. LODOWICK. Mute o' the sudden! here's a sudden change. BARABAS. O, muse not at it; 'tis the Hebrews' guise, That maidens new-betroth'd should weep a while: Trouble her not; sweet Lodowick, depart: She is thy wife, and thou shalt be mine heir. LODOWICK. O, is't the custom? then I am resolv'd: [90] But rather let the brightsome heavens be dim, And nature's beauty choke with stifling clouds, Than my fair Abigail should frown on me.-- There comes the villain; now I'll be reveng'd. Re-enter MATHIAS. BARABAS. Be quiet, Lodowick; it is enough That I have made thee sure to Abigail. LODOWICK. Well, let him go. [Exit.] BARABAS. Well, but for me, as you went in at doors You had been stabb'd: but not a word on't now; Here must no speeches pass, nor swords be drawn. MATHIAS. Suffer me, Barabas, but to follow him. BARABAS. No; so shall I, if any hurt be done, Be made an accessary of your deeds: Revenge it on him when you meet him next. MATHIAS. For this I'll have his heart. BARABAS. Do so. Lo, here I give thee Abigail! MATHIAS. What greater gift can poor Mathias have? Shall Lodowick rob me of so fair a love? My life is not so dear as Abigail. BARABAS. My heart misgives me, that, to cross your love, He's with your mother; therefore after him. MATHIAS. What, is he gone unto my mother? BARABAS. Nay, if you will, stay till she comes herself. MATHIAS. I cannot stay; for, if my mother come, She'll die with grief. [Exit.] ABIGAIL. I cannot take my leave of him for tears. Father, why have you thus incens'd them both? BARABAS. What's that to thee? ABIGAIL. I'll make 'em friends again. BARABAS. You'll make 'em friends! are there not Jews enow in Malta, But thou must dote upon a Christian? ABIGAIL. I will have Don Mathias; he is my love. BARABAS. Yes, you shall have him.--Go, put her in. ITHAMORE. Ay, I'll put her in. [Puts in ABIGAIL.] BARABAS. Now tell me, Ithamore, how lik'st thou this? ITHAMORE. Faith, master, I think by this You purchase both their lives: is it not so? BARABAS. True; and it shall be cunningly perform'd. ITHAMORE. O, master, that I might have a hand in this! BARABAS. Ay, so thou shalt; 'tis thou must do the deed: Take this, and bear it to Mathias straight, [Giving a letter.] And tell him that it comes from Lodowick. ITHAMORE. 'Tis poison'd, is it not? BARABAS. No, no; and yet it might be done that way: It is a challenge feign'd from Lodowick. ITHAMORE. Fear not; I will so set his heart a-fire, That he shall verily think it comes from him. BARABAS. I cannot choose but like thy readiness: Yet be not rash, but do it cunningly. ITHAMORE. As I behave myself in this, employ me hereafter. BARABAS. Away, then! [Exit ITHAMORE.] So; now will I go in to Lodowick, And, like a cunning spirit, feign some lie, Till I have set 'em both at enmity. [Exit.]

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section3/

Act II opens with Barabas again bemoaning the loss of his money as he approaches what used to be his mansion in the dead of night. He compares himself to a man close to death or a soldier who is scarred with the memory of his "former riches. " The protagonist's anguish is alleviated somewhat by Abigail, who appears above him having retrieved his hidden stash. She throws down the treasure, and in his ecstasy Barabas shouts, "Oh girl, oh gold, oh beauty, oh my bliss!" as he hugs the moneybags. Abigail warns her father to leave as the nuns will soon be arising for the day's first worship. Barabas exits, still eulogizing over his daughter and the dawn. He vows to sing over his recovered gold as the "morning lark" does her young. The action returns to the governor, Ferneze, who is meeting the vice-admiral of Spain, Martin del Bosco. He states that he has many Turkish slaves to sell, captured during a skirmish between some of his ships and those of the Ottoman fleet. Ferneze regrets that the slaves cannot be sold in Malta, since there is an alliance between his state and the Turks. Bosco persuades the governor to break this alliance, saying that the Spanish king will send military support if Malta's enemies attack. The governor agrees to this proposal and appoints Bosco Malta's general. The Spaniard points to the behavior of the garrison at Rhodes, whom he says fought to the death in order to repel the Turkish forces. Both statesmen agree to give their lives to defend the island against Calymath, and Ferneze leaves pronouncing a neat rhyme, "we are resolved, / Honour is bought with blood and not with gold."

In Act II, scene i, Barabas appears to be a caricature of Machiavellian avariciousness as perceived by Elizabethan society. Barabas states that he is more grieved by the loss of his wealth than he would be at the loss of his life. Light and dark imagery plays a key role in this short scene. Barabas stalks through the darkness of the night, alluding to his own black mood, and awaits reunion with his gold. When this happens, Barabas's language changes completely; he launches into a poetic rapture that dazzles with overblown emotion and light imagery. Implicitly, Barabas compares the glow of dawn to that of gold when he pronounces, "Now Phoebus ope the eyelids of the day." Marlowe suggests that Barabas's love for his daughter is intertwined with his joy at recovering his money. Indeed, it is difficult to determine what it is that Barabas rejoices at, since his language is quite ambiguous. His exclamations of "h girl, oh gold" are similar in many ways to lines in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, where a character asserts that he overheard "Shylock" shout "O my ducats! Oh my daughter!" In this instance, however, Barabas's cries are those of elation rather than despair. Marlowe thus highlights his protagonist's emotive response to money. The belief that others place in religion is secularized in the character of Barabas;he is a man with faith after all, but his hopes of redemption are rooted in financial gain rather than heavenly salvation. In the next scene, the first of many oaths are broken that will be foresworn within the play. Ferneze breaks his league with the Turks in order to gain material advantage and military protection from the Spanish. Although this is really an example of shrewd statecraft as Machiavelli might have supported--the Spanish are bound by religion and trade interests to help the Maltese--Del Bosco and Ferneze disguise the financial motivations behind their agreement by couching it in terms of honor and morality. The governor's last lines are misleading, for in fact the two men have struck a commercial deal by which the Turkish slaves will be sold for Spanish profit. In turn, the Maltese will be freed from their financial obligations to the Turks. Ferneze is not alone in his careful accounting of benefits and disadvantages. This motif of calculation--both for self-interest and the interest of the state--runs throughout the play and is employed by nearly all of its characters. Everyone knows what it is that he or she wants and will scheme to get it, disguising his or her real intentions if necessary.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/61-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Communist Manifesto/section_5_part_0.txt

The Communist Manifesto.chapter 4

chapter 4: position of the communists in relation to the various existing opposition parties

{"name": "Section 4: Position of the Communists in Relation to the Various Existing Opposition Parties", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-4-position-of-the-communists-in-relation-to-the-various-existing-opposition-parties", "summary": "Final section! Marx starts by listing the parties the Communist League supports in various countries as a matter of tactics, but he emphasizes that they always reserve the right to criticize any party and will always bring the question of abolishing property to the forefront. The communists even support the bourgeoisie in some cases, such as when the bourgeoisie opposes the aristocracy, since it's the aristocracy that has to be taken down first. Marx says Germany deserves particular focus because the bourgeois revolution against the aristocracy about to happen there will soon lead to proletarian revolution. The Manifesto concludes by saying that the communists do not wish to hide their views and goals. They openly state that their goals can only be accomplished by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. The ruling class should tremble at the coming communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains, and they have a world to win. And here's the famous last line, which is entirely capitalized : WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!", "analysis": ""}

IV. POSITION OF THE COMMUNISTS IN RELATION TO THE VARIOUS EXISTING OPPOSITION PARTIES Section II has made clear the relations of the Communists to the existing working-class parties, such as the Chartists in England and the Agrarian Reformers in America. The Communists fight for the attainment of the immediate aims, for the enforcement of the momentary interests of the working class; but in the movement of the present, they also represent and take care of the future of that movement. In France the Communists ally themselves with the Social-Democrats, against the conservative and radical bourgeoisie, reserving, however, the right to take up a critical position in regard to phrases and illusions traditionally handed down from the great Revolution. In Switzerland they support the Radicals, without losing sight of the fact that this party consists of antagonistic elements, partly of Democratic Socialists, in the French sense, partly of radical bourgeois. In Poland they support the party that insists on an agrarian revolution as the prime condition for national emancipation, that party which fomented the insurrection of Cracow in 1846. In Germany they fight with the bourgeoisie whenever it acts in a revolutionary way, against the absolute monarchy, the feudal squirearchy, and the petty bourgeoisie. But they never cease, for a single instant, to instil into the working class the clearest possible recognition of the hostile antagonism between bourgeoisie and proletariat, in order that the German workers may straightaway use, as so many weapons against the bourgeoisie, the social and political conditions that the bourgeoisie must necessarily introduce along with its supremacy, and in order that, after the fall of the reactionary classes in Germany, the fight against the bourgeoisie itself may immediately begin. The Communists turn their attention chiefly to Germany, because that country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution that is bound to be carried out under more advanced conditions of European civilisation, and with a much more developed proletariat, than that of England was in the seventeenth, and of France in the eighteenth century, and because the bourgeois revolution in Germany will be but the prelude to an immediately following proletarian revolution. In short, the Communists everywhere support every revolutionary movement against the existing social and political order of things. In all these movements they bring to the front, as the leading question in each, the property question, no matter what its degree of development at the time. Finally, they labour everywhere for the union and agreement of the democratic parties of all countries. The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!

Section 4: Position of the Communists in Relation to the Various Existing Opposition Parties

https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-4-position-of-the-communists-in-relation-to-the-various-existing-opposition-parties

Final section! Marx starts by listing the parties the Communist League supports in various countries as a matter of tactics, but he emphasizes that they always reserve the right to criticize any party and will always bring the question of abolishing property to the forefront. The communists even support the bourgeoisie in some cases, such as when the bourgeoisie opposes the aristocracy, since it's the aristocracy that has to be taken down first. Marx says Germany deserves particular focus because the bourgeois revolution against the aristocracy about to happen there will soon lead to proletarian revolution. The Manifesto concludes by saying that the communists do not wish to hide their views and goals. They openly state that their goals can only be accomplished by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. The ruling class should tremble at the coming communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains, and they have a world to win. And here's the famous last line, which is entirely capitalized : WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_ii.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/An Ideal Husband/section_2_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act ii

act ii

{"name": "Act II - Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section3/", "summary": "Act II begins in Sir Robert's morning room with Lord Goring in the midst of advising him on a plan of action. He insists that Sir Robert should have confessed to his wife long ago and promises to talk to her about her unyielding morals. Throughout the scene, Goring will--in a marked shift in his apparently flippant tone and amoral pose--also point out the gravity of Sir Robert having sold himself for his fortune. Sir Robert recounts his mentorship by Baron Arnheim when he was a young and poor cabinet minister, well born but penniless. He succumbed to Arnheim's gospels of wealth and power, coming to see wealth being the most important weapon of the modern age and power over others as life's utmost pleasure. At some level, Sir Robert still subscribes to these doctrines. Goring takes stock of the situation: a public confession remains impossible as it would ruin Sir Robert's career, and the two agree that Sir Robert should fight it out, though--in another suspense-building device--the latter still refuses to tell his wife. Also, Lord Goring delicately reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were once engaged. As their first plan of attack, Sir Robert decides to write the Vienna embassy to investigate Cheveley's life; Lord Goring is nonplussed by the proposal as he suspects Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who finds scandals as becoming as a new bonnet. Lady Chiltern then enters the room, having come from a meeting of the Woman's Liberal Association. After some banter about bonnets and a farewell between Goring and Sir Robert, the latter leaves the room, and Lady Chiltern takes Goring aside to discuss the recent conflict. When she asks Goring if she is right in her opinion of her ideal husband, Goring, gesturing toward Sir Robert's past, warns that all men must at some point compromise themselves in public life and that life can neither be lived nor understood without charity. The lord then pledges his assistance to a Lady Chiltern shocked by his sudden seriousness and perplexed by his apparently unwarranted advice.", "analysis": "The first half of Act II is something of an interlude after the climatic conclusion of Act I, providing the background of Sir Robert's secret scandal and introducing Lord Goring into the play's intrigue. Beginning with the story of Sir Robert's \"tragic\" fall, it presents Sir Robert's views of modern life and poses Lord Goring as a sort of helpmate to the Chilterns: counselor to Sir Robert and teacher to the virtuous Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert developed his views on modernity while under the tutelage of Baron Arnheim, a mysterious foreign aristocrat perhaps analogous to Lord Henry from The Picture of Dorian Gray. Notably Sir Robert's corrupter--one he shares with Mrs. Cheveley--is shrouded in erotic connotations . Indeed, in remembering how the Baron--with a \"strange smile on his pale, curved lips\"--lead him through his gallery of treasures, Sir Robert describes an enchantment with his old mentor that could be read as an erotically-charged seduction. One wonders what exactly the Baron taught his student. It is not for nothing then that Sir Robert's relations with Arnheim predate his respectable marriage and must remain secret. Arnheim expounds a \"philosophy of power\" and \"gospel of gold.\" Though ostentatious with his fortune, the Baron dismisses luxury as mere backdrop: power over others remains the only pleasure worth knowing. Toward these ends, wealth is the weapon of the age and the prime mover of modernity. For Lord Goring, Arnheim's is a \"thoroughly shallow creed\"--a somewhat paradoxical critique since the dandy would revel in the shallowness of appearances, luxury, and artifice. Perhaps what the dandified Goring criticizes is Arnheim's subordination of luxury and its pleasures to those of domination. To recall our discussion of dandyism from the Context, Arnheim's doctrines are clearly anathema to the dandy's idle and lighthearted lifestyle. If Arnheim would conquer the world, Goring would--as the stage notes from Act I indicate--play with it. Though ever playful, Goring nevertheless remains passionately loyal to rather sentimental notions like love, pledging to do all he can to assist his friend and sway the morally inflexible Lady Chiltern. As Goring tells Lady Chiltern, love, that \"explains\" and determines the human world, should trump her obsession with having an ideal husband. More specifically, the love Goring praises to Lady Chiltern emphasizes charity and the forgiveness of faults and errors. Thus in their exchange we see a number of poles emerging around the theme of love and conjugal life, Lady Chiltern's adoration for her ideal mate being posed against the ideas offered by her counselor. As we will see in Act IV, the woman's proper role in love will ultimately become what Goring describes, that of the forgiving caretaker. Finally, we should note that Goring remains mischievous even in his quite moving gravity, interrupting the dialogue with an occasional joke or repartee. At one point, for example, he declares that truth is a bad habit; after advising Lady Chiltern, perplexed by his sudden seriousness, he denies that he precisely understands what he is talking about. Thus Goring himself would warn his listeners against taking his advice in earnest. His banter continually defuses attempts to engage him in \"serious\" conversation and provides mild comic relief."}

SECOND ACT SCENE _Morning-room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house_. [LORD GORING, _dressed in the height of fashion_, _is lounging in an armchair_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is standing in front of the fireplace_. _He is evidently in a state of great mental excitement and distress_. _As the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down the room_.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, it's a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn't tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been quite impossible. She would have turned from me in horror . . . in horror and in contempt. LORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that. LORD GORING. [_Taking off his left-hand glove_.] What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I didn't quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would be quite useless. LORD GORING. May I try? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views. LORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All such experiments are terribly dangerous. LORD GORING. Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living. . . . Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and that I had done a thing that I suppose most men would call shameful and dishonourable? LORD GORING. [_Slowly_.] Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bitterly_.] Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives. LORD GORING. That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people's secrets. It distracts public attention from their own. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one. LORD GORING. [_Looking at him steadily_.] Except yourself, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Of course I had private information about a certain transaction contemplated by the Government of the day, and I acted on it. Private information is practically the source of every large modern fortune. LORD GORING. [_Tapping his boot with his cane_.] And public scandal invariably the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Pacing up and down the room_.] Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it fair that a man's whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one's boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two unforgiveable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one's youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up. Is it fair, Arthur? LORD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth. LORD GORING. You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have succeeded just as well. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't wait. LORD GORING. Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty--that's good enough for any one, I should think. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose everything over a horrible scandal? If I am hounded from public life? LORD GORING. Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Excitedly_.] I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it. But what first made you think of doing such a thing? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Arnheim. LORD GORING. Damned scoundrel! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Throws himself into an armchair by the writing-table_.] One night after dinner at Lord Radley's the Baron began talking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale, curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which he lived; and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a painted scene in a play, and that power, power over other men, power over the world, was the one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth knowing, the one joy one never tired of, and that in our century only the rich possessed it. LORD GORING. [_With great deliberation_.] A thoroughly shallow creed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] I didn't think so then. I don't think so now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance as few men get. LORD GORING. Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to--well, to do what you did? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private documents passed through my hands. LORD GORING. [_Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet_.] State documents? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. [LORD GORING _sighs_, _then passes his hand across his forehead and looks up_.] LORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not--there is no weakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage. I had that courage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim the letter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over the transaction. LORD GORING. And you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I received from the Baron 110,000 pounds. LORD GORING. You were worth more, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance from time to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid. I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers. LORD GORING. But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won. LORD GORING. [_Sadly_.] You thought you had won. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought so. [_After a long pause_.] Arthur, do you despise me for what I have told you? LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry indeed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don't say that I suffered any remorse. I didn't. Not remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since then. LORD GORING. [_Looking up_.] In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done, Robert! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don't say that, Arthur; don't talk like that! LORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn't say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done? LORD GORING. [_Leaning back with his hands in his pockets_.] Well, the English can't stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is . . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can't talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out. LORD GORING. [_Rising from his chair_.] I was waiting for you to say that, Robert. It is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by telling your wife the whole story. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I will not do. LORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are wrong. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I couldn't do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently. LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well? LORD GORING. [_Arranging his necktie_.] So little that I got engaged to be married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys'. The affair lasted for three days . . . nearly. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused. LORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can't do everything, after all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one's heart. It is as if one's heart were beating itself to death in some empty hollow. LORD GORING. [_Striking the table_.] Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how? LORD GORING. I can't tell you how at present. I have not the smallest idea. But every one has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us. [_Strolls to the fireplace and looks at himself in the glass_.] My father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don't know. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon I can find, have I not? LORD GORING. [_Still looking in the glass_.] In your place I don't think I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly well able to take care of herself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sits down at the table and takes a pen in his hand_.] Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of. LORD GORING. [_Settling his buttonhole_.] Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present is that she can't manage to have enough of them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Writing_.] Why do you say that? LORD GORING. [_Turning round_.] Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Striking a bell_.] But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not? LORD GORING. It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one. [_Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his room? MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Puts what he has written into an envelope_, _which he then carefully closes_.] Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a moment's delay. MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back to me again. [_Writes something on the envelope_. MASON _then goes out with the letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what it was. LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I wonder. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing. LORD GORING. [_Strongly_.] Oh, fight in any case--in any case. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] If my wife found out, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn't she? LORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley's past is merely a slightly decollete one, and they are excessively popular nowadays. Besides, my dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening Mrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be easily frightened. She has survived all her creditors, and she shows wonderful presence of mind. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife's voice. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN _in walking dress_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good afternoon, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park? LADY CHILTERN. No; I have just come from the Woman's Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have come in to have my tea. [_To_ LORD GORING.] You will wait and have some tea, won't you? LORD GORING. I'll wait for a short time, thanks. LADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off. LORD GORING. [_In his most earnest manner_.] Oh! please don't. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman's Liberal Association received it with loud applause. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a smile_.] We have much more important work to do than look at each other's bonnets, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. Really? What sort of work? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hours' Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. . . . Everything, in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting. LORD GORING. And never bonnets? LADY CHILTERN. [_With mock indignation_.] Never bonnets, never! [LADY CHILTERN _goes out through the door leading to her boudoir_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes_ LORD GORING'S _hand_.] You have been a good friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend. LORD GORING. I don't know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something. The truth has always stifled me. LORD GORING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth . . . to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth. [_Sighs_, _and goes towards the door_.] I'll see you soon again, Arthur, shan't I? LORD GORING. Certainly. Whenever you like. I'm going to look in at the Bachelors' Ball to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I'll come round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night by any chance, send round a note to Curzon Street. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. [_As he reaches the door_, LADY CHILTERN _enters from her boudoir_.] LADY CHILTERN. You are not going, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I have some letters to write, dear. LADY CHILTERN. [_Going to him_.] You work too hard, Robert. You seem never to think of yourself, and you are looking so tired. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is nothing, dear, nothing. [_He kisses her and goes out_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Do sit down. I am so glad you have called. I want to talk to you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or the Woman's Liberal Association. You take far too much interest in the first subject, and not nearly enough in the second. LORD GORING. You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I found out that what she had said was really true. Of course I made Robert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his promise. LORD GORING. So he gave me to understand. LADY CHILTERN. To have kept it would have been the first stain on a career that has been stainless always. Robert must be above reproach. He is not like other men. He cannot afford to do what other men do. [_She looks at_ LORD GORING, _who remains silent_.] Don't you agree with me? You are Robert's greatest friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except myself, knows Robert better than you do. He has no secrets from me, and I don't think he has any from you. LORD GORING. He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don't think so. LADY CHILTERN. Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am right. But speak to me frankly. LORD GORING. [_Looking straight at her_.] Quite frankly? LADY CHILTERN. Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you? LORD GORING. Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern, I think, if you will allow me to say so, that in practical life-- LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] Of which you know so little, Lord Goring-- LORD GORING. Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know something by observation. I think that in practical life there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the crag, he climbs the crag; if he has to walk in the mire-- LADY CHILTERN. Well? LORD GORING. He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking generally about life. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I hope so. Why do you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard in some of your views on life. I think that . . . often you don't make sufficient allowances. In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to some one . . . LADY CHILTERN. What do you mean by a foolish letter? LORD GORING. A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary case. LADY CHILTERN. Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong thing. LORD GORING. [_After a long pause_.] Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing. LADY CHILTERN. Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say? They will all have to go into mourning. LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All I do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is the true explanation of this world, whatever may be the explanation of the next. And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern, trust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you ever want me, come to me for my assistance, and you shall have it. Come at once to me. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him in surprise_.] Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously. I don't think I ever heard you talk seriously before. LORD GORING. [_Laughing_.] You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won't occur again, if I can help it. LADY CHILTERN. But I like you to be serious. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN, _in the most ravishing frock_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Dear Gertrude, don't say such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Seriousness would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon Lord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you can. LORD GORING. I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am . . . a little out of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now. MABEL CHILTERN. Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you have! I am sure you were very badly brought up. LORD GORING. I was. MABEL CHILTERN. I wish I had brought you up! LORD GORING. I am so sorry you didn't. MABEL CHILTERN. It is too late now, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I am not so sure. MABEL CHILTERN. Will you ride to-morrow morning? LORD GORING. Yes, at ten. MABEL CHILTERN. Don't forget. LORD GORING. Of course I shan't. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no list of your guests in _The Morning Post_ of to-day. It has apparently been crowded out by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a particular reason for asking you. LADY CHILTERN. I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one. LORD GORING. Thanks, so much. MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy is the most useful person in London. LORD GORING [_Turning to her_.] And who is the most ornamental? MABEL CHILTERN [_Triumphantly_.] I am. LORD GORING. How clever of you to guess it! [_Takes up his hat and cane_.] Good-bye, Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you, won't you? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; but I don't know why you said it to me. LORD GORING. I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN [_With a little moue of disappointment_.] I wish you were not going. I have had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a half, in fact. You might stop and listen to some of them. LORD GORING. How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There won't be any left for me. MABEL CHILTERN. I don't want you to have any. They would not be good for you. LORD GORING. That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me. How charmingly you said it! Ten to-morrow. MABEL CHILTERN. Sharp. LORD GORING. Quite sharp. But don't bring Mr. Trafford. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little toss of the head_.] Of course I shan't bring Tommy Trafford. Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace. LORD GORING. I am delighted to hear it. [_Bows and goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford. LADY CHILTERN. What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says he is the best secretary he has ever had. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling. The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind so much. That might produce some effect on the public. But he does it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish, Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often enough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done in a manner that attracts some attention. LADY CHILTERN. Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him for anything under the sun. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn't you? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I have no character at all, and Robert is the only genius I could ever bear. As a rule, I think they are quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don't they? Such a bad habit! And they are always thinking about themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me. I must go round now and rehearse at Lady Basildon's. You remember, we are having tableaux, don't you? The Triumph of something, I don't know what! I hope it will be triumph of me. Only triumph I am really interested in at present. [_Kisses_ LADY CHILTERN _and goes out_; _then comes running back_.] Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown. Did you ask her? LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible! MABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural. LADY CHILTERN. You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being scolded by her. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Advancing to meet them_.] Dear Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and see me! [_Shakes hands with her_, _and bows somewhat distantly to_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] Won't you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. Isn't that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much to know her. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you. [MABEL CHILTERN _gives a little nod_.] MRS. CHEVELEY [_Sitting down_.] I thought your frock so charming last night, Miss Chiltern. So simple and . . . suitable. MABEL CHILTERN. Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her. Good-bye, Lady Markby! LADY MARKBY. Going already? MABEL CHILTERN. I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have got to stand on my head in some tableaux. LADY MARKBY. On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy. [_Takes a seat on the sofa next_ LADY CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only people I am really interested in. I am the secretary, and Tommy Trafford is treasurer. MRS. CHEVELEY. And what is Lord Goring? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! Lord Goring is president. MRS. CHEVELEY. The post should suit him admirably, unless he has deteriorated since I knew him first. LADY MARKBY. [_Reflecting_.] You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps. Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly. I have known many instances of it. MABEL CHILTERN. What a dreadful prospect! LADY MARKBY. Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be as pretty as possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only fashion that England succeeds in setting. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a curtsey_.] Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for England . . . and myself. [_Goes out_.] LADY MARKBY. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch has been found. LADY CHILTERN. Here? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge's, and I thought I might possibly have dropped it here. LADY CHILTERN. I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the butler and ask. [_Touches the bell_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, pray don't trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before we came on here. LADY MARKBY. Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact is, we all scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have anything at all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that, when I am coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn't a shred on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to prevent the lower classes making painful observations through the windows of the carriage. The fact is that our Society is terribly over-populated. Really, some one should arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration. It would do a great deal of good. MRS. CHEVELEY. I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six years since I have been in London for the Season, and I must say Society has become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere. LADY MARKBY. That is quite true, dear. But one needn't know them. I'm sure I don't know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I shouldn't like to. [_Enter_ MASON.] LADY CHILTERN. What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby. LADY MARKBY. I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Smiling_.] No, lady Markby--a ruby. LADY MARKBY. [_Nodding her head_.] And very becoming, I am quite sure. LADY CHILTERN. Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the rooms this morning, Mason? MASON. No, my lady. MRS. CHEVELEY. It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so sorry to have put you to any inconvenience. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will do, Mason. You can bring tea. [_Exit_ MASON.] LADY MARKBY. Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I remember once at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly handsome cameo bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don't think he has ever given me anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly degenerated. Really, this horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that there has been since that terrible thing called the Higher Education of Women was invented. LADY CHILTERN. Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby. Robert is a great champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am afraid, am I. MRS. CHEVELEY. The higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it so sadly. LADY MARKBY. They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don't think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to women, well, dear Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I am sure it is all right if you approve of it. In my time, of course, we were taught not to understand anything. That was the old system, and wonderfully interesting it was. I assure you that the amount of things I and my poor dear sister were taught not to understand was quite extraordinary. But modern women understand everything, I am told. MRS. CHEVELEY. Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern woman never understands. LADY MARKBY. And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might break up many a happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say, Gertrude. You have married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as much for myself. But since Sir John has taken to attending the debates regularly, which he never used to do in the good old days, his language has become quite impossible. He always seems to think that he is addressing the House, and consequently whenever he discusses the state of the agricultural labourer, or the Welsh Church, or something quite improper of that kind, I am obliged to send all the servants out of the room. It is not pleasant to see one's own butler, who has been with one for twenty-three years, actually blushing at the side-board, and the footmen making contortions in corners like persons in circuses. I assure you my life will be quite ruined unless they send John at once to the Upper House. He won't take any interest in politics then, will he? The House of Lords is so sensible. An assembly of gentlemen. But in his present state, Sir John is really a great trial. Why, this morning before breakfast was half over, he stood up on the hearthrug, put his hands in his pockets, and appealed to the country at the top of his voice. I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of tea, I need hardly say. But his violent language could be heard all over the house! I trust, Gertrude, that Sir Robert is not like that? LADY CHILTERN. But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby. I love to hear Robert talk about them. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don't think they can be quite improving reading for any one. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Languidly_.] I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer books . . . in yellow covers. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially unconscious_.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it not? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so now if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a man on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress. LADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn't say so from the sort of hats they wear? would one? [_The butler enters_, _followed by the footman_. _Tea is set on a small table close to_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [_The butler hands_ MRS. CHEVELEY _a cup of tea on a salver_.] LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby? LADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear. [_The servants go out_.] The fact is, I have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can't understand this modern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course, running about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of them, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is quite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the eldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they meet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the money article in _The Times_. However, I believe that is quite a common occurrence nowadays and that they have to take in extra copies of _The Times_ at all the clubs in St. James's Street; there are so many sons who won't have anything to do with their fathers, and so many fathers who won't speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very much to be regretted. MRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays. LADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What? MRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times. LADY MARKBY. [_Shaking her head_.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster, don't you, dear? LADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn, when we were there. LADY MARKBY. Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of happiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say. She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on to the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative art-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in life. [_Rising_.] And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn't mind waiting in the carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit of condolence, I shan't stay long. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Rising_.] I don't mind waiting in the carriage at all, provided there is somebody to look at one. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house. MRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends. LADY CHILTERN [_Rising_.] Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to have a few minutes' conversation with her. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure. LADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I see you at Lady Bonar's to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new genius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great comfort, is it not? LADY CHILTERN. Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night, and I don't think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course, will have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on. LADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule. [_Exit_ LADY MARKBY.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn't she? Talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker. Much more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually violent. LADY CHILTERN. [_Makes no answer_, _but remains standing_. _There is a pause_. _Then the eyes of the two women meet_. LADY CHILTERN _looks stern and pale_. MRS. CHEVELEY _seem rather amused_.] Mrs. Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you really were, I should not have invited you to my house last night. MRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really? LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so. MRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a bit, Gertrude. LADY CHILTERN. I never change. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you nothing? LADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second time, and should be shunned. MRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one? LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you. LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite impossible? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I don't mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have come here to do you a service. LADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write that insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till to-morrow morning--no more. If by that time your husband does not solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am interested-- LADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation-- MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell him. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent. What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you? MRS. CHEVELEY [_With a bitter laugh_.] In this world like meets with like. It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that we pair so well together. Between you and him there are chasms. He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us. LADY CHILTERN. How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare you threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters from behind_. _He hears his wife's last words_, _and sees to whom they are addressed_. _He grows deadly pale_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour. A house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud. [_Turns round and sees_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position. LADY CHILTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is not true! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Pointing at him with outstretched finger_.] Look at him! Can he deny it? Does he dare to? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now. MRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either of you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don't do what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _strikes the bell_. _Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley out. [MRS. CHEVELEY _starts_; _then bows with somewhat exaggerated politeness to_ LADY CHILTERN, _who makes no sign of response_. _As she passes by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _who is standing close to the door_, _she pauses for a moment and looks him straight in the face_. _She then goes out_, _followed by the servant_, _who closes the door after him_. _The husband and wife are left alone_. LADY CHILTERN _stands like some one in a dreadful dream_. _Then she turns round and looks at her husband_. _She looks at him with strange eyes_, _as though she were seeing him for the first time_.] LADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You don't realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the whole thing. [_Goes towards her_.] LADY CHILTERN. Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these years! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a common thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder! You were bought in the market. You lied to the whole world. And yet you will not lie to me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushing towards her_.] Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. [_Thrusting him back with outstretched hands_.] No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories--memories of things that made me love you--memories of words that made me love you--memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now--oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake. There was your error. The error all women commit. Why can't you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us--else what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man's love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a woman's. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last night you ruined my life for me--yes, ruined it! What this woman asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me. She offered security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one but you, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so wildly loved--have ruined mine! [_He passes from the room_. LADY CHILTERN _rushes towards him_, _but the door is closed when she reaches it_. _Pale with anguish_, _bewildered_, _helpless_, _she sways like a plant in the water_. _Her hands_, _outstretched_, _seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the mind_. _Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face_. _Her sobs are like the sobs of a child_.] ACT DROP

Act II - Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section3/

Act II begins in Sir Robert's morning room with Lord Goring in the midst of advising him on a plan of action. He insists that Sir Robert should have confessed to his wife long ago and promises to talk to her about her unyielding morals. Throughout the scene, Goring will--in a marked shift in his apparently flippant tone and amoral pose--also point out the gravity of Sir Robert having sold himself for his fortune. Sir Robert recounts his mentorship by Baron Arnheim when he was a young and poor cabinet minister, well born but penniless. He succumbed to Arnheim's gospels of wealth and power, coming to see wealth being the most important weapon of the modern age and power over others as life's utmost pleasure. At some level, Sir Robert still subscribes to these doctrines. Goring takes stock of the situation: a public confession remains impossible as it would ruin Sir Robert's career, and the two agree that Sir Robert should fight it out, though--in another suspense-building device--the latter still refuses to tell his wife. Also, Lord Goring delicately reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were once engaged. As their first plan of attack, Sir Robert decides to write the Vienna embassy to investigate Cheveley's life; Lord Goring is nonplussed by the proposal as he suspects Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who finds scandals as becoming as a new bonnet. Lady Chiltern then enters the room, having come from a meeting of the Woman's Liberal Association. After some banter about bonnets and a farewell between Goring and Sir Robert, the latter leaves the room, and Lady Chiltern takes Goring aside to discuss the recent conflict. When she asks Goring if she is right in her opinion of her ideal husband, Goring, gesturing toward Sir Robert's past, warns that all men must at some point compromise themselves in public life and that life can neither be lived nor understood without charity. The lord then pledges his assistance to a Lady Chiltern shocked by his sudden seriousness and perplexed by his apparently unwarranted advice.

The first half of Act II is something of an interlude after the climatic conclusion of Act I, providing the background of Sir Robert's secret scandal and introducing Lord Goring into the play's intrigue. Beginning with the story of Sir Robert's "tragic" fall, it presents Sir Robert's views of modern life and poses Lord Goring as a sort of helpmate to the Chilterns: counselor to Sir Robert and teacher to the virtuous Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert developed his views on modernity while under the tutelage of Baron Arnheim, a mysterious foreign aristocrat perhaps analogous to Lord Henry from The Picture of Dorian Gray. Notably Sir Robert's corrupter--one he shares with Mrs. Cheveley--is shrouded in erotic connotations . Indeed, in remembering how the Baron--with a "strange smile on his pale, curved lips"--lead him through his gallery of treasures, Sir Robert describes an enchantment with his old mentor that could be read as an erotically-charged seduction. One wonders what exactly the Baron taught his student. It is not for nothing then that Sir Robert's relations with Arnheim predate his respectable marriage and must remain secret. Arnheim expounds a "philosophy of power" and "gospel of gold." Though ostentatious with his fortune, the Baron dismisses luxury as mere backdrop: power over others remains the only pleasure worth knowing. Toward these ends, wealth is the weapon of the age and the prime mover of modernity. For Lord Goring, Arnheim's is a "thoroughly shallow creed"--a somewhat paradoxical critique since the dandy would revel in the shallowness of appearances, luxury, and artifice. Perhaps what the dandified Goring criticizes is Arnheim's subordination of luxury and its pleasures to those of domination. To recall our discussion of dandyism from the Context, Arnheim's doctrines are clearly anathema to the dandy's idle and lighthearted lifestyle. If Arnheim would conquer the world, Goring would--as the stage notes from Act I indicate--play with it. Though ever playful, Goring nevertheless remains passionately loyal to rather sentimental notions like love, pledging to do all he can to assist his friend and sway the morally inflexible Lady Chiltern. As Goring tells Lady Chiltern, love, that "explains" and determines the human world, should trump her obsession with having an ideal husband. More specifically, the love Goring praises to Lady Chiltern emphasizes charity and the forgiveness of faults and errors. Thus in their exchange we see a number of poles emerging around the theme of love and conjugal life, Lady Chiltern's adoration for her ideal mate being posed against the ideas offered by her counselor. As we will see in Act IV, the woman's proper role in love will ultimately become what Goring describes, that of the forgiving caretaker. Finally, we should note that Goring remains mischievous even in his quite moving gravity, interrupting the dialogue with an occasional joke or repartee. At one point, for example, he declares that truth is a bad habit; after advising Lady Chiltern, perplexed by his sudden seriousness, he denies that he precisely understands what he is talking about. Thus Goring himself would warn his listeners against taking his advice in earnest. His banter continually defuses attempts to engage him in "serious" conversation and provides mild comic relief.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/32.txt

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 32

chapter 32: a procurator's dinner

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Two: A Procurator's Dinner", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-two-a-procurators-dinner", "summary": "It is the evening of the dinner at the lawyer's house and Porthos is looking forward to this meal. He dreams of being welcomed as a member of the family and eating a delicious home-cooked meal. As he approaches the house, however, his dreams bear no resemblance to reality. The house is dingy and the kitchen lacks the hustle and bustle indicating that a good meal is being prepared. He meets the old lawyer, who is so old his legs no longer function. The man glances frequently at a large chest, which presumably contains all his money. Dinner is disgusting and stingy, although the lawyer remarks over and over again that it's a magnificent repast and his wife is really spoiling her cousin. After dinner, Madame Coquenard and Porthos step into another room for a chat. She invites him to dinner three times a week, which he respectfully declines. He brings up the issue of getting outfitted for war. They enter into negotiations: she wants to know his exact requirements because she may be able to get him a better deal on a horse, for instance. Porthos would prefer, for obvious reasons, to get a lump sum of money. They finally agree that she will give him eight hundred livres and then obtain a horse and mule. The two part amicably. Porthos returns home hungry.", "analysis": ""}

32 A PROCURATOR'S DINNER However brilliant had been the part played by Porthos in the duel, it had not made him forget the dinner of the procurator's wife. On the morrow he received the last touches of Mousqueton's brush for an hour, and took his way toward the Rue aux Ours with the steps of a man who was doubly in favor with fortune. His heart beat, but not like d'Artagnan's with a young and impatient love. No; a more material interest stirred his blood. He was about at last to pass that mysterious threshold, to climb those unknown stairs by which, one by one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard had ascended. He was about to see in reality a certain coffer of which he had twenty times beheld the image in his dreams--a coffer long and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of which he had so often heard, and which the hands--a little wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance--of the procurator's wife were about to open to his admiring looks. And then he--a wanderer on the earth, a man without fortune, a man without family, a soldier accustomed to inns, cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced to depend upon chance treats--was about to partake of family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable establishment, and to give himself up to those little attentions which "the harder one is, the more they please," as old soldiers say. To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat himself every day at a good table; to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of the old procurator; to pluck the clerks a little by teaching them BASSETTE, PASSE-DIX, and LANSQUENET, in their utmost nicety, and winning from them, by way of fee for the lesson he would give them in an hour, their savings of a month--all this was enormously delightful to Porthos. The Musketeer could not forget the evil reports which then prevailed, and which indeed have survived them, of the procurators of the period--meanness, stinginess, fasts; but as, after all, excepting some few acts of economy which Porthos had always found very unseasonable, the procurator's wife had been tolerably liberal--that is, be it understood, for a procurator's wife--he hoped to see a household of a highly comfortable kind. And yet, at the very door the Musketeer began to entertain some doubts. The approach was not such as to prepossess people--an ill-smelling, dark passage, a staircase half-lighted by bars through which stole a glimmer from a neighboring yard; on the first floor a low door studded with enormous nails, like the principal gate of the Grand Chatelet. Porthos knocked with his hand. A tall, pale clerk, his face shaded by a forest of virgin hair, opened the door, and bowed with the air of a man forced at once to respect in another lofty stature, which indicated strength, the military dress, which indicated rank, and a ruddy countenance, which indicated familiarity with good living. A shorter clerk came behind the first, a taller clerk behind the second, a stripling of a dozen years rising behind the third. In all, three clerks and a half, which, for the time, argued a very extensive clientage. Although the Musketeer was not expected before one o'clock, the procurator's wife had been on the watch ever since midday, reckoning that the heart, or perhaps the stomach, of her lover would bring him before his time. Mme. Coquenard therefore entered the office from the house at the same moment her guest entered from the stairs, and the appearance of the worthy lady relieved him from an awkward embarrassment. The clerks surveyed him with great curiosity, and he, not knowing well what to say to this ascending and descending scale, remained tongue-tied. "It is my cousin!" cried the procurator's wife. "Come in, come in, Monsieur Porthos!" The name of Porthos produced its effect upon the clerks, who began to laugh; but Porthos turned sharply round, and every countenance quickly recovered its gravity. They reached the office of the procurator after having passed through the antechamber in which the clerks were, and the study in which they ought to have been. This last apartment was a sort of dark room, littered with papers. On quitting the study they left the kitchen on the right, and entered the reception room. All these rooms, which communicated with one another, did not inspire Porthos favorably. Words might be heard at a distance through all these open doors. Then, while passing, he had cast a rapid, investigating glance into the kitchen; and he was obliged to confess to himself, to the shame of the procurator's wife and his own regret, that he did not see that fire, that animation, that bustle, which when a good repast is on foot prevails generally in that sanctuary of good living. The procurator had without doubt been warned of his visit, as he expressed no surprise at the sight of Porthos, who advanced toward him with a sufficiently easy air, and saluted him courteously. "We are cousins, it appears, Monsieur Porthos?" said the procurator, rising, yet supporting his weight upon the arms of his cane chair. The old man, wrapped in a large black doublet, in which the whole of his slender body was concealed, was brisk and dry. His little gray eyes shone like carbuncles, and appeared, with his grinning mouth, to be the only part of his face in which life survived. Unfortunately the legs began to refuse their service to this bony machine. During the last five or six months that this weakness had been felt, the worthy procurator had nearly become the slave of his wife. The cousin was received with resignation, that was all. M. Coquenard, firm upon his legs, would have declined all relationship with M. Porthos. "Yes, monsieur, we are cousins," said Porthos, without being disconcerted, as he had never reckoned upon being received enthusiastically by the husband. "By the female side, I believe?" said the procurator, maliciously. Porthos did not feel the ridicule of this, and took it for a piece of simplicity, at which he laughed in his large mustache. Mme. Coquenard, who knew that a simple-minded procurator was a very rare variety in the species, smiled a little, and colored a great deal. M Coquenard had, since the arrival of Porthos, frequently cast his eyes with great uneasiness upon a large chest placed in front of his oak desk. Porthos comprehended that this chest, although it did not correspond in shape with that which he had seen in his dreams, must be the blessed coffer, and he congratulated himself that the reality was several feet higher than the dream. M Coquenard did not carry his genealogical investigations any further; but withdrawing his anxious look from the chest and fixing it upon Porthos, he contented himself with saying, "Monsieur our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us once before his departure for the campaign, will he not, Madame Coquenard?" This time Porthos received the blow right in his stomach, and felt it. It appeared likewise that Mme. Coquenard was not less affected by it on her part, for she added, "My cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to give us every instant he can call his own previous to his departure." "Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?" murmured Coquenard, and he tried to smile. This succor, which came to Porthos at the moment in which he was attacked in his gastronomic hopes, inspired much gratitude in the Musketeer toward the procurator's wife. The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating room--a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen. The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved preliminarily with fearful threatenings. "Indeed!" thought Porthos, casting a glance at the three hungry clerks--for the errand boy, as might be expected, was not admitted to the honors of the magisterial table, "in my cousin's place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks." M Coquenard entered, pushed along upon his armchair with casters by Mme. Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in rolling her husband up to the table. He had scarcely entered when he began to agitate his nose and his jaws after the example of his clerks. "Oh, oh!" said he; "here is a soup which is rather inviting." "What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this soup?" said Porthos, at the sight of a pale liquid, abundant but entirely free from meat, on the surface of which a few crusts swam about as rare as the islands of an archipelago. Mme. Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign from her everyone eagerly took his seat. M Coquenard was served first, then Porthos. Afterward Mme. Coquenard filled her own plate, and distributed the crusts without soup to the impatient clerks. At this moment the door of the dining room unclosed with a creak, and Porthos perceived through the half-open flap the little clerk who, not being allowed to take part in the feast, ate his dry bread in the passage with the double odor of the dining room and kitchen. After the soup the maid brought a boiled fowl--a piece of magnificence which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate in such a manner that they seemed ready to burst. "One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard," said the procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic. "You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!" The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick, bristly skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with all their efforts. The fowl must have been sought for a long time on the perch, to which it had retired to die of old age. "The devil!" thought Porthos, "this is poor work. I respect old age, but I don't much like it boiled or roasted." And he looked round to see if anybody partook of his opinion; but on the contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes which were devouring, in anticipation, that sublime fowl which was the object of his contempt. Mme. Coquenard drew the dish toward her, skillfully detached the two great black feet, which she placed upon her husband's plate, cut off the neck, which with the head she put on one side for herself, raised the wing for Porthos, and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the servant who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the Musketeer had time to examine the variations which disappointment produces upon faces, according to the characters and temperaments of those who experience it. In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its appearance--an enormous dish in which some bones of mutton that at first sight one might have believed to have some meat on them pretended to show themselves. But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their lugubrious looks settled down into resigned countenances. Mme. Coquenard distributed this dish to the young men with the moderation of a good housewife. The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very small stone bottle the third of a glass for each of the young men, served himself in about the same proportion, and passed the bottle to Porthos and Mme. Coquenard. The young men filled up their third of a glass with water; then, when they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up again, and continued to do so. This brought them, by the end of the repast, to swallowing a drink which from the color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale topaz. Porthos ate his wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when he felt the knee of the procurator's wife under the table, as it came in search of his. He also drank half a glass of this sparingly served wine, and found it to be nothing but that horrible Montreuil--the terror of all expert palates. M Coquenard saw him swallowing this wine undiluted, and sighed deeply. "Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?" said Mme. Coquenard, in that tone which says, "Take my advice, don't touch them." "Devil take me if I taste one of them!" murmured Porthos to himself, and then said aloud, "Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry." There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his countenance. The procurator repeated several times, "Ah, Madame Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!" M Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat. Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl his mustache and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme. Coquenard gently advised him to be patient. This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired. "Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working," said the procurator, gravely. The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of almonds and honey. M Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared. "A positive feast!" cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, "a real feast, EPULCE EPULORUM. Lucullus dines with Lucullus." Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and Mme. Coquenard did not seem to observe it. "This is fine!" said Porthos to himself; "I am prettily caught!" He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard. "Now," said he, "the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband's chest!" M Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet. The procurator's wife took Porthos into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation. "You can come and dine three times a week," said Mme. Coquenard. "Thanks, madame!" said Porthos, "but I don't like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!" "That's true," said the procurator's wife, groaning, "that unfortunate outfit!" "Alas, yes," said Porthos, "it is so." "But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, Monsieur Porthos?" "Oh, of many things!" said Porthos. "The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss." "But yet, detail them to me." "Why, they may amount to--", said Porthos, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one. The procurator's wife waited tremblingly. "To how much?" said she. "I hope it does not exceed--" She stopped; speech failed her. "Oh, no," said Porthos, "it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres." "Good God!" cried she, "two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!" Porthos made a most significant grimace; Mme. Coquenard understood it. "I wished to know the detail," said she, "because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself." "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "that is what you meant to say!" "Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don't you in the first place want a horse?" "Yes, a horse." "Well, then! I can just suit you." "Ah!" said Porthos, brightening, "that's well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres." "Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres," said the procurator's wife, with a sigh. Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket. "Then," continued he, "there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them." "A horse for your lackey?" resumed the procurator's wife, hesitatingly; "but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend." "Ah, madame!" said Porthos, haughtily; "do you take me for a beggar?" "No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton--" "Well, agreed for a pretty mule," said Porthos; "you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells." "Be satisfied," said the procurator's wife. "There remains the valise," added Porthos. "Oh, don't let that disturb you," cried Mme. Coquenard. "My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world." "Your valise is then empty?" asked Porthos, with simplicity. "Certainly it is empty," replied the procurator's wife, in real innocence. "Ah, but the valise I want," cried Porthos, "is a well-filled one, my dear." Madame uttered fresh sighs. Moliere had not written his scene in "L'Avare" then. Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan. Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator's wife should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory. These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Mme. Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of duty, and the procurator's wife was obliged to give place to the king. The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Procurator's Dinner

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-two-a-procurators-dinner

It is the evening of the dinner at the lawyer's house and Porthos is looking forward to this meal. He dreams of being welcomed as a member of the family and eating a delicious home-cooked meal. As he approaches the house, however, his dreams bear no resemblance to reality. The house is dingy and the kitchen lacks the hustle and bustle indicating that a good meal is being prepared. He meets the old lawyer, who is so old his legs no longer function. The man glances frequently at a large chest, which presumably contains all his money. Dinner is disgusting and stingy, although the lawyer remarks over and over again that it's a magnificent repast and his wife is really spoiling her cousin. After dinner, Madame Coquenard and Porthos step into another room for a chat. She invites him to dinner three times a week, which he respectfully declines. He brings up the issue of getting outfitted for war. They enter into negotiations: she wants to know his exact requirements because she may be able to get him a better deal on a horse, for instance. Porthos would prefer, for obvious reasons, to get a lump sum of money. They finally agree that she will give him eight hundred livres and then obtain a horse and mule. The two part amicably. Porthos returns home hungry.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_34_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 34

chapter 34: in which the equipment of aramis and porthos is treated of

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Four: In Which the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos is Treated Of", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-four-in-which-the-equipment-of-aramis-and-porthos-is-treated-of", "summary": "Since the four have been searching for a means to equip themselves, they haven't been spending much time together. They've been meeting only about once a week. When they meet this week, Porthos looks tranquil, D'Artagnan looks hopeful, Aramis looks uneasy, and Athos looks careless. Mousqueton interrupts their meeting and asks Porthos to come check the equipment. Soon after, Bazin arrives for Aramis, saying that a beggar is at Aramis's house asking to see him. Aramis is reluctant until he learns the beggar is from Tours. Athos and D'Artagnan are left alone. Athos kids D'Artagnan about his method of rescuing Madame Bonacieux. The narrator then turns our attention to Aramis, who finds the beggar waiting. The beggar asks to be shown a certain handkerchief. Aramis produces it, and in turn, the beggar gives him a letter and one hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles. The letter is from Aramis's mistress, who asks Aramis to take the money and tells him that the beggar is really a Spanish count in disguise. Aramis is overcome with joy and kisses the letter over and over again. D'Artagnan shows up at the door; Aramis tells him that the money is from a publisher who has bought one of his poems. The two friends go over to Athos's for dinner. Afterwards, they find Porthos with a mule and a horse. The horse is none other than the ridiculous yellow horse that D'Artagnan used to ride into Paris. Mousqueton believes that a trick is being played on them by the husband of the lawyer. He and Porthos return the animals. Madame Coquenard is confused, but Porthos soon visits and explains that the animals are not suitable. The Musketeer says he will find more generous friends, and the woman's jealousy is inflamed. She promises that the two of them can talk about money later that evening.", "analysis": ""}

34 IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS IS TREATED OF Since the four friends had been each in search of his equipments, there had been no fixed meeting between them. They dined apart from one another, wherever they might happen to be, or rather where they could. Duty likewise on its part took a portion of that precious time which was gliding away so rapidly--only they had agreed to meet once a week, about one o'clock, at the residence of Athos, seeing that he, in agreement with the vow he had formed, did not pass over the threshold of his door. This day of reunion was the same day as that on which Kitty came to find d'Artagnan. Soon as Kitty left him, d'Artagnan directed his steps toward the Rue Ferou. He found Athos and Aramis philosophizing. Aramis had some slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athos, according to his system, neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. Athos believed that everyone should be left to his own free will. He never gave advice but when it was asked, and even then he required to be asked twice. "People, in general," he said, "only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it." Porthos arrived a minute after d'Artagnan. The four friends were reunited. The four countenances expressed four different feelings: that of Porthos, tranquillity; that of d'Artagnan, hope; that of Aramis, uneasiness; that of Athos, carelessness. At the end of a moment's conversation, in which Porthos hinted that a lady of elevated rank had condescended to relieve him from his embarrassment, Mousqueton entered. He came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where his presence was urgent, as he piteously said. "Is it my equipment?" "Yes and no," replied Mousqueton. "Well, but can't you speak?" "Come, monsieur." Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton. An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door. "What do you want with me, my friend?" said Aramis, with that mildness of language which was observable in him every time that his ideas were directed toward the Church. "A man wishes to see Monsieur at home," replied Bazin. "A man! What man?" "A mendicant." "Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner." "This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends that you will be very glad to see him." "Has he sent no particular message for me?" "Yes. If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come," he said, "tell him I am from Tours." "From Tours!" cried Aramis. "A thousand pardons, gentlemen; but no doubt this man brings me the news I expected." And rising also, he went off at a quick pace. There remained Athos and d'Artagnan. "I believe these fellows have managed their business. What do you think, d'Artagnan?" said Athos. "I know that Porthos was in a fair way," replied d'Artagnan; "and as to Aramis to tell you the truth, I have never been seriously uneasy on his account. But you, my dear Athos--you, who so generously distributed the Englishman's pistoles, which were our legitimate property--what do you mean to do?" "I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my boy, seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englishman; but if I had pocketed his pistoles, they would have weighed me down like a remorse." "Go to, my dear Athos; you have truly inconceivable ideas." "Let it pass. What do you think of Monsieur de Treville telling me, when he did me the honor to call upon me yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English, whom the cardinal protects?" "That is to say, I visit an Englishwoman--the one I named." "Oh, ay! the fair woman on whose account I gave you advice, which naturally you took care not to adopt." "I gave you my reasons." "Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said." "Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that woman was concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux." "Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you court another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most amusing." D'Artagnan was on the point of telling Athos all; but one consideration restrained him. Athos was a gentleman, punctilious in points of honor; and there were in the plan which our lover had devised for Milady, he was sure, certain things that would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. He was therefore silent; and as Athos was the least inquisitive of any man on earth, d'Artagnan's confidence stopped there. We will therefore leave the two friends, who had nothing important to say to each other, and follow Aramis. Upon being informed that the person who wanted to speak to him came from Tours, we have seen with what rapidity the young man followed, or rather went before, Bazin; he ran without stopping from the Rue Ferou to the Rue de Vaugirard. On entering he found a man of short stature and intelligent eyes, but covered with rags. "You have asked for me?" said the Musketeer. "I wish to speak with Monsieur Aramis. Is that your name, monsieur?" "My very own. You have brought me something?" "Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief." "Here it is," said Aramis, taking a small key from his breast and opening a little ebony box inlaid with mother of pearl, "here it is. Look." "That is right," replied the mendicant; "dismiss your lackey." In fact, Bazin, curious to know what the mendicant could want with his master, kept pace with him as well as he could, and arrived almost at the same time he did; but his quickness was not of much use to him. At the hint from the mendicant his master made him a sign to retire, and he was obliged to obey. Bazin gone, the mendicant cast a rapid glance around him in order to be sure that nobody could either see or hear him, and opening his ragged vest, badly held together by a leather strap, he began to rip the upper part of his doublet, from which he drew a letter. Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed the superscription with an almost religious respect, and opened the epistle, which contained what follows: "My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes. "Adieu; or rather, AU REVOIR." The mendicant continued to rip his garments; and drew from amid his rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which he laid down on the table; then he opened the door, bowed, and went out before the young man, stupefied by his letter, had ventured to address a word to him. Aramis then reperused the letter, and perceived a postscript: PS. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count and a grandee of Spain! "Golden dreams!" cried Aramis. "Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored mistress!" And he kissed the letter with passion, without even vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table. Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him come in. Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that he came to announce d'Artagnan, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos. Now, as d'Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself. "The devil! my dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, "if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them." "You are mistaken, friend d'Artagnan," said Aramis, always on his guard; "this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder." "Ah, indeed," said d'Artagnan. "Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that's all I can say." "How, monsieur?" cried Bazin, "a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to Monsieur de Voiture and Monsieur de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbe. Ah! Monsieur Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you." "Bazin, my friend," said Aramis, "I believe you meddle with my conversation." Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out. "Ah!" said d'Artagnan with a smile, "you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher." Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and re-buttoned his doublet. "My dear d'Artagnan," said he, "if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn." "My faith!" said d'Artagnan, with great pleasure. "It is long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few glasses of good old Burgundy." "Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to that," said Aramis, from whom the letter and the gold had removed, as by magic, his ideas of conversion. And having put three or four double pistoles into his pocket to answer the needs of the moment, he placed the others in the ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl, in which was the famous handkerchief which served him as a talisman. The two friends repaired to Athos's, and he, faithful to his vow of not going out, took upon him to order dinner to be brought to them. As he was perfectly acquainted with the details of gastronomy, d'Artagnan and Aramis made no objection to abandoning this important care to him. They went to find Porthos, and at the corner of the Rue Bac met Mousqueton, who, with a most pitiable air, was driving before him a mule and a horse. D'Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, which was not quite free from joy. "Ah, my yellow horse," cried he. "Aramis, look at that horse!" "Oh, the frightful brute!" said Aramis. "Ah, my dear," replied d'Artagnan, "upon that very horse I came to Paris." "What, does Monsieur know this horse?" said Mousqueton. "It is of an original color," said Aramis; "I never saw one with such a hide in my life." "I can well believe it," replied d'Artagnan, "and that was why I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for, CERTES, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres. But how did this horse come into your hands, Mousqueton?" "Pray," said the lackey, "say nothing about it, monsieur; it is a frightful trick of the husband of our duchess!" "How is that, Mousqueton?" "Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de--but, your pardon; my master has commanded me to be discreet. She had forced us to accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish GENET and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The husband heard of the affair; on their way he confiscated the two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and substituted these horrible animals." "Which you are taking back to him?" said d'Artagnan. "Exactly!" replied Mousqueton. "You may well believe that we will not accept such steeds as these in exchange for those which had been promised to us." "No, PARDIEU; though I should like to have seen Porthos on my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked when I arrived in Paris. But don't let us hinder you, Mousqueton; go and perform your master's orders. Is he at home?" "Yes, monsieur," said Mousqueton, "but in a very ill humor. Get up!" He continued his way toward the Quai des Grands Augustins, while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the unfortunate Porthos. He, having seen them crossing the yard, took care not to answer, and they rang in vain. Meanwhile Mousqueton continued on his way, and crossing the Pont Neuf, still driving the two sorry animals before him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, he fastened, according to the orders of his master, both horse and mule to the knocker of the procurator's door; then, without taking any thought for their future, he returned to Porthos, and told him that his commission was completed. In a short time the two unfortunate beasts, who had not eaten anything since the morning, made such a noise in raising and letting fall the knocker that the procurator ordered his errand boy to go and inquire in the neighborhood to whom this horse and mule belonged. Mme. Coquenard recognized her present, and could not at first comprehend this restitution; but the visit of Porthos soon enlightened her. The anger which fired the eyes of the Musketeer, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified his sensitive inamorata. In fact, Mousqueton had not concealed from his master that he had met d'Artagnan and Aramis, and that d'Artagnan in the yellow horse had recognized the Bearnese pony upon which he had come to Paris, and which he had sold for three crowns. Porthos went away after having appointed a meeting with the procurator's wife in the cloister of St. Magloire. The procurator, seeing he was going, invited him to dinner--an invitation which the Musketeer refused with a majestic air. Mme. Coquenard repaired trembling to the cloister of St. Magloire, for she guessed the reproaches that awaited her there; but she was fascinated by the lofty airs of Porthos. All that which a man wounded in his self-love could let fall in the shape of imprecations and reproaches upon the head of a woman Porthos let fall upon the bowed head of the procurator's wife. "Alas," said she, "I did all for the best! One of our clients is a horsedealer; he owes money to the office, and is backward in his pay. I took the mule and the horse for what he owed us; he assured me that they were two noble steeds." "Well, madame," said Porthos, "if he owed you more than five crowns, your horsedealer is a thief." "There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Monsieur Porthos," said the procurator's wife, seeking to excuse herself. "No, madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends." And Porthos, turning on his heel, made a step to retire. "Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!" cried the procurator's wife. "I have been wrong; I see it. I ought not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier like you." Porthos, without reply, retreated a second step. The procurator's wife fancied she saw him in a brilliant cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags of money at his feet. "Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur Porthos!" cried she. "Stop, and let us talk." "Talking with you brings me misfortune," said Porthos. "But, tell me, what do you ask?" "Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something." The procurator's wife hung upon the arm of Porthos, and in the violence of her grief she cried out, "Monsieur Porthos, I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?" "You should have left it to me, then, madame, who know what they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to lend at usury." "It was wrong, Monsieur Porthos; but I will repair that wrong, upon my word of honor." "How so?" asked the Musketeer. "Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Due de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts." "In good time. Now you talk, my dear." "You pardon me?" "We shall see," said Porthos, majestically; and the two separated saying, "Till this evening." "The devil!" thought Porthos, as he walked away, "it appears I am getting nearer to Monsieur Coquenard's strongbox at last."

Chapter Thirty-Four: In Which the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos is Treated Of

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Since the four have been searching for a means to equip themselves, they haven't been spending much time together. They've been meeting only about once a week. When they meet this week, Porthos looks tranquil, D'Artagnan looks hopeful, Aramis looks uneasy, and Athos looks careless. Mousqueton interrupts their meeting and asks Porthos to come check the equipment. Soon after, Bazin arrives for Aramis, saying that a beggar is at Aramis's house asking to see him. Aramis is reluctant until he learns the beggar is from Tours. Athos and D'Artagnan are left alone. Athos kids D'Artagnan about his method of rescuing Madame Bonacieux. The narrator then turns our attention to Aramis, who finds the beggar waiting. The beggar asks to be shown a certain handkerchief. Aramis produces it, and in turn, the beggar gives him a letter and one hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles. The letter is from Aramis's mistress, who asks Aramis to take the money and tells him that the beggar is really a Spanish count in disguise. Aramis is overcome with joy and kisses the letter over and over again. D'Artagnan shows up at the door; Aramis tells him that the money is from a publisher who has bought one of his poems. The two friends go over to Athos's for dinner. Afterwards, they find Porthos with a mule and a horse. The horse is none other than the ridiculous yellow horse that D'Artagnan used to ride into Paris. Mousqueton believes that a trick is being played on them by the husband of the lawyer. He and Porthos return the animals. Madame Coquenard is confused, but Porthos soon visits and explains that the animals are not suitable. The Musketeer says he will find more generous friends, and the woman's jealousy is inflamed. She promises that the two of them can talk about money later that evening.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_36_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 36

chapter 36: dream of vengeance

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Six: Dream of Vengeance", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-six-dream-of-vengeance", "summary": "Milady continues to wait for a visit from D'Artagnan, but none is forthcoming. Finally, she sends him a note asking him to come visit. D'Artagnan notes that the worse the Comte's behavior is, the more he rises in Milady's estimation. He convinces himself it would be rude to refuse the invitation. Kitty gets worried again and D'Artagnan tells her that he will not, under any circumstance, fall in love with Milady. At nine o'clock, he shows up at Milady's. She looks like she's been crying. Soon, however, D'Artagnan is lured by her beauty and he's back to being in love. He declares his love for her. He hopes she will love him back. He declares he would do anything for her, and Milady requests that he kill the Comte de Wardes. He again swears that he would kill his own brother for her love. He kisses her passionately. He promises to fight de Wardes tomorrow. But before he does so, is there anything Milady wants to give him? Milady tells him to come back at eleven. He resolves to be careful.", "analysis": ""}

36 DREAM OF VENGEANCE That evening Milady gave orders that when M. d'Artagnan came as usual, he should be immediately admitted; but he did not come. The next day Kitty went to see the young man again, and related to him all that had passed on the preceding evening. D'Artagnan smiled; this jealous anger of Milady was his revenge. That evening Milady was still more impatient than on the preceding evening. She renewed the order relative to the Gascon; but as before she expected him in vain. The next morning, when Kitty presented herself at d'Artagnan's, she was no longer joyous and alert as on the two preceding days; but on the contrary sad as death. D'Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter with her; but she, as her only reply, drew a letter from her pocket and gave it to him. This letter was in Milady's handwriting; only this time it was addressed to M. d'Artagnan, and not to M. de Wardes. He opened it and read as follows: Dear M. d'Artagnan, It is wrong thus to neglect your friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening? Your very grateful, Milady Clarik "That's all very simple," said d'Artagnan; "I expected this letter. My credit rises by the fall of that of the Comte de Wardes." "And will you go?" asked Kitty. "Listen to me, my dear girl," said the Gascon, who sought for an excuse in his own eyes for breaking the promise he had made Athos; "you must understand it would be impolitic not to accept such a positive invitation. Milady, not seeing me come again, would not be able to understand what could cause the interruption of my visits, and might suspect something; who could say how far the vengeance of such a woman would go?" "Oh, my God!" said Kitty, "you know how to represent things in such a way that you are always in the right. You are going now to pay your court to her again, and if this time you succeed in pleasing her in your own name and with your own face, it will be much worse than before." Instinct made poor Kitty guess a part of what was to happen. D'Artagnan reassured her as well as he could, and promised to remain insensible to the seductions of Milady. He desired Kitty to tell her mistress that he could not be more grateful for her kindnesses than he was, and that he would be obedient to her orders. He did not dare to write for fear of not being able--to such experienced eyes as those of Milady--to disguise his writing sufficiently. As nine o'clock sounded, d'Artagnan was at the Place Royale. It was evident that the servants who waited in the antechamber were warned, for as soon as d'Artagnan appeared, before even he had asked if Milady were visible, one of them ran to announce him. "Show him in," said Milady, in a quick tone, but so piercing that d'Artagnan heard her in the antechamber. He was introduced. "I am at home to nobody," said Milady; "observe, to nobody." The servant went out. D'Artagnan cast an inquiring glance at Milady. She was pale, and looked fatigued, either from tears or want of sleep. The number of lights had been intentionally diminished, but the young woman could not conceal the traces of the fever which had devoured her for two days. D'Artagnan approached her with his usual gallantry. She then made an extraordinary effort to receive him, but never did a more distressed countenance give the lie to a more amiable smile. To the questions which d'Artagnan put concerning her health, she replied, "Bad, very bad." "Then," replied he, "my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw." "No, no!" said Milady. "On the contrary, stay, Monsieur d'Artagnan; your agreeable company will divert me." "Oh, oh!" thought d'Artagnan. "She has never been so kind before. On guard!" Milady assumed the most agreeable air possible, and conversed with more than her usual brilliancy. At the same time the fever, which for an instant abandoned her, returned to give luster to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and vermillion to her lips. D'Artagnan was again in the presence of the Circe who had before surrounded him with her enchantments. His love, which he believed to be extinct but which was only asleep, awoke again in his heart. Milady smiled, and d'Artagnan felt that he could damn himself for that smile. There was a moment at which he felt something like remorse. By degrees, Milady became more communicative. She asked d'Artagnan if he had a mistress. "Alas!" said d'Artagnan, with the most sentimental air he could assume, "can you be cruel enough to put such a question to me--to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have only breathed and sighed through you and for you?" Milady smiled with a strange smile. "Then you love me?" said she. "Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived it?" "It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the capture, the more difficult they are to be won." "Oh, difficulties do not affright me," said d'Artagnan. "I shrink before nothing but impossibilities." "Nothing is impossible," replied Milady, "to true love." "Nothing, madame?" "Nothing," replied Milady. "The devil!" thought d'Artagnan. "The note is changed. Is she going to fall in love with me, by chance, this fair inconstant; and will she be disposed to give me myself another sapphire like that which she gave me for de Wardes?" D'Artagnan rapidly drew his seat nearer to Milady's. "Well, now," she said, "let us see what you would do to prove this love of which you speak." "All that could be required of me. Order; I am ready." "For everything?" "For everything," cried d'Artagnan, who knew beforehand that he had not much to risk in engaging himself thus. "Well, now let us talk a little seriously," said Milady, in her turn drawing her armchair nearer to d'Artagnan's chair. "I am all attention, madame," said he. Milady remained thoughtful and undecided for a moment; then, as if appearing to have formed a resolution, she said, "I have an enemy." "You, madame!" said d'Artagnan, affecting surprise; "is that possible, my God?--good and beautiful as you are!" "A mortal enemy." "Indeed!" "An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an auxiliary?" D'Artagnan at once perceived the ground which the vindictive creature wished to reach. "You may, madame," said he, with emphasis. "My arm and my life belong to you, like my love." "Then," said Milady, "since you are as generous as you are loving--" She stopped. "Well?" demanded d'Artagnan. "Well," replied Milady, after a moment of silence, "from the present time, cease to talk of impossibilities." "Do not overwhelm me with happiness," cried d'Artagnan, throwing himself on his knees, and covering with kisses the hands abandoned to him. "Avenge me of that infamous de Wardes," said Milady, between her teeth, "and I shall soon know how to get rid of you--you double idiot, you animated sword blade!" "Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous woman," said d'Artagnan, likewise to himself, "after having abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh at you with him whom you wish me to kill." D'Artagnan lifted up his head. "I am ready," said he. "You have understood me, then, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Milady. "I could interpret one of your looks." "Then you would employ for me your arm which has already acquired so much renown?" "Instantly!" "But on my part," said Milady, "how should I repay such a service? I know these lovers. They are men who do nothing for nothing." "You know the only reply that I desire," said d'Artagnan, "the only one worthy of you and of me!" And he drew nearer to her. She scarcely resisted. "Interested man!" cried she, smiling. "Ah," cried d'Artagnan, really carried away by the passion this woman had the power to kindle in his heart, "ah, that is because my happiness appears so impossible to me; and I have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream that I pant to make a reality of it." "Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!" "I am at your orders," said d'Artagnan. "Quite certain?" said Milady, with a last doubt. "Only name to me the base man that has brought tears into your beautiful eyes!" "Who told you that I had been weeping?" said she. "It appeared to me--" "Such women as I never weep," said Milady. "So much the better! Come, tell me his name!" "Remember that his name is all my secret." "Yet I must know his name." "Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!" "You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?" "You know him." "Indeed." "Yes." "It is surely not one of my friends?" replied d'Artagnan, affecting hesitation in order to make her believe him ignorant. "If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?" cried Milady; and a threatening glance darted from her eyes. "Not if it were my own brother!" cried d'Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm. Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that was meant. "I love your devotedness," said Milady. "Alas, do you love nothing else in me?" asked d'Artagnan. "I love you also, YOU!" said she, taking his hand. The warm pressure made d'Artagnan tremble, as if by the touch that fever which consumed Milady attacked himself. "You love me, you!" cried he. "Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!" And he folded her in his arms. She made no effort to remove her lips from his kisses; only she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold; it appeared to d'Artagnan that he had embraced a statue. He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost believed in the tenderness of Milady; he almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had at that moment been under his hand, he would have killed him. Milady seized the occasion. "His name is--" said she, in her turn. "De Wardes; I know it," cried d'Artagnan. "And how do you know it?" asked Milady, seizing both his hands, and endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart. D'Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away, and that he had committed an error. "Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say," repeated Milady, "how do you know it?" "How do I know it?" said d'Artagnan. "Yes." "I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you." "Wretch!" cried Milady. The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of d'Artagnan's heart. "Well?" continued she. "Well, I will avenge you of this wretch," replied d'Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia. "Thanks, my brave friend!" cried Milady; "and when shall I be avenged?" "Tomorrow--immediately--when you please!" Milady was about to cry out, "Immediately," but she reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward d'Artagnan. Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of d'Artagnan's. "Tomorrow," said he, "you will be avenged, or I shall be dead." "No," said she, "you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. He is a coward." "With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of him." "But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in your contest with him." "Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back tomorrow." "Which means that you now hesitate?" "No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to allow me to go to a possible death without having given me at least something more than hope?" Milady answered by a glance which said, "Is that all?--speak, then." And then accompanying the glance with explanatory words, "That is but too just," said she, tenderly. "Oh, you are an angel!" exclaimed the young man. "Then all is agreed?" said she. "Except that which I ask of you, dear love." "But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?" "I cannot wait till tomorrow." "Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to find you here." She rang the bell and Kitty appeared. "Go out this way," said she, opening a small private door, "and come back at eleven o'clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber." The poor girl almost fainted at hearing these words. "Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing there like a statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier out; and this evening at eleven o'clock--you have heard what I said." "It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven o'clock," thought d'Artagnan; "that's a settled custom." Milady held out her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly. "But," said he, as he retired as quickly as possible from the reproaches of Kitty, "I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly a great liar. I must take care."

Chapter Thirty-Six: Dream of Vengeance

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Milady continues to wait for a visit from D'Artagnan, but none is forthcoming. Finally, she sends him a note asking him to come visit. D'Artagnan notes that the worse the Comte's behavior is, the more he rises in Milady's estimation. He convinces himself it would be rude to refuse the invitation. Kitty gets worried again and D'Artagnan tells her that he will not, under any circumstance, fall in love with Milady. At nine o'clock, he shows up at Milady's. She looks like she's been crying. Soon, however, D'Artagnan is lured by her beauty and he's back to being in love. He declares his love for her. He hopes she will love him back. He declares he would do anything for her, and Milady requests that he kill the Comte de Wardes. He again swears that he would kill his own brother for her love. He kisses her passionately. He promises to fight de Wardes tomorrow. But before he does so, is there anything Milady wants to give him? Milady tells him to come back at eleven. He resolves to be careful.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_39_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 39

chapter 39: a vision

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Nine: A Vision", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-a-vision", "summary": "All four friends meet up at four o'clock. Planchet enters with two letters for his master. The first is clearly from a lady, and the second is from the Cardinal. The first is unsigned, but requests D'Artagnan's presence on a certain road at a certain time. He is to look into the carriages that pass, but must give no indication that he recognizes any of the passengers. His friends warn him it may be a trap, and determine to accompany him. The second is an invitation from the Cardinal, the kind that can't be refused. This too seems dangerous, but D'Artagnan doesn't have a choice. The Musketeers determine that they will bring reinforcements. After all, it's been a while since they fought with cardinalists. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are looking forward to displaying all their new equipment and horses. Shortly after five o'clock, the men are decked out and ready to ride. They look fantastic. Finally, D'Artagnan arrives at the appointed place. After some time a carriage drives by that contains Madame Bonacieux. He attempts to follow but stops after remembering the note expressly told him not to. He worries about her, convinced that she is being transported from one prison to another. Still, they can't remain for much longer because D'Artagnan has his appointment with the Cardinal. The Musketeers collect about twelve other Musketeers, and together the fifteen of them form D'Artagnan's escort. At the Palais-Cardinal, D'Artagnan is shown into a library where a poet sits writing his manuscript. The man finishes and then looks up at D'Artagnan. Our hero recognizes the Cardinal.", "analysis": ""}

39 A VISION At four o'clock the four friends were all assembled with Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet--for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future. Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two letters for d'Artagnan. The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch. The other was a large square epistle, resplendent with the terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal duke. At the sight of the little letter the heart of d'Artagnan bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart. He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly. "Be," said the letter, "on Thursday next, at from six to seven o'clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant." No signature. "That's a snare," said Athos; "don't go, d'Artagnan." "And yet," replied d'Artagnan, "I think I recognize the writing." "It may be counterfeit," said Athos. "Between six and seven o'clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy." "But suppose we all go," said d'Artagnan; "what the devil! They won't devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!" "And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments," said Porthos. "But if it is a woman who writes," said Aramis, "and that woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her, d'Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman." "We will remain in the background," said Porthos, "and he will advance alone." "Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop." "Bah!" said d'Artagnan, "they will miss me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies." "He is right," said Porthos; "battle. Besides, we must try our own arms." "Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure," said Aramis, with his mild and careless manner. "As you please," said Athos. "Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six." "Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us," said Porthos, "and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlemen." "But this second letter," said Athos, "you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, d'Artagnan, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom." D'Artagnan blushed. "Well," said he, "let us see, gentlemen, what are his Eminence's commands," and d'Artagnan unsealed the letter and read, "M. d'Artagnan, of the king's Guards, company Dessessart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o'clock. "La Houdiniere, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS" "The devil!" said Athos; "here's a rendezvous much more serious than the other." "I will go to the second after attending the first," said d'Artagnan. "One is for seven o'clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both." "Hum! I would not go at all," said Aramis. "A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is not invited to make his compliments." "I am of Aramis's opinion," said Porthos. "Gentlemen," replied d'Artagnan, "I have already received by Monsieur de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me--Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go." "If you are determined," said Athos, "do so." "But the Bastille?" said Aramis. "Bah! you will get me out if they put me there," said d'Artagnan. "To be sure we will," replied Aramis and Porthos, with admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, "to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille." "Let us do better than that," said Athos; "do not let us leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind him; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal; Monsieur de Treville must think us dead." "To a certainty, Athos," said Aramis, "you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlemen?" "Admirable!" replied the young men in chorus. "Well," said Porthos, "I will run to the hotel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o'clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses." "I have no horse," said d'Artagnan; "but that is of no consequence, I can take one of Monsieur de Treville's." "That is not worth while," said Aramis, "you can have one of mine." "One of yours! how many have you, then?" asked d'Artagnan. "Three," replied Aramis, smiling. "Certes," cried Athos, "you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre." "Well, my dear Aramis, you don't want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!" "Therefore I only purchased two," said Aramis. "The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?" "No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master." "Or his mistress," interrupted d'Artagnan. "That makes no difference," said Aramis, coloring; "and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came." "It is only to poets that such things happen," said Athos, gravely. "Well, in that case, we can manage famously," said d'Artagnan; "which of the two horses will you ride--that which you bought or the one that was given to you?" "That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d'Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward--" "The unknown giver," interrupted d'Artagnan. "Or the mysterious benefactress," said Athos. "The one you bought will then become useless to you?" "Nearly so." "And you selected it yourself?" "With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse." "Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?" "I was going to make you the offer, my dear d'Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle." "How much did it cost you?" "Eight hundred livres." "Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend," said d'Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; "I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems." "You are rich, then?" said Aramis. "Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!" And d'Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his pocket. "Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours." "Very well; but it is already five o'clock, so make haste." A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Ferou on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride. At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was d'Artagnan's mount. The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athos and d'Artagnan watched their approach from the window. "The devil!" cried Aramis, "you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos." "Yes," replied Porthos, "it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband's substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction." Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their masters' steeds. D'Artagnan and Athos put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his procurator's wife, and d'Artagnan on a horse he owed to his good fortune--the best mistress possible. The lackeys followed. As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if Mme. Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet, she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted upon the strongbox of her husband. Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Treville, who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers. D'Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Treville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal's arms. It is well understood that he did not breathe a word about the other. M de Treville approved of the resolution he had adopted, and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he might. At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Treville. A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. D'Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted. At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. A presentiment instantly told d'Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D'Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition--for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision--was Mme. Bonacieux. By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, d'Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared. D'Artagnan then remembered the injunction: "If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing." He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous. The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared. D'Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Mme. Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she--which was still quite possible--for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy--might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known? His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman's head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Mme. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d'Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man's head, inside the carriage. "If that be the case," said d'Artagnan, "they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?" "Friend," said Athos, gravely, "remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!" added he, with that misanthropic tone which was peculiar to him, "perhaps sooner than you wish." Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D'Artagnan's friends reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract. But d'Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious. He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais-Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose. They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in the Place du Palais-Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand. D'Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the king's Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always ready. Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance. D'Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal gate. Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that woman and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom he had treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and d'Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends. "If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man," said d'Artagnan, shaking his head. "But why has he waited till now? That's all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow." "Fortunately," added he, "my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Treville's company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D'Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!" He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace. In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals Guards, who recognized d'Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning. This smile appeared to d'Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated--or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear--he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty. The usher returned and made a sign to d'Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves. He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing. The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a word. D'Artagnan remained standing and examined this man. D'Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written "Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts," and raised his head. D'Artagnan recognized the cardinal.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: A Vision

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-a-vision

All four friends meet up at four o'clock. Planchet enters with two letters for his master. The first is clearly from a lady, and the second is from the Cardinal. The first is unsigned, but requests D'Artagnan's presence on a certain road at a certain time. He is to look into the carriages that pass, but must give no indication that he recognizes any of the passengers. His friends warn him it may be a trap, and determine to accompany him. The second is an invitation from the Cardinal, the kind that can't be refused. This too seems dangerous, but D'Artagnan doesn't have a choice. The Musketeers determine that they will bring reinforcements. After all, it's been a while since they fought with cardinalists. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are looking forward to displaying all their new equipment and horses. Shortly after five o'clock, the men are decked out and ready to ride. They look fantastic. Finally, D'Artagnan arrives at the appointed place. After some time a carriage drives by that contains Madame Bonacieux. He attempts to follow but stops after remembering the note expressly told him not to. He worries about her, convinced that she is being transported from one prison to another. Still, they can't remain for much longer because D'Artagnan has his appointment with the Cardinal. The Musketeers collect about twelve other Musketeers, and together the fifteen of them form D'Artagnan's escort. At the Palais-Cardinal, D'Artagnan is shown into a library where a poet sits writing his manuscript. The man finishes and then looks up at D'Artagnan. Our hero recognizes the Cardinal.

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 49

chapter 49: fatality

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Nine: Fatality", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-nine-fatality", "summary": "Milady is so roaring mad to have been insulted by D'Artagnan and Athos that she doesn't want to leave France. The weather is pretty bad, however, that there is no way her ship could land. Milady calculates that it would be better for her to go straight to England. As she arrives, she compares herself to Judith, a woman from the Bible who entered alone into an enemy camp to slay the leader. An officer boards Milady's ship, converses with the captain, and surveys all the passengers. As he checks out Milady, she does the same to him. Yet she cannot figure out his character. He seems completely nondescript and a bit stubborn. The ship enters the port and the officer tells her he is in charge of escorting her. They go into a carriage and soon Milady understands that she is a prisoner. The carriage barrels out into the countryside. Milady wants to open the door and jump out, but the carriage is going too fast. Milady tries to interrogate the officer, but to no avail. They arrive at a castle on top of a giant cliff. She is taken to a room with bars on the windows and doors. Milady drops into an armchair, overcome with fear. She continues asking why she is a prisoner. Soon Lord de Winter walks in. He admits to having arranged everything, then turns and dismisses the young officer, who goes by the name of Felton. He and Milady are going to have a chat.", "analysis": ""}

49 FATALITY Meantime Milady, drunk with passion, roaring on the deck like a lioness that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw herself into the sea that she might regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the thought that she had been insulted by d'Artagnan, threatened by Athos, and that she had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea soon became so insupportable to her that at the risk of whatever terrible consequences might result to herself from it, she implored the captain to put her on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from his false position--placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat between the mice and the birds--was in great haste to regain England, and positively refused to obey what he took for a woman's caprice, promising his passenger, who had been particularly recommended to him by the cardinal, to land her, if the sea and the French permitted him, at one of the ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or Brest. But the wind was contrary, the sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. Nine days after leaving the Charente, pale with fatigue and vexation, Milady saw only the blue coasts of Finisterre appear. She calculated that to cross this corner of France and return to the cardinal it would take her at least three days. Add another day for landing, and that would make four. Add these four to the nine others, that would be thirteen days lost--thirteen days, during which so many important events might pass in London. She reflected likewise that the cardinal would be furious at her return, and consequently would be more disposed to listen to the complaints brought against her than to the accusations she brought against others. She allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without repeating her request to the captain, who, on his part, took care not to remind her of it. Milady therefore continued her voyage, and on the very day that Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France, the messenger of his Eminence entered the port in triumph. All the city was agitated by an extraordinary movement. Four large vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the jetty, his clothes richly laced with gold, glittering, as was customary with him, with diamonds and precious stones, his hat ornamented with a white feather which drooped upon his shoulder, Buckingham was seen surrounded by a staff almost as brilliant as himself. It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England remembers that there is a sun. The star of day, pale but nevertheless still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at once the heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the towers and the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration. Breathing that sea breeze, so much more invigorating and balsamic as the land is approached, contemplating all the power of those preparations she was commissioned to destroy, all the power of that army which she was to combat alone--she, a woman with a few bags of gold--Milady compared herself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses, men, and arms, which a gesture of her hand was to dissipate like a cloud of smoke. They entered the roadstead; but as they drew near in order to cast anchor, a little cutter, looking like a coastguard formidably armed, approached the merchant vessel and dropped into the sea a boat which directed its course to the ladder. This boat contained an officer, a mate, and eight rowers. The officer alone went on board, where he was received with all the deference inspired by the uniform. The officer conversed a few instants with the captain, gave him several papers, of which he was the bearer, to read, and upon the order of the merchant captain the whole crew of the vessel, both passengers and sailors, were called upon deck. When this species of summons was made the officer inquired aloud the point of the brig's departure, its route, its landings; and to all these questions the captain replied without difficulty and without hesitation. Then the officer began to pass in review all the people, one after the other, and stopping when he came to Milady, surveyed her very closely, but without addressing a single word to her. He then returned to the captain, said a few words to him, and as if from that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a maneuver which the crew executed immediately. Then the vessel resumed its course, still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it, menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The boat followed in the wake of the ship, a speck near the enormous mass. During the examination of Milady by the officer, as may well be imagined, Milady on her part was not less scrutinizing in her glances. But however great was the power of this woman with eyes of flame in reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished to divine, she met this time with a countenance of such impassivity that no discovery followed her investigation. The officer who had stopped in front of her and studied her with so much care might have been twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. He was of pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth, fine and well cut, remained motionless in its correct lines; his chin, strongly marked, denoted that strength of will which in the ordinary Britannic type denotes mostly nothing but obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets, enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair which, like the beard which covered the lower part of his face, was of a beautiful deep chestnut color. When they entered the port, it was already night. The fog increased the darkness, and formed round the sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to become rainy. The air they breathed was heavy, damp, and cold. Milady, that woman so courageous and firm, shivered in spite of herself. The officer desired to have Milady's packages pointed out to him, and ordered them to be placed in the boat. When this operation was complete, he invited her to descend by offering her his hand. Milady looked at this man, and hesitated. "Who are you, sir," asked she, "who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?" "You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy," replied the young man. "But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place themselves at the service of their female compatriots when they land in a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?" "Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hotels, in order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about them." These words were pronounced with the most exact politeness and the most perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not the power of convincing Milady. "But I am not a foreigner, sir," said she, with an accent as pure as ever was heard between Portsmouth and Manchester; "my name is Lady Clarik, and this measure--" "This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade it." "I will follow you, then, sir." Accepting the hand of the officer, she began the descent of the ladder, at the foot of which the boat waited. The officer followed her. A large cloak was spread at the stern; the officer requested her to sit down upon this cloak, and placed himself beside her. "Row!" said he to the sailors. The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound, giving but a single stroke, and the boat seemed to fly over the surface of the water. In five minutes they gained the land. The officer leaped to the pier, and offered his hand to Milady. A carriage was in waiting. "Is this carriage for us?" asked Milady. "Yes, madame," replied the officer. "The hotel, then, is far away?" "At the other end of the town." "Very well," said Milady; and she resolutely entered the carriage. The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the carriage; and this operation ended, he took his place beside Milady, and shut the door. Immediately, without any order being given or his place of destination indicated, the coachman set off at a rapid pace, and plunged into the streets of the city. So strange a reception naturally gave Milady ample matter for reflection; so seeing that the young officer did not seem at all disposed for conversation, she reclined in her corner of the carriage, and one after the other passed in review all the surmises which presented themselves to her mind. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, surprised at the length of the journey, she leaned forward toward the door to see whither she was being conducted. Houses were no longer to be seen; trees appeared in the darkness like great black phantoms chasing one another. Milady shuddered. "But we are no longer in the city, sir," said she. The young officer preserved silence. "I beg you to understand, sir, I will go no farther unless you tell me whither you are taking me." This threat brought no reply. "Oh, this is too much," cried Milady. "Help! help!" No voice replied to hers; the carriage continued to roll on with rapidity; the officer seemed a statue. Milady looked at the officer with one of those terrible expressions peculiar to her countenance, and which so rarely failed of their effect; anger made her eyes flash in the darkness. The young man remained immovable. Milady tried to open the door in order to throw herself out. "Take care, madame," said the young man, coolly, "you will kill yourself in jumping." Milady reseated herself, foaming. The officer leaned forward, looked at her in his turn, and appeared surprised to see that face, just before so beautiful, distorted with passion and almost hideous. The artful creature at once comprehended that she was injuring herself by allowing him thus to read her soul; she collected her features, and in a complaining voice said: "In the name of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute the violence that is done me?" "No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with all who land in England." "Then you don't know me, sir?" "It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you." "And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?" "None, I swear to you." There was so much serenity, coolness, mildness even, in the voice of the young man, that Milady felt reassured. At length after a journey of nearly an hour, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, which closed an avenue leading to a castle severe in form, massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel, Milady could hear a vast roaring, which she at once recognized as the noise of the sea dashing against some steep cliff. The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in a court large, dark, and square. Almost immediately the door of the carriage was opened, the young man sprang lightly out and presented his hand to Milady, who leaned upon it, and in her turn alighted with tolerable calmness. "Still, then, I am a prisoner," said Milady, looking around her, and bringing back her eyes with a most gracious smile to the young officer; "but I feel assured it will not be for long," added she. "My own conscience and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that." However flattering this compliment, the officer made no reply; but drawing from his belt a little silver whistle, such as boatswains use in ships of war, he whistled three times, with three different modulations. Immediately several men appeared, who unharnessed the smoking horses, and put the carriage into a coach house. Then the officer, with the same calm politeness, invited his prisoner to enter the house. She, with a still-smiling countenance, took his arm, and passed with him under a low arched door, which by a vaulted passage, lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase around an angle of stone. They then came to a massive door, which after the introduction into the lock of a key which the young man carried with him, turned heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the chamber destined for Milady. With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest details. It was a chamber whose furniture was at once appropriate for a prisoner or a free man; and yet bars at the windows and outside bolts at the door decided the question in favor of the prison. In an instant all the strength of mind of this creature, though drawn from the most vigorous sources, abandoned her; she sank into a large easy chair, with her arms crossed, her head lowered, and expecting every instant to see a judge enter to interrogate her. But no one entered except two or three marines, who brought her trunks and packages, deposited them in a corner, and retired without speaking. The officer superintended all these details with the same calmness Milady had constantly seen in him, never pronouncing a word himself, and making himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand or a sound of his whistle. It might have been said that between this man and his inferiors spoken language did not exist, or had become useless. At length Milady could hold out no longer; she broke the silence. "In the name of heaven, sir," cried she, "what means all that is passing? Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?" "You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentleman. There terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward you; the rest concerns another person." "And who is that other person?" asked Milady, warmly. "Can you not tell me his name?" At the moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. Some voices passed and faded away, and the sound of a single footstep approached the door. "That person is here, madame," said the officer, leaving the entrance open, and drawing himself up in an attitude of respect. At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold. He was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in his hand. Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she supported herself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced her head as if to meet a certainty. The stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced, after entering into the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milady involuntarily drew back. Then when she had no longer any doubt, she cried, in a state of stupor, "What, my brother, is it you?" "Yes, fair lady!" replied Lord de Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; "it is I, myself." "But this castle, then?" "Is mine." "This chamber?" "Is yours." "I am, then, your prisoner?" "Nearly so." "But this is a frightful abuse of power!" "No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother and sister ought to do." Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for his last orders, he said. "All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Mr. Felton."

Chapter Forty-Nine: Fatality

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-nine-fatality

Milady is so roaring mad to have been insulted by D'Artagnan and Athos that she doesn't want to leave France. The weather is pretty bad, however, that there is no way her ship could land. Milady calculates that it would be better for her to go straight to England. As she arrives, she compares herself to Judith, a woman from the Bible who entered alone into an enemy camp to slay the leader. An officer boards Milady's ship, converses with the captain, and surveys all the passengers. As he checks out Milady, she does the same to him. Yet she cannot figure out his character. He seems completely nondescript and a bit stubborn. The ship enters the port and the officer tells her he is in charge of escorting her. They go into a carriage and soon Milady understands that she is a prisoner. The carriage barrels out into the countryside. Milady wants to open the door and jump out, but the carriage is going too fast. Milady tries to interrogate the officer, but to no avail. They arrive at a castle on top of a giant cliff. She is taken to a room with bars on the windows and doors. Milady drops into an armchair, overcome with fear. She continues asking why she is a prisoner. Soon Lord de Winter walks in. He admits to having arranged everything, then turns and dismisses the young officer, who goes by the name of Felton. He and Milady are going to have a chat.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_50_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 50

chapter 50: chat between brother and sister

{"name": "Chapter Fifty: Chat Between Brother and Sister", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-chat-between-brother-and-sister", "summary": "Milady is confused about what happened. She is stunned that the Lord de Winter discovered her arrival and was prepared to take her prisoner. She assumes, however, that her imprisonment is for a past crime and not in anticipation of a future one. Lord de Winter asks for her reasons for coming to England. She tells her brother-in-law that she wanted to see him. The two of them talk for a while, each getting nowhere. Lord de Winter tells Milady that since she wanted to see him, he ensured that she would get that wish. He lies through his teeth about how he knew she was arriving. Milady gets increasingly alarmed. Her brother-in-law tells her that she can have anything she wants except freedom. He then remarks that he can arrange for her to have a household similar to that of her first husband's. Milady is terrified at those words, saying that he is insulting her. She runs to strike him; he grabs her and traces her left shoulder saying that other men's hands have touched her. Milady shrieks and runs into the corner. He tells her that she has no means of escape, and that he will soon have an executioner create a similar brand on her right shoulder. Lord de Winter tells her he plans for her to be sent to colonies in the south. Meanwhile, it is impossible to escape from the castle. He knows what she's thinking--that she has enough time to plan an escape. She can try to get out, he says, but escaping is impossible. Lord de Winter then talks about the young officer who escorted her to the castle. He tells her that this man will serve as her jailer, and that he is incorruptible. He calls for John Felton and introduces him to Milady. He tells John to look at Milady, warning that this woman will try to seduce him, and will try everything in her power to ruin him. Lord de Winter recalls that he once saved John's life and serves as his mentor. He is trusting John to guard Milady well. The two men leave after Lord de Winter gives John instructions. Milady sinks into an armchair to reflect on her situation.", "analysis": ""}

50 CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER During the time which Lord de Winter took to shut the door, close a shutter, and draw a chair near to his sister-in-law's fauteuil, Milady, anxiously thoughtful, plunged her glance into the depths of possibility, and discovered all the plan, of which she could not even obtain a glance as long as she was ignorant into whose hands she had fallen. She knew her brother-in-law to be a worthy gentleman, a bold hunter, an intrepid player, enterprising with women, but by no means remarkable for his skill in intrigues. How had he discovered her arrival, and caused her to be seized? Why did he detain her? Athos had dropped some words which proved that the conversation she had with the cardinal had fallen into outside ears; but she could not suppose that he had dug a countermine so promptly and so boldly. She rather feared that her preceding operations in England might have been discovered. Buckingham might have guessed that it was she who had cut off the two studs, and avenge himself for that little treachery; but Buckingham was incapable of going to any excess against a woman, particularly if that woman was supposed to have acted from a feeling of jealousy. This supposition appeared to her most reasonable. It seemed to her that they wanted to revenge the past, and not to anticipate the future. At all events, she congratulated herself upon having fallen into the hands of her brother-in-law, with whom she reckoned she could deal very easily, rather than into the hands of an acknowledged and intelligent enemy. "Yes, let us chat, brother," said she, with a kind of cheerfulness, decided as she was to draw from the conversation, in spite of all the dissimulation Lord de Winter could bring, the revelations of which she stood in need to regulate her future conduct. "You have, then, decided to come to England again," said Lord de Winter, "in spite of the resolutions you so often expressed in Paris never to set your feet on British ground?" Milady replied to this question by another question. "To begin with, tell me," said she, "how have you watched me so closely as to be aware beforehand not only of my arrival, but even of the day, the hour, and the port at which I should arrive?" Lord de Winter adopted the same tactics as Milady, thinking that as his sister-in-law employed them they must be the best. "But tell me, my dear sister," replied he, "what makes you come to England?" "I come to see you," replied Milady, without knowing how much she aggravated by this reply the suspicions to which d'Artagnan's letter had given birth in the mind of her brother-in-law, and only desiring to gain the good will of her auditor by a falsehood. "Ah, to see me?" said de Winter, cunningly. "To be sure, to see you. What is there astonishing in that?" "And you had no other object in coming to England but to see me?" "No." "So it was for me alone you have taken the trouble to cross the Channel?" "For you alone." "The deuce! What tenderness, my sister!" "But am I not your nearest relative?" demanded Milady, with a tone of the most touching ingenuousness. "And my only heir, are you not?" said Lord de Winter in his turn, fixing his eyes on those of Milady. Whatever command she had over herself, Milady could not help starting; and as in pronouncing the last words Lord de Winter placed his hand upon the arm of his sister, this start did not escape him. In fact, the blow was direct and severe. The first idea that occurred to Milady's mind was that she had been betrayed by Kitty, and that she had recounted to the baron the selfish aversion toward himself of which she had imprudently allowed some marks to escape before her servant. She also recollected the furious and imprudent attack she had made upon d'Artagnan when he spared the life of her brother. "I do not understand, my Lord," said she, in order to gain time and make her adversary speak out. "What do you mean to say? Is there any secret meaning concealed beneath your words?" "Oh, my God, no!" said Lord de Winter, with apparent good nature. "You wish to see me, and you come to England. I learn this desire, or rather I suspect that you feel it; and in order to spare you all the annoyances of a nocturnal arrival in a port and all the fatigues of landing, I send one of my officers to meet you, I place a carriage at his orders, and he brings you hither to this castle, of which I am governor, whither I come every day, and where, in order to satisfy our mutual desire of seeing each other, I have prepared you a chamber. What is there more astonishing in all that I have said to you than in what you have told me?" "No; what I think astonishing is that you should expect my coming." "And yet that is the most simple thing in the world, my dear sister. Have you not observed that the captain of your little vessel, on entering the roadstead, sent forward, in order to obtain permission to enter the port, a little boat bearing his logbook and the register of his voyagers? I am commandant of the port. They brought me that book. I recognized your name in it. My heart told me what your mouth has just confirmed--that is to say, with what view you have exposed yourself to the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at least so troublesome at this moment--and I sent my cutter to meet you. You know the rest." Milady knew that Lord de Winter lied, and she was the more alarmed. "My brother," continued she, "was not that my Lord Buckingham whom I saw on the jetty this evening as we arrived?" "Himself. Ah, I can understand how the sight of him struck you," replied Lord de Winter. "You came from a country where he must be very much talked of, and I know that his armaments against France greatly engage the attention of your friend the cardinal." "My friend the cardinal!" cried Milady, seeing that on this point as on the other Lord de Winter seemed well instructed. "Is he not your friend?" replied the baron, negligently. "Ah, pardon! I thought so; but we will return to my Lord Duke presently. Let us not depart from the sentimental turn our conversation had taken. You came, you say, to see me?" "Yes." "Well, I reply that you shall be served to the height of your wishes, and that we shall see each other every day." "Am I, then, to remain here eternally?" demanded Milady, with a certain terror. "Do you find yourself badly lodged, sister? Demand anything you want, and I will hasten to have you furnished with it." "But I have neither my women nor my servants." "You shall have all, madame. Tell me on what footing your household was established by your first husband, and although I am only your brother-in-law, I will arrange one similar." "My first husband!" cried Milady, looking at Lord de Winter with eyes almost starting from their sockets. "Yes, your French husband. I don't speak of my brother. If you have forgotten, as he is still living, I can write to him and he will send me information on the subject." A cold sweat burst from the brow of Milady. "You jest!" said she, in a hollow voice. "Do I look so?" asked the baron, rising and going a step backward. "Or rather you insult me," continued she, pressing with her stiffened hands the two arms of her easy chair, and raising herself upon her wrists. "I insult you!" said Lord de Winter, with contempt. "In truth, madame, do you think that can be possible?" "Indeed, sir," said Milady, "you must be either drunk or mad. Leave the room, and send me a woman." "Women are very indiscreet, my sister. Cannot I serve you as a waiting maid? By that means all our secrets will remain in the family." "Insolent!" cried Milady; and as if acted upon by a spring, she bounded toward the baron, who awaited her attack with his arms crossed, but nevertheless with one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Come!" said he. "I know you are accustomed to assassinate people; but I warn you I shall defend myself, even against you." "You are right," said Milady. "You have all the appearance of being cowardly enough to lift your hand against a woman." "Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for mine would not be the first hand of a man that has been placed upon you, I imagine." And the baron pointed, with a slow and accusing gesture, to the left shoulder of Milady, which he almost touched with his finger. Milady uttered a deep, inward shriek, and retreated to a corner of the room like a panther which crouches for a spring. "Oh, growl as much as you please," cried Lord de Winter, "but don't try to bite, for I warn you that it would be to your disadvantage. There are here no procurators who regulate successions beforehand. There is no knight-errant to come and seek a quarrel with me on account of the fair lady I detain a prisoner; but I have judges quite ready who will quickly dispose of a woman so shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into the bed of Lord de Winter, my brother. And these judges, I warn you, will soon send you to an executioner who will make both your shoulders alike." The eyes of Milady darted such flashes that although he was a man and armed before an unarmed woman, he felt the chill of fear glide through his whole frame. However, he continued all the same, but with increasing warmth: "Yes, I can very well understand that after having inherited the fortune of my brother it would be very agreeable to you to be my heir likewise; but know beforehand, if you kill me or cause me to be killed, my precautions are taken. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into your hands. Were you not already rich enough--you who possess nearly a million? And could you not stop your fatal career, if you did not do evil for the infinite and supreme joy of doing it? Oh, be assured, if the memory of my brother were not sacred to me, you should rot in a state dungeon or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn. I will be silent, but you must endure your captivity quietly. In fifteen or twenty days I shall set out for La Rochelle with the army; but on the eve of my departure a vessel which I shall see depart will take you hence and convey you to our colonies in the south. And be assured that you shall be accompanied by one who will blow your brains out at the first attempt you make to return to England or the Continent." Milady listened with an attention that dilated her inflamed eyes. "Yes, at present," continued Lord de Winter, "you will remain in this castle. The walls are thick, the doors strong, and the bars solid; besides, your window opens immediately over the sea. The men of my crew, who are devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this apartment, and watch all the passages that lead to the courtyard. Even if you gained the yard, there would still be three iron gates for you to pass. The order is positive. A step, a gesture, a word, on your part, denoting an effort to escape, and you are to be fired upon. If they kill you, English justice will be under an obligation to me for having saved it trouble. Ah! I see your features regain their calmness, your countenance recovers its assurance. You are saying to yourself: 'Fifteen days, twenty days? Bah! I have an inventive mind; before that is expired some idea will occur to me. I have an infernal spirit. I shall meet with a victim. Before fifteen days are gone by I shall be away from here.' Ah, try it!" Milady, finding her thoughts betrayed, dug her nails into her flesh to subdue every emotion that might give to her face any expression except agony. Lord de Winter continued: "The officer who commands here in my absence you have already seen, and therefore know him. He knows how, as you must have observed, to obey an order--for you did not, I am sure, come from Portsmouth hither without endeavoring to make him speak. What do you say of him? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more mute? You have already tried the power of your seductions upon many men, and unfortunately you have always succeeded; but I give you leave to try them upon this one. PARDIEU! if you succeed with him, I pronounce you the demon himself." He went toward the door and opened it hastily. "Call Mr. Felton," said he. "Wait a minute longer, and I will introduce him to you." There followed between these two personages a strange silence, during which the sound of a slow and regular step was heard approaching. Shortly a human form appeared in the shade of the corridor, and the young lieutenant, with whom we are already acquainted, stopped at the threshold to receive the orders of the baron. "Come in, my dear John," said Lord de Winter, "come in, and shut the door." The young officer entered. "Now," said the baron, "look at this woman. She is young; she is beautiful; she possesses all earthly seductions. Well, she is a monster, who, at twenty-five years of age, has been guilty of as many crimes as you could read of in a year in the archives of our tribunals. Her voice prejudices her hearers in her favor; her beauty serves as a bait to her victims; her body even pays what she promises--I must do her that justice. She will try to seduce you, perhaps she will try to kill you. I have extricated you from misery, Felton; I have caused you to be named lieutenant; I once saved your life, you know on what occasion. I am for you not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a father. This woman has come back again into England for the purpose of conspiring against my life. I hold this serpent in my hands. Well, I call you, and say to you: Friend Felton, John, my child, guard me, and more particularly guard yourself, against this woman. Swear, by your hopes of salvation, to keep her safely for the chastisement she has merited. John Felton, I trust your word! John Felton, I put faith in your loyalty!" "My Lord," said the young officer, summoning to his mild countenance all the hatred he could find in his heart, "my Lord, I swear all shall be done as you desire." Milady received this look like a resigned victim; it was impossible to imagine a more submissive or a more mild expression than that which prevailed on her beautiful countenance. Lord de Winter himself could scarcely recognize the tigress who, a minute before, prepared apparently for a fight. "She is not to leave this chamber, understand, John," continued the baron. "She is to correspond with nobody; she is to speak to no one but you--if you will do her the honor to address a word to her." "That is sufficient, my Lord! I have sworn." "And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by men!" Milady let her head sink, as if crushed by this sentence. Lord de Winter went out, making a sign to Felton, who followed him, shutting the door after him. One instant after, the heavy step of a marine who served as sentinel was heard in the corridor--his ax in his girdle and his musket on his shoulder. Milady remained for some minutes in the same position, for she thought they might perhaps be examining her through the keyhole; she then slowly raised her head, which had resumed its formidable expression of menace and defiance, ran to the door to listen, looked out of her window, and returning to bury herself again in her large armchair, she reflected.

Chapter Fifty: Chat Between Brother and Sister

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-chat-between-brother-and-sister

Milady is confused about what happened. She is stunned that the Lord de Winter discovered her arrival and was prepared to take her prisoner. She assumes, however, that her imprisonment is for a past crime and not in anticipation of a future one. Lord de Winter asks for her reasons for coming to England. She tells her brother-in-law that she wanted to see him. The two of them talk for a while, each getting nowhere. Lord de Winter tells Milady that since she wanted to see him, he ensured that she would get that wish. He lies through his teeth about how he knew she was arriving. Milady gets increasingly alarmed. Her brother-in-law tells her that she can have anything she wants except freedom. He then remarks that he can arrange for her to have a household similar to that of her first husband's. Milady is terrified at those words, saying that he is insulting her. She runs to strike him; he grabs her and traces her left shoulder saying that other men's hands have touched her. Milady shrieks and runs into the corner. He tells her that she has no means of escape, and that he will soon have an executioner create a similar brand on her right shoulder. Lord de Winter tells her he plans for her to be sent to colonies in the south. Meanwhile, it is impossible to escape from the castle. He knows what she's thinking--that she has enough time to plan an escape. She can try to get out, he says, but escaping is impossible. Lord de Winter then talks about the young officer who escorted her to the castle. He tells her that this man will serve as her jailer, and that he is incorruptible. He calls for John Felton and introduces him to Milady. He tells John to look at Milady, warning that this woman will try to seduce him, and will try everything in her power to ruin him. Lord de Winter recalls that he once saved John's life and serves as his mentor. He is trusting John to guard Milady well. The two men leave after Lord de Winter gives John instructions. Milady sinks into an armchair to reflect on her situation.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/53.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_53_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 53

chapter 53: captivity: the second day

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Three: Captivity: The Second Day", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-three-captivity-the-second-day", "summary": "Milady dreams that D'Artagnan is being executed. In the morning, she stays in bed when Felton walks into the corridor outside her room. A serving woman walks in to attend to Milady, who looks pale and complains of a fever. The woman asks if Milady wants a physician. Milady replies that it would be pointless. Milady continues to complain, and Felton threatens to fetch Lord de Winter. Felton brings a book containing a Catholic mass for Milady. She detects that Felton is not a Catholic, and that this can be used to her advantage. She rapidly pretends to be a Puritan without actually telling Felton this fact straight out. Lord de Winter later visits her and makes fun of her religious conversion. Felton overhears the entire conversation. Later that evening, Milady prays aloud. An old servant of hers was a Puritan; Milady co-opts the prayers for her own ends. She pretends to be in a religious ecstasy as Felton orders the dinner table brought in. She finishes her prayers and eats only a little. The table is cleared out and Milady notes with joy that Felton does not accompany them--clearly he is afraid of seeing her too often. She begins to sing pure Puritan verses. Her voice is incredible and is heard throughout the castle. It is clear Felton has been moved. He goes to visit her room and believes he sees an angel. Incoherently, he stammers out that she should not sing so loud next time.", "analysis": ""}

53 CAPTIVITY: THE SECOND DAY Milady dreamed that she at length had d'Artagnan in her power, that she was present at his execution; and it was the sight of his odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which spread that charming smile upon her lips. She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope. In the morning, when they entered her chamber she was still in bed. Felton remained in the corridor. He brought with him the woman of whom he had spoken the evening before, and who had just arrived; this woman entered, and approaching Milady's bed, offered her services. Milady was habitually pale; her complexion might therefore deceive a person who saw her for the first time. "I am in a fever," said she; "I have not slept a single instant during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is permission to remain abed." "Would you like to have a physician called?" said the woman. Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word. Milady reflected that the more people she had around her the more she would have to work upon, and Lord de Winter would redouble his watch. Besides, the physician might declare the ailment feigned; and Milady, after having lost the first trick, was not willing to lose the second. "Go and fetch a physician?" said she. "What could be the good of that? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a doctor." "Then," said Felton, who became impatient, "say yourself, madame, what treatment you wish followed." "Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that's all. Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence." "Go and fetch Lord de Winter," said Felton, tired of these eternal complaints. "Oh, no, no!" cried Milady; "no, sir, do not call him, I conjure you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him." She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps into the room. "He has come!" thought Milady. "Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer," said Felton, "a physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach ourselves with anything." Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head round upon her pillow, she burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs. Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual impassiveness; then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went out. The woman followed him, and Lord de Winter did not appear. "I fancy I begin to see my way," murmured Milady, with a savage joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction. Two hours passed away. "Now it is time that the malady should be over," said she; "let me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten days, and this evening two of them will be gone." In the morning, when they entered Milady's chamber they had brought her breakfast. Now, she thought, they could not long delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then reappear. Milady was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it having been brought in ready spread. Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand. Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful, pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom. Felton approached her, and said, "Lord de Winter, who is a Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you, has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual." At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which he accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more attentively at the officer. By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St. Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge. She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are to decide their fortunes or their lives. Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to her lips: "I?" said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, "I, sir? MY MASS? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he wishes to lay for me!" "And of what religion are you, then, madame?" asked Felton, with an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself he could not entirely conceal. "I will tell it," cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, "on the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith." The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the space she had opened for herself by this single word. The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his look alone had spoken. "I am in the hands of my enemies," continued she, with that tone of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans. "Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this book," added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, "you may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the accomplice in his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies." Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively. Lord de Winter came toward five o'clock in the evening. Milady had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct. She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her advantages. "It appears," said the baron, seating himself in the armchair opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs carelessly upon the hearth, "it appears we have made a little apostasy!" "What do you mean, sir!" "I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a third husband, have you?" "Explain yourself, my Lord," replied the prisoner, with majesty; "for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand them." "Then you have no religion at all; I like that best," replied Lord de Winter, laughing. "Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles," replied Milady, frigidly. "Oh, I confess it is all the same to me." "Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it." "What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth! Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!" "You only speak thus because you are overheard," coolly replied Milady; "and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen against me." "My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where you ought to be, and my task will be completed." "Infamous task! impious task!" cried Milady, with the exultation of a victim who provokes his judge. "My word," said de Winter, rising, "I think the hussy is going mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I'll remove you to a dungeon. It's my Spanish wine that has got into your head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is not dangerous, and will have no bad effects." And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a very knightly habit. Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of this scene. Milady had guessed aright. "Yes, go, go!" said she to her brother; "the effects ARE drawing near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them until it is too late to shun them." Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milady's supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying her prayers aloud--prayers which she had learned of an old servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly with the soldiers. Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to listen. For the moment she wished nothing better. She arose, came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water. An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. He feared, then, to see her too often. She turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have betrayed her. She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the Puritans: "Thou leavest thy servants, Lord, To see if they be strong; But soon thou dost afford Thy hand to lead them on." These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their poetry. While singing, Milady listened. The soldier on guard at her door stopped, as if he had been changed into stone. Milady was then able to judge of the effect she had produced. Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and feeling. It appeared to her that the sounds spread to a distance beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to soften the hearts of her jailers. It however likewise appeared that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off the charm, for through the door he called: "Hold your tongue, madame! Your song is as dismal as a 'De profundis'; and if besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such things as these, no mortal can hold out." "Silence!" then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady recognized as that of Felton. "What are you meddling with, stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from singing? No. You were told to guard her--to fire at her if she attempted to fly. Guard her! If she flies, kill her; but don't exceed your orders." An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon had bestowed upon it: "For all my tears, my cares, My exile, and my chains, I have my youth, my prayers, And God, who counts my pains." Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all the resources of their imagination. Felton believed he heard the singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the furnace. Milady continued: "One day our doors will ope, With God come our desire; And if betrays that hope, To death we can aspire." This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw her whole soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the young officer. He opened the door quickly; and Milady saw him appear, pale as usual, but with his eye inflamed and almost wild. "Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?" said he. "Your pardon, sir," said Milady, with mildness. "I forgot that my songs are out of place in this castle. I have perhaps offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so, I swear. Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but which certainly was involuntary." Milady was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in which she appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to her countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he beheld the angel whom he had only just before heard. "Yes, yes," said he; "you disturb, you agitate the people who live in the castle." The poor, senseless young man was not aware of the incoherence of his words, while Milady was reading with her lynx's eyes the very depths of his heart. "I will be silent, then," said Milady, casting down her eyes with all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the resignation she could impress upon her manner. "No, no, madame," said Felton, "only do not sing so loud, particularly at night." And at these words Felton, feeling that he could not long maintain his severity toward his prisoner, rushed out of the room. "You have done right, Lieutenant," said the soldier. "Such songs disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice is so beautiful."

Chapter Fifty-Three: Captivity: The Second Day

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-three-captivity-the-second-day

Milady dreams that D'Artagnan is being executed. In the morning, she stays in bed when Felton walks into the corridor outside her room. A serving woman walks in to attend to Milady, who looks pale and complains of a fever. The woman asks if Milady wants a physician. Milady replies that it would be pointless. Milady continues to complain, and Felton threatens to fetch Lord de Winter. Felton brings a book containing a Catholic mass for Milady. She detects that Felton is not a Catholic, and that this can be used to her advantage. She rapidly pretends to be a Puritan without actually telling Felton this fact straight out. Lord de Winter later visits her and makes fun of her religious conversion. Felton overhears the entire conversation. Later that evening, Milady prays aloud. An old servant of hers was a Puritan; Milady co-opts the prayers for her own ends. She pretends to be in a religious ecstasy as Felton orders the dinner table brought in. She finishes her prayers and eats only a little. The table is cleared out and Milady notes with joy that Felton does not accompany them--clearly he is afraid of seeing her too often. She begins to sing pure Puritan verses. Her voice is incredible and is heard throughout the castle. It is clear Felton has been moved. He goes to visit her room and believes he sees an angel. Incoherently, he stammers out that she should not sing so loud next time.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/55.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_55_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 55

chapter 55: captivity: the fourth day

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Five: Captivity: The Fourth Day", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-five-captivity-the-fourth-day", "summary": "When Felton enters the room, he finds Milady about to hang herself. He tells her not to commit suicide. Milady questions his motives and his adherence to his faith. Her beauty, her grief, and her threats of suicide--it's all too much for Felton and he's overcome. She continues to speak in enigmas until, too curious, he begs her to tell him her story. At this point Lord de Winter enters the room, casting an inquiring glance at Felton. Milady asks de Winter to ask Felton what favor she was asking. Felton tells his employer that Milady was asking for a knife. Lord de Winter perceives that Felton has succumbed to Milady's charms; he tells him to hold strong for three more days. Milady reflects that she has made some great headway. Felton comes back later and tells her that he wants to be convinced. He will return after twelve to hear her story. Milady insists that she wants to die; Felton persuades her to wait until after he has heard her story. Milady is thrilled. Felton is completely within her grasp.", "analysis": ""}

55 CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY The next day, when Felton entered Milady's apartment he found her standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made by means of torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into a kind of rope one with another, and tied at the ends. At the noise Felton made in entering, Milady leaped lightly to the ground, and tried to conceal behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand. The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by want of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night. Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a severity more austere than ever. He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps by design, she allowed to be seen, "What is this, madame?" he asked coldly. "That? Nothing," said Milady, smiling with that painful expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile. "Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I amused myself with twisting that rope." Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the apartment before which he had found Milady standing in the armchair in which she was now seated, and over her head he perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose of hanging up clothes or weapons. He started, and the prisoner saw that start--for though her eyes were cast down, nothing escaped her. "What were you doing on that armchair?" asked he. "Of what consequence?" replied Milady. "But," replied Felton, "I wish to know." "Do not question me," said the prisoner; "you know that we who are true Christians are forbidden to lie." "Well, then," said Felton, "I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the fatal project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide." "When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir," replied Milady, in a tone of deep conviction, "God pardons suicide, for then suicide becomes martyrdom." "You say either too much or too little; speak, madame. In the name of heaven, explain yourself." "That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as fables; that I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray them to my persecutor? No, sir. Besides, of what importance to you is the life or death of a condemned wretch? You are only responsible for my body, is it not so? And provided you produce a carcass that may be recognized as mine, they will require no more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have a double reward." "I, madame, I?" cried Felton. "You suppose that I would ever accept the price of your life? Oh, you cannot believe what you say!" "Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please," said Milady, elated. "Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not? You are a lieutenant? Well, you will follow me to the grave with the rank of captain." "What have I, then, done to you," said Felton, much agitated, "that you should load me with such a responsibility before God and before men? In a few days you will be away from this place; your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and," added he, with a sigh, "then you can do what you will with it." "So," cried Milady, as if she could not resist giving utterance to a holy indignation, "you, a pious man, you who are called a just man, you ask but one thing--and that is that you may not be inculpated, annoyed, by my death!" "It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will watch." "But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel enough, if I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?" "I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received." "Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God will separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges? You are not willing that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the agent of him who would kill my soul." "But I repeat it again to you," replied Felton, in great emotion, "no danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for myself." "Dunce," cried Milady, "dunce! who dares to answer for another man, when the wisest, when those most after God's own heart, hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the weakest and the most unfortunate." "Impossible, madame, impossible," murmured Felton, who felt to the bottom of his heart the justness of this argument. "A prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living, you will not lose your life through me." "Yes," cried Milady, "but I shall lose that which is much dearer to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you, you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my shame and my infamy." This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could not resist the secret influence which had already taken possession of him. To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the brightest vision, to see her by turns overcome with grief and threatening; to resist at once the ascendancy of grief and beauty--it was too much for a visionary; it was too much for a brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith; it was too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that burns, by the hatred of men that devours. Milady saw the trouble. She felt by intuition the flame of the opposing passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the young fanatic. As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to surrender, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose, beautiful as an antique priestess, inspired like a Christian virgin, her arms extended, her throat uncovered, her hair disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over her breast, her look illumined by that fire which had already created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her melodious voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible energy: "Let this victim to Baal be sent, To the lions the martyr be thrown! Thy God shall teach thee to repent! From th' abyss he'll give ear to my moan." Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified. "Who art thou? Who art thou?" cried he, clasping his hands. "Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell; art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or Astarte?" "Do you not know me, Felton? I am neither an angel nor a demon; I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is all." "Yes, yes!" said Felton, "I doubted, but now I believe." "You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of Belial who is called Lord de Winter! You believe, and yet you leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England, of the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me up to him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and debaucheries--to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!" "I deliver you up to Buckingham? I? what mean you by that?" "They have eyes," cried Milady, "but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not." "Yes, yes!" said Felton, passing his hands over his brow, covered with sweat, as if to remove his last doubt. "Yes, I recognize the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my soul, which cannot sleep: 'Strike, save England, save thyself--for thou wilt die without having appeased God!' Speak, speak!" cried Felton, "I can understand you now." A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as thought, gleamed from the eyes of Milady. However fugitive this homicide flash, Felton saw it, and started as if its light had revealed the abysses of this woman's heart. He recalled, all at once, the warnings of Lord de Winter, the seductions of Milady, her first attempts after her arrival. He drew back a step, and hung down his head, without, however, ceasing to look at her, as if, fascinated by this strange creature, he could not detach his eyes from her eyes. Milady was not a woman to misunderstand the meaning of this hesitation. Under her apparent emotions her icy coolness never abandoned her. Before Felton replied, and before she should be forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to be sustained in the same exalted tone, she let her hands fall; and as if the weakness of the woman overpowered the enthusiasm of the inspired fanatic, she said: "But no, it is not for me to be the Judith to deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the eternal is too heavy for my arm. Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by death; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a pagan. Let me die; that is all. I supplicate you, I implore you on my knees--let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for my preserver." Hearing that voice, so sweet and suppliant, seeing that look, so timid and downcast, Felton reproached himself. By degrees the enchantress had clothed herself with that magic adornment which she assumed and threw aside at will; that is to say, beauty, meekness, and tears--and above all, the irresistible attraction of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all voluptuousness. "Alas!" said Felton, "I can do but one thing, which is to pity you if you prove to me you are a victim! But Lord de Winter makes cruel accusations against you. You are a Christian; you are my sister in religion. I feel myself drawn toward you--I, who have never loved anyone but my benefactor--I who have met with nothing but traitors and impious men. But you, madame, so beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have committed great iniquities for Lord de Winter to pursue you thus." "They have eyes," repeated Milady, with an accent of indescribable grief, "but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not." "But," cried the young officer, "speak, then, speak!" "Confide my shame to you," cried Milady, with the blush of modesty upon her countenance, "for often the crime of one becomes the shame of another--confide my shame to you, a man, and I a woman? Oh," continued she, placing her hand modestly over her beautiful eyes, "never! never!--I could not!" "To me, to a brother?" said Felton. Milady looked at him for some time with an expression which the young man took for doubt, but which, however, was nothing but observation, or rather the wish to fascinate. Felton, in his turn a suppliant, clasped his hands. "Well, then," said Milady, "I confide in my brother; I will dare to--" At this moment the steps of Lord de Winter were heard; but this time the terrible brother-in-law of Milady did not content himself, as on the preceding day, with passing before the door and going away again. He paused, exchanged two words with the sentinel; then the door opened, and he appeared. During the exchange of these two words Felton drew back quickly, and when Lord de Winter entered, he was several paces from the prisoner. The baron entered slowly, sending a scrutinizing glance from Milady to the young officer. "You have been here a very long time, John," said he. "Has this woman been relating her crimes to you? In that case I can comprehend the length of the conversation." Felton started; and Milady felt she was lost if she did not come to the assistance of the disconcerted Puritan. "Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape!" said she. "Well, ask your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of him." "You demanded a favor?" said the baron, suspiciously. "Yes, my Lord," replied the young man, confused. "And what favor, pray?" asked Lord de Winter. "A knife, which she would return to me through the grating of the door a minute after she had received it," replied Felton. "There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable lady is desirous of cutting," said de Winter, in an ironical, contemptuous tone. "There is myself," replied Milady. "I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn," replied Lord de Winter. "Choose Tyburn, madame. Believe me, the cord is more certain than the knife." Felton grew pale, and made a step forward, remembering that at the moment he entered Milady had a rope in her hand. "You are right," said she, "I have often thought of it." Then she added in a low voice, "And I will think of it again." Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow of his bones; probably Lord de Winter perceived this emotion. "Mistrust yourself, John," said he. "I have placed reliance upon you, my friend. Beware! I have warned you! But be of good courage, my lad; in three days we shall be delivered from this creature, and where I shall send her she can harm nobody." "You hear him!" cried Milady, with vehemence, so that the baron might believe she was addressing heaven, and that Felton might understand she was addressing him. Felton lowered his head and reflected. The baron took the young officer by the arm, and turned his head over his shoulder, so as not to lose sight of Milady till he was gone out. "Well," said the prisoner, when the door was shut, "I am not so far advanced as I believed. De Winter has changed his usual stupidity into a strange prudence. It is the desire of vengeance, and how desire molds a man! As to Felton, he hesitates. Ah, he is not a man like that cursed d'Artagnan. A Puritan only adores virgins, and he adores them by clasping his hands. A Musketeer loves women, and he loves them by clasping his arms round them." Milady waited, then, with much impatience, for she feared the day would pass away without her seeing Felton again. At last, in an hour after the scene we have just described, she heard someone speaking in a low voice at the door. Presently the door opened, and she perceived Felton. The young man advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door open behind him, and making a sign to Milady to be silent; his face was much agitated. "What do you want with me?" said she. "Listen," replied Felton, in a low voice. "I have just sent away the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it, in order to speak to you without being overheard. The baron has just related a frightful story to me." Milady assumed her smile of a resigned victim, and shook her head. "Either you are a demon," continued Felton, "or the baron--my benefactor, my father--is a monster. I have known you four days; I have loved him four years. I therefore may hesitate between you. Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced. Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall convince me." "No, Felton, no, my brother," said she; "the sacrifice is too great, and I feel what it must cost you. No, I am lost; do not be lost with me. My death will be much more eloquent than my life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better than the words of the prisoner." "Be silent, madame," cried Felton, "and do not speak to me thus; I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt upon your life." "I will not promise," said Milady, "for no one has more respect for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I must keep it." "Well," said Felton, "only promise till you have seen me again. If, when you have seen me again, you still persist--well, then you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you desire." "Well," said Milady, "for you I will wait." "Swear." "I swear it, by our God. Are you satisfied?" "Well," said Felton, "till tonight." And he darted out of the room, shut the door, and waited in the corridor, the soldier's half-pike in his hand, and as if he had mounted guard in his place. The soldier returned, and Felton gave him back his weapon. Then, through the grating to which she had drawn near, Milady saw the young man make a sign with delirious fervor, and depart in an apparent transport of joy. As for her, she returned to her place with a smile of savage contempt upon her lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible name of God, by whom she had just sworn without ever having learned to know Him. "My God," said she, "what a senseless fanatic! My God, it is I--I--and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself."

Chapter Fifty-Five: Captivity: The Fourth Day

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-five-captivity-the-fourth-day

When Felton enters the room, he finds Milady about to hang herself. He tells her not to commit suicide. Milady questions his motives and his adherence to his faith. Her beauty, her grief, and her threats of suicide--it's all too much for Felton and he's overcome. She continues to speak in enigmas until, too curious, he begs her to tell him her story. At this point Lord de Winter enters the room, casting an inquiring glance at Felton. Milady asks de Winter to ask Felton what favor she was asking. Felton tells his employer that Milady was asking for a knife. Lord de Winter perceives that Felton has succumbed to Milady's charms; he tells him to hold strong for three more days. Milady reflects that she has made some great headway. Felton comes back later and tells her that he wants to be convinced. He will return after twelve to hear her story. Milady insists that she wants to die; Felton persuades her to wait until after he has heard her story. Milady is thrilled. Felton is completely within her grasp.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/56.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_56_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 56

chapter 56: captivity: the fifth day

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Six: Captivity: The Fifth Day", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-six-captivity-the-fifth-day", "summary": "Milady realizes that Felton, being a deeply religious man, is immune to ordinary seductions. She really has to bring her A-game tonight! She furthermore realizes that she has only two days left to successfully escape, and although she knows she can likely work her way back from the colonies, she can't bear the idea of being out of the loop for the years it would take. At nine o'clock Lord de Winter enters the room to make sure everything is secure. He reassures himself that it is impossible for Milady to escape. After midnight Felton enters Milady's room. She asks for the knife. Felton puts it on the table. She spins a long tale for Felton, who is hooked. The story goes something like this: A young and beautiful Milady is captured, drugged, and raped by an evil man. She is held captive and drugged repeatedly. Her captor demands her love, asking her to marry him. One night she conceals a knife and attempts to murder her captor. Unfortunately, he was wearing a coat of chain mail. Her captor tells her that he will release her; Milady threatens to tell everyone what has happened. In that case, he says, he will have to keep her captive. Milady goes on hunger strike. Felton is overcome.", "analysis": ""}

56 CAPTIVITY: THE FIFTH DAY Milady had however achieved a half-triumph, and success doubled her forces. It was not difficult to conquer, as she had hitherto done, men prompt to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant education of a court led quickly into her net. Milady was handsome enough not to find much resistance on the part of the flesh, and she was sufficiently skillful to prevail over all the obstacles of the mind. But this time she had to contend with an unpolished nature, concentrated and insensible by force of austerity. Religion and its observances had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary seductions. There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any capricious or material love--that sentiment which is fed by leisure and grows with corruption. Milady had, then, made a breach by her false virtue in the opinion of a man horribly prejudiced against her, and by her beauty in the heart of a man hitherto chaste and pure. In short, she had taken the measure of motives hitherto unknown to herself, through this experiment, made upon the most rebellious subject that nature and religion could submit to her study. Many a time, nevertheless, during the evening she despaired of fate and of herself. She did not invoke God, we very well know, but she had faith in the genius of evil--that immense sovereignty which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to reconstruct a ruined world. Milady, being well prepared for the reception of Felton, was able to erect her batteries for the next day. She knew she had only two days left; that when once the order was signed by Buckingham--and Buckingham would sign it the more readily from its bearing a false name, and he could not, therefore, recognize the woman in question--once this order was signed, we say, the baron would make her embark immediately, and she knew very well that women condemned to exile employ arms much less powerful in their seductions than the pretendedly virtuous woman whose beauty is lighted by the sun of the world, whose style the voice of fashion lauds, and whom a halo of aristocracy gilds with enchanting splendors. To be a woman condemned to a painful and disgraceful punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it is an obstacle to the recovery of power. Like all persons of real genius, Milady knew what suited her nature and her means. Poverty was repugnant to her; degradation took away two-thirds of her greatness. Milady was only a queen while among queens. The pleasure of satisfied pride was necessary to her domination. To command inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for her. She should certainly return from her exile--she did not doubt that a single instant; but how long might this exile last? For an active, ambitious nature, like that of Milady, days not spent in climbing are inauspicious days. What word, then, can be found to describe the days which they occupy in descending? To lose a year, two years, three years, is to talk of an eternity; to return after the death or disgrace of the cardinal, perhaps; to return when d'Artagnan and his friends, happy and triumphant, should have received from the queen the reward they had well acquired by the services they had rendered her--these were devouring ideas that a woman like Milady could not endure. For the rest, the storm which raged within her doubled her strength, and she would have burst the walls of her prison if her body had been able to take for a single instant the proportions of her mind. Then that which spurred her on additionally in the midst of all this was the remembrance of the cardinal. What must the mistrustful, restless, suspicious cardinal think of her silence--the cardinal, not merely her only support, her only prop, her only protector at present, but still further, the principal instrument of her future fortune and vengeance? She knew him; she knew that at her return from a fruitless journey it would be in vain to tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to enlarge upon the sufferings she had undergone. The cardinal would reply, with the sarcastic calmness of the skeptic, strong at once by power and genius, "You should not have allowed yourself to be taken." Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths of her soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that penetrated to her in the hell into which she had fallen; and like a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its strength, she enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes of her inventive imagination. Time, however, passed away; the hours, one after another, seemed to awaken the clock as they passed, and every blow of the brass hammer resounded upon the heart of the prisoner. At nine o'clock, Lord de Winter made his customary visit, examined the window and the bars, sounded the floor and the walls, looked to the chimney and the doors, without, during this long and minute examination, he or Milady pronouncing a single word. Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become too serious to lose time in useless words and aimless wrath. "Well," said the baron, on leaving her "you will not escape tonight!" At ten o'clock Felton came and placed the sentinel. Milady recognized his step. She was as well acquainted with it now as a mistress is with that of the lover of her heart; and yet Milady at the same time detested and despised this weak fanatic. That was not the appointed hour. Felton did not enter. Two hours after, as midnight sounded, the sentinel was relieved. This time it WAS the hour, and from this moment Milady waited with impatience. The new sentinel commenced his walk in the corridor. At the expiration of ten minutes Felton came. Milady was all attention. "Listen," said the young man to the sentinel. "On no pretense leave the door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a soldier for having quit his post for an instant, although I, during his absence, watched in his place." "Yes, I know it," said the soldier. "I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch. For my part I am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear entertains sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have received orders to watch her." "Good!" murmured Milady; "the austere Puritan lies." As to the soldier, he only smiled. "Zounds, Lieutenant!" said he; "you are not unlucky in being charged with such commissions, particularly if my Lord has authorized you to look into her bed." Felton blushed. Under any other circumstances he would have reprimanded the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but his conscience murmured too loud for his mouth to dare speak. "If I call, come," said he. "If anyone comes, call me." "I will, Lieutenant," said the soldier. Felton entered Milady's apartment. Milady arose. "You are here!" said she. "I promised to come," said Felton, "and I have come." "You promised me something else." "What, my God!" said the young man, who in spite of his self-command felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow. "You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our interview." "Say no more of that, madame," said Felton. "There is no situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a creature of God to inflict death upon himself. I have reflected, and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin." "Ah, you have reflected!" said the prisoner, sitting down in her armchair, with a smile of disdain; "and I also have reflected." "Upon what?" "That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word." "Oh, my God!" murmured Felton. "You may retire," said Milady. "I will not talk." "Here is the knife," said Felton, drawing from his pocket the weapon which he had brought, according to his promise, but which he hesitated to give to his prisoner. "Let me see it," said Milady. "For what purpose?" "Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you. You shall place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me." Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who examined the temper of it attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of her finger. "Well," said she, returning the knife to the young officer, "this is fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton." Felton took back the weapon, and laid it upon the table, as he had agreed with the prisoner. Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction. "Now," said she, "listen to me." The request was needless. The young officer stood upright before her, awaiting her words as if to devour them. "Felton," said Milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy, "imagine that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to you. While yet young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into a snare. I resisted. Ambushes and violences multiplied around me, but I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were blasphemed because I called upon that religion and that God, but still I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and as my soul was not subdued they wished to defile my body forever. Finally--" Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips. "Finally," said Felton, "finally, what did they do?" "At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the resistance he could not conquer. One evening he mixed a powerful narcotic with my water. Scarcely had I finished my repast, when I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor. Although I was without mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to struggle against sleepiness. I arose. I wished to run to the window and call for help, but my legs refused their office. It appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me with its weight. I stretched out my arms. I tried to speak. I could only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came over me. I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about to fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my weak arms. I fell upon one knee, then upon both. I tried to pray, but my tongue was frozen. God doubtless neither heard nor saw me, and I sank upon the floor a prey to a slumber which resembled death. "Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away while it lasted, I have no remembrance. The only thing I recollect is that I awoke in bed in a round chamber, the furniture of which was sumptuous, and into which light only penetrated by an opening in the ceiling. No door gave entrance to the room. It might be called a magnificent prison. "It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I was in, or to take account of the details I describe. My mind appeared to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the sleep from which I could not rouse myself. I had vague perceptions of space traversed, of the rolling of a carriage, of a horrible dream in which my strength had become exhausted; but all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and yet mixed with mine in fantastic duality. "At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange that I believed myself dreaming. I arose trembling. My clothes were near me on a chair; I neither remembered having undressed myself nor going to bed. Then by degrees the reality broke upon me, full of chaste terrors. I was no longer in the house where I had dwelt. As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the day was already two-thirds gone. It was the evening before when I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have lasted twenty-four hours! What had taken place during this long sleep? "I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic were not yet entirely dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for the reception of a woman; and the most finished coquette could not have formed a wish, but on casting her eyes about the apartment, she would have found that wish accomplished. "Certainly I was not the first captive that had been shut up in this splendid prison; but you may easily comprehend, Felton, that the more superb the prison, the greater was my terror. "Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in vain to get out of it. I sounded all the walls, in the hopes of discovering a door, but everywhere the walls returned a full and flat sound. "I made the tour of the room at least twenty times, in search of an outlet of some kind; but there was none. I sank exhausted with fatigue and terror into an armchair. "Meantime, night came on rapidly, and with night my terrors increased. I did not know but I had better remain where I was seated. It appeared that I was surrounded with unknown dangers into which I was about to fall at every instant. Although I had eaten nothing since the evening before, my fears prevented my feeling hunger. "No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached me; I only supposed it must be seven or eight o'clock in the evening, for it was in the month of October and it was quite dark. "All at once the noise of a door, turning on its hinges, made me start. A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of the ceiling, casting a strong light into my chamber; and I perceived with terror that a man was standing within a few paces of me. "A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared, stood, as if by magic, in the middle of the apartment. "That man was he who had pursued me during a whole year, who had vowed my dishonor, and who, by the first words that issued from his mouth, gave me to understand he had accomplished it the preceding night." "Scoundrel!" murmured Felton. "Oh, yes, scoundrel!" cried Milady, seeing the interest which the young officer, whose soul seemed to hang on her lips, took in this strange recital. "Oh, yes, scoundrel! He believed, having triumphed over me in my sleep, that all was completed. He came, hoping that I would accept my shame, as my shame was consummated; he came to offer his fortune in exchange for my love. "All that the heart of a woman could contain of haughty contempt and disdainful words, I poured out upon this man. Doubtless he was accustomed to such reproaches, for he listened to me calm and smiling, with his arms crossed over his breast. Then, when he thought I had said all, he advanced toward me; I sprang toward the table, I seized a knife, I placed it to my breast. "Take one step more," said I, "and in addition to my dishonor, you shall have my death to reproach yourself with." "There was, no doubt, in my look, my voice, my whole person, that sincerity of gesture, of attitude, of accent, which carries conviction to the most perverse minds, for he paused. "'Your death?' said he; 'oh, no, you are too charming a mistress to allow me to consent to lose you thus, after I have had the happiness to possess you only a single time. Adieu, my charmer; I will wait to pay you my next visit till you are in a better humor.' "At these words he blew a whistle; the globe of fire which lighted the room reascended and disappeared. I found myself again in complete darkness. The same noise of a door opening and shutting was repeated the instant afterward; the flaming globe descended afresh, and I was completely alone. "This moment was frightful; if I had any doubts as to my misfortune, these doubts had vanished in an overwhelming reality. I was in the power of a man whom I not only detested, but despised--of a man capable of anything, and who had already given me a fatal proof of what he was able to do." "But who, then was this man?" asked Felton. "I passed the night on a chair, starting at the least noise, for toward midnight the lamp went out, and I was again in darkness. But the night passed away without any fresh attempt on the part of my persecutor. Day came; the table had disappeared, only I had still the knife in my hand. "This knife was my only hope. "I was worn out with fatigue. Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I had not dared to sleep a single instant. The light of day reassured me; I went and threw myself on the bed, without parting with the emancipating knife, which I concealed under my pillow. "When I awoke, a fresh meal was served. "This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my agony, I began to feel a devouring hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I had taken any nourishment. I ate some bread and some fruit; then, remembering the narcotic mixed with the water I had drunk, I would not touch that which was placed on the table, but filled my glass at a marble fountain fixed in the wall over my dressing table. "And yet, notwithstanding these precautions, I remained for some time in a terrible agitation of mind. But my fears were this time ill-founded; I passed the day without experiencing anything of the kind I dreaded. "I took the precaution to half empty the carafe, in order that my suspicions might not be noticed. "The evening came on, and with it darkness; but however profound was this darkness, my eyes began to accustom themselves to it. I saw, amid the shadows, the table sink through the floor; a quarter of an hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. In an instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once more lighted. "I was determined to eat only such things as could not possibly have anything soporific introduced into them. Two eggs and some fruit composed my repast; then I drew another glass of water from my protecting fountain, and drank it. "At the first swallow, it appeared to me not to have the same taste as in the morning. Suspicion instantly seized me. I paused, but I had already drunk half a glass. "I threw the rest away with horror, and waited, with the dew of fear upon my brow. "No doubt some invisible witness had seen me draw the water from that fountain, and had taken advantage of my confidence in it, the better to assure my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so cruelly pursued. "Half an hour had not passed when the same symptoms began to appear; but as I had only drunk half a glass of the water, I contended longer, and instead of falling entirely asleep, I sank into a state of drowsiness which left me a perception of what was passing around me, while depriving me of the strength either to defend myself or to fly. "I dragged myself toward the bed, to seek the only defense I had left--my saving knife; but I could not reach the bolster. I sank on my knees, my hands clasped round one of the bedposts; then I felt that I was lost." Felton became frightfully pale, and a convulsive tremor crept through his whole body. "And what was most frightful," continued Milady, her voice altered, as if she still experienced the same agony as at that awful minute, "was that at this time I retained a consciousness of the danger that threatened me; was that my soul, if I may say so, waked in my sleeping body; was that I saw, that I heard. It is true that all was like a dream, but it was not the less frightful. "I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in darkness; then I heard the well-known creaking of the door although I had heard that door open but twice. "I felt instinctively that someone approached me; it is said that the doomed wretch in the deserts of America thus feels the approach of the serpent. "I wished to make an effort; I attempted to cry out. By an incredible effort of will I even raised myself up, but only to sink down again immediately, and to fall into the arms of my persecutor." "Tell me who this man was!" cried the young officer. Milady saw at a single glance all the painful feelings she inspired in Felton by dwelling on every detail of her recital; but she would not spare him a single pang. The more profoundly she wounded his heart, the more certainly he would avenge her. She continued, then, as if she had not heard his exclamation, or as if she thought the moment was not yet come to reply to it. "Only this time it was no longer an inert body, without feeling, that the villain had to deal with. I have told you that without being able to regain the complete exercise of my faculties, I retained the sense of my danger. I struggled, then, with all my strength, and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a long resistance, for I heard him cry out, 'These miserable Puritans! I knew very well that they tired out their executioners, but I did not believe them so strong against their lovers!' "Alas! this desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep that enabled the coward to prevail, but my swoon." Felton listened without uttering any word or sound, except an inward expression of agony. The sweat streamed down his marble forehead, and his hand, under his coat, tore his breast. "My first impulse, on coming to myself, was to feel under my pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach; if it had not been useful for defense, it might at least serve for expiation. "But on taking this knife, Felton, a terrible idea occurred to me. I have sworn to tell you all, and I will tell you all. I have promised you the truth; I will tell it, were it to destroy me." "The idea came into your mind to avenge yourself on this man, did it not?" cried Felton. "Yes," said Milady. "The idea was not that of a Christian, I knew; but without doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls, that lion roaring constantly around us, breathed it into my mind. In short, what shall I say to you, Felton?" continued Milady, in the tone of a woman accusing herself of a crime. "This idea occurred to me, and did not leave me; it is of this homicidal thought that I now bear the punishment." "Continue, continue!" said Felton; "I am eager to see you attain your vengeance!" "Oh, I resolved that it should take place as soon as possible. I had no doubt he would return the following night. During the day I had nothing to fear. "When the hour of breakfast came, therefore, I did not hesitate to eat and drink. I had determined to make believe sup, but to eat nothing. I was forced, then, to combat the fast of the evening with the nourishment of the morning. "Only I concealed a glass of water, which remained after my breakfast, thirst having been the chief of my sufferings when I remained forty-eight hours without eating or drinking. "The day passed away without having any other influence on me than to strengthen the resolution I had formed; only I took care that my face should not betray the thoughts of my heart, for I had no doubt I was watched. Several times, even, I felt a smile on my lips. Felton, I dare not tell you at what idea I smiled; you would hold me in horror--" "Go on! go on!" said Felton; "you see plainly that I listen, and that I am anxious to know the end." "Evening came; the ordinary events took place. During the darkness, as before, my supper was brought. Then the lamp was lighted, and I sat down to table. I only ate some fruit. I pretended to pour out water from the jug, but I only drank that which I had saved in my glass. The substitution was made so carefully that my spies, if I had any, could have no suspicion of it. "After supper I exhibited the same marks of languor as on the preceding evening; but this time, as I yielded to fatigue, or as if I had become familiarized with danger, I dragged myself toward my bed, let my robe fall, and lay down. "I found my knife where I had placed it, under my pillow, and while feigning to sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it convulsively. "Two hours passed away without anything fresh happening. Oh, my God! who could have said so the evening before? I began to fear that he would not come. "At length I saw the lamp rise softly, and disappear in the depths of the ceiling; my chamber was filled with darkness and obscurity, but I made a strong effort to penetrate this darkness and obscurity. "Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no other noise but the beating of my own heart. I implored heaven that he might come. "At length I heard the well-known noise of the door, which opened and shut; I heard, notwithstanding the thickness of the carpet, a step which made the floor creak; I saw, notwithstanding the darkness, a shadow which approached my bed." "Haste! haste!" said Felton; "do you not see that each of your words burns me like molten lead?" "Then," continued Milady, "then I collected all my strength; I recalled to my mind that the moment of vengeance, or rather, of justice, had struck. I looked upon myself as another Judith; I gathered myself up, my knife in my hand, and when I saw him near me, stretching out his arms to find his victim, then, with the last cry of agony and despair, I struck him in the middle of his breast. "The miserable villain! He had foreseen all. His breast was covered with a coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against it. "'Ah, ah!' cried he, seizing my arm, and wresting from me the weapon that had so badly served me, 'you want to take my life, do you, my pretty Puritan? But that's more than dislike, that's ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet girl! I thought you had softened. I am not one of those tyrants who detain women by force. You don't love me. With my usual fatuity I doubted it; now I am convinced. Tomorrow you shall be free.' "I had but one wish; that was that he should kill me. "'Beware!' said I, 'for my liberty is your dishonor.' "'Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!' "'Yes; for as soon as I leave this place I will tell everything. I will proclaim the violence you have used toward me. I will describe my captivity. I will denounce this place of infamy. You are placed on high, my Lord, but tremble! Above you there is the king; above the king there is God!' "However perfect master he was over himself, my persecutor allowed a movement of anger to escape him. I could not see the expression of his countenance, but I felt the arm tremble upon which my hand was placed. "'Then you shall not leave this place,' said he. "'Very well,' cried I, 'then the place of my punishment will be that of my tomb. I will die here, and you will see if a phantom that accuses is not more terrible than a living being that threatens!' "'You shall have no weapon left in your power.' "'There is a weapon which despair has placed within the reach of every creature who has the courage to use it. I will allow myself to die with hunger.' "'Come,' said the wretch, 'is not peace much better than such a war as that? I will restore you to liberty this moment; I will proclaim you a piece of immaculate virtue; I will name you the Lucretia of England.' "'And I will say that you are the Sextus. I will denounce you before men, as I have denounced you before God; and if it be necessary that, like Lucretia, I should sign my accusation with my blood, I will sign it.' "'Ah!' said my enemy, in a jeering tone, 'that's quite another thing. My faith! everything considered, you are very well off here. You shall want for nothing, and if you let yourself die of hunger that will be your own fault.' "At these words he retired. I heard the door open and shut, and I remained overwhelmed, less, I confess it, by my grief than by the mortification of not having avenged myself. "He kept his word. All the day, all the next night passed away without my seeing him again. But I also kept my word with him, and I neither ate nor drank. I was, as I told him, resolved to die of hunger. "I passed the day and the night in prayer, for I hoped that God would pardon me my suicide. "The second night the door opened; I was lying on the floor, for my strength began to abandon me. "At the noise I raised myself up on one hand. "'Well,' said a voice which vibrated in too terrible a manner in my ear not to be recognized, 'well! Are we softened a little? Will we not pay for our liberty with a single promise of silence? Come, I am a good sort of a prince,' added he, 'and although I like not Puritans I do them justice; and it is the same with Puritanesses, when they are pretty. Come, take a little oath for me on the cross; I won't ask anything more of you.' "'On the cross,' cried I, rising, for at that abhorred voice I had recovered all my strength, 'on the cross I swear that no promise, no menace, no force, no torture, shall close my mouth! On the cross I swear to denounce you everywhere as a murderer, as a thief of honor, as a base coward! On the cross I swear, if I ever leave this place, to call down vengeance upon you from the whole human race!' "'Beware!' said the voice, in a threatening accent that I had never yet heard. 'I have an extraordinary means which I will not employ but in the last extremity to close your mouth, or at least to prevent anyone from believing a word you may utter.' "I mustered all my strength to reply to him with a burst of laughter. "He saw that it was a merciless war between us--a war to the death. "'Listen!' said he. 'I give you the rest of tonight and all day tomorrow. Reflect: promise to be silent, and riches, consideration, even honor, shall surround you; threaten to speak, and I will condemn you to infamy.' "'You?' cried I. 'You?' "'To interminable, ineffaceable infamy!' "'You?' repeated I. Oh, I declare to you, Felton, I thought him mad! "'Yes, yes, I!' replied he. "'Oh, leave me!' said I. 'Begone, if you do not desire to see me dash my head against that wall before your eyes!' "'Very well, it is your own doing. Till tomorrow evening, then!' "'Till tomorrow evening, then!' replied I, allowing myself to fall, and biting the carpet with rage." Felton leaned for support upon a piece of furniture; and Milady saw, with the joy of a demon, that his strength would fail him perhaps before the end of her recital.

Chapter Fifty-Six: Captivity: The Fifth Day

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-six-captivity-the-fifth-day

Milady realizes that Felton, being a deeply religious man, is immune to ordinary seductions. She really has to bring her A-game tonight! She furthermore realizes that she has only two days left to successfully escape, and although she knows she can likely work her way back from the colonies, she can't bear the idea of being out of the loop for the years it would take. At nine o'clock Lord de Winter enters the room to make sure everything is secure. He reassures himself that it is impossible for Milady to escape. After midnight Felton enters Milady's room. She asks for the knife. Felton puts it on the table. She spins a long tale for Felton, who is hooked. The story goes something like this: A young and beautiful Milady is captured, drugged, and raped by an evil man. She is held captive and drugged repeatedly. Her captor demands her love, asking her to marry him. One night she conceals a knife and attempts to murder her captor. Unfortunately, he was wearing a coat of chain mail. Her captor tells her that he will release her; Milady threatens to tell everyone what has happened. In that case, he says, he will have to keep her captive. Milady goes on hunger strike. Felton is overcome.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/57.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_57_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 57

chapter 57: means for classical tragedy

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Seven: Means for Classical Tragedy", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-seven-means-for-classical-tragedy", "summary": "Milady milks the moment before continuing her story. She says that her captor entered the room with an executioner who branded her with the fleur-de-lis. She ignores Felton's demands to know the identity of her captor as she bares the brand on her shoulder. Felton is completely enthralled. He falls to her feet, begging her pardon for having been her jailer. He kisses her feet. Felton asks again for the identity of her persecutor. Without saying the name aloud, Milady implicates the Duke of Buckingham. Felton swears to kill him. Milady explains Lord de Winter's was furious that his brother had married a penniless girl. She says that her husband knew her story and had sworn to kill Buckingham, but had died before he could do so. Milady again pretends to despair and demands the knife. Felton refuses; he swears she will live with honor. He swears the two of them will live and die together, and kisses her. The guard knocks on the door. Felton opens it, only to hear that his desperate cries on behalf of Milady had summoned both guard and sergeant. Milady runs over with the knife, demanding to know why Felton has a right to prevent her suicide. Lord de Winter overhears and begins laughing. He tells Felton there's no way Milady will go through with it. Milady, understanding that she has to give Felton proof of her intention, stabs herself. Except she stabs herself in such a way that it hits the underwire on her bra. Felton is upset and grabs the knife. Lord de Winter orders him to go, and then send for a physician. Felton leaves with Milady's knife in hand.", "analysis": ""}

57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY After a moment of silence employed by Milady in observing the young man who listened to her, Milady continued her recital. "It was nearly three days since I had eaten or drunk anything. I suffered frightful torments. At times there passed before me clouds which pressed my brow, which veiled my eyes; this was delirium. "When the evening came I was so weak that every time I fainted I thanked God, for I thought I was about to die. "In the midst of one of these swoons I heard the door open. Terror recalled me to myself. "He entered the apartment followed by a man in a mask. He was masked likewise; but I knew his step, I knew his voice, I knew him by that imposing bearing which hell has bestowed upon his person for the curse of humanity. "'Well,' said he to me, 'have you made your mind up to take the oath I requested of you?' "'You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard, and that is to pursue you--on earth to the tribunal of men, in heaven to the tribunal of God.' "'You persist, then?' "'I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an avenger.' "'You are a prostitute,' said he, in a voice of thunder, 'and you shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Branded in the eyes of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are neither guilty nor mad!' "Then, addressing the man who accompanied him, 'Executioner,' said he, 'do your duty.'" "Oh, his name, his name!" cried Felton. "His name, tell it me!" "Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance--for I began to comprehend that there was a question of something worse than death--the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor, fastened me with his bonds, and suffocated by sobs, almost without sense, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I uttered all at once a frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my shoulder." Felton uttered a groan. "Here," said Milady, rising with the majesty of a queen, "here, Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young girl, the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the heart of men, and henceforth make yourself less easily the instrument of their unjust vengeance." Milady, with a rapid gesture, opened her robe, tore the cambric that covered her bosom, and red with feigned anger and simulated shame, showed the young man the ineffaceable impression which dishonored that beautiful shoulder. "But," cried Felton, "that is a FLEUR-DE-LIS which I see there." "And therein consisted the infamy," replied Milady. "The brand of England!--it would be necessary to prove what tribunal had imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all the tribunals of the kingdom; but the brand of France!--oh, by that, by THAT I was branded indeed!" This was too much for Felton. Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation, dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman who unveiled herself before him with an immodesty which appeared to him sublime, he ended by falling on his knees before her as the early Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the persecution of the emperors gave up in the circus to the sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared; the beauty alone remained. "Pardon! Pardon!" cried Felton, "oh, pardon!" Milady read in his eyes LOVE! LOVE! "Pardon for what?" asked she. "Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors." Milady held out her hand to him. "So beautiful! so young!" cried Felton, covering that hand with his kisses. Milady let one of those looks fall upon him which make a slave of a king. Felton was a Puritan; he abandoned the hand of this woman to kiss her feet. He no longer loved her; he adored her. When this crisis was past, when Milady appeared to have resumed her self-possession, which she had never lost; when Felton had seen her recover with the veil of chastity those treasures of love which were only concealed from him to make him desire them the more ardently, he said, "Ah, now! I have only one thing to ask of you; that is, the name of your true executioner. For to me there is but one; the other was an instrument, that was all." "What, brother!" cried Milady, "must I name him again? Have you not yet divined who he is?" "What?" cried Felton, "he--again he--always he? What--the truly guilty?" "The truly guilty," said Milady, "is the ravager of England, the persecutor of true believers, the base ravisher of the honor of so many women--he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart, is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the Protestants today and will betray them tomorrow--" "Buckingham! It is, then, Buckingham!" cried Felton, in a high state of excitement. Milady concealed her face in her hands, as if she could not endure the shame which this name recalled to her. "Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!" cried Felton. "And thou hast not hurled thy thunder at him, my God! And thou hast left him noble, honored, powerful, for the ruin of us all!" "God abandons him who abandons himself," said Milady. "But he will draw upon his head the punishment reserved for the damned!" said Felton, with increasing exultation. "He wills that human vengeance should precede celestial justice." "Men fear him and spare him." "I," said Felton, "I do not fear him, nor will I spare him." The soul of Milady was bathed in an infernal joy. "But how can Lord de Winter, my protector, my father," asked Felton, "possibly be mixed up with all this?" "Listen, Felton," resumed Milady, "for by the side of base and contemptible men there are often found great and generous natures. I had an affianced husband, a man whom I loved, and who loved me--a heart like yours, Felton, a man like you. I went to him and told him all; he knew me, that man did, and did not doubt an instant. He was a nobleman, a man equal to Buckingham in every respect. He said nothing; he only girded on his sword, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went straight to Buckingham Palace. "Yes, yes," said Felton; "I understand how he would act. But with such men it is not the sword that should be employed; it is the poniard." "Buckingham had left England the day before, sent as ambassador to Spain, to demand the hand of the Infanta for King Charles I, who was then only Prince of Wales. My affianced husband returned. "'Hear me,' said he; 'this man has gone, and for the moment has consequently escaped my vengeance; but let us be united, as we were to have been, and then leave it to Lord de Winter to maintain his own honor and that of his wife.'" "Lord de Winter!" cried Felton. "Yes," said Milady, "Lord de Winter; and now you can understand it all, can you not? Buckingham remained nearly a year absent. A week before his return Lord de Winter died, leaving me his sole heir. Whence came the blow? God who knows all, knows without doubt; but as for me, I accuse nobody." "Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss!" cried Felton. "Lord de Winter died without revealing anything to his brother. The terrible secret was to be concealed till it burst, like a clap of thunder, over the head of the guilty. Your protector had seen with pain this marriage of his elder brother with a portionless girl. I was sensible that I could look for no support from a man disappointed in his hopes of an inheritance. I went to France, with a determination to remain there for the rest of my life. But all my fortune is in England. Communication being closed by the war, I was in want of everything. I was then obliged to come back again. Six days ago, I landed at Portsmouth." "Well?" said Felton. "Well; Buckingham heard by some means, no doubt, of my return. He spoke of me to Lord de Winter, already prejudiced against me, and told him that his sister-in-law was a prostitute, a branded woman. The noble and pure voice of my husband was no longer here to defend me. Lord de Winter believed all that was told him with so much the more ease that it was his interest to believe it. He caused me to be arrested, had me conducted hither, and placed me under your guard. You know the rest. The day after tomorrow he banishes me, he transports me; the day after tomorrow he exiles me among the infamous. Oh, the train is well laid; the plot is clever. My honor will not survive it! You see, then, Felton, I can do nothing but die. Felton, give me that knife!" And at these words, as if all her strength was exhausted, Milady sank, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer, who, intoxicated with love, anger, and voluptuous sensations hitherto unknown, received her with transport, pressed her against his heart, all trembling at the breath from that charming mouth, bewildered by the contact with that palpitating bosom. "No, no," said he. "No, you shall live honored and pure; you shall live to triumph over your enemies." Milady put him from her slowly with her hand, while drawing him nearer with her look; but Felton, in his turn, embraced her more closely, imploring her like a divinity. "Oh, death, death!" said she, lowering her voice and her eyelids, "oh, death, rather than shame! Felton, my brother, my friend, I conjure you!" "No," cried Felton, "no; you shall live and you shall be avenged." "Felton, I bring misfortune to all who surround me! Felton, abandon me! Felton, let me die!" "Well, then, we will live and die together!" cried he, pressing his lips to those of the prisoner. Several strokes resounded on the door; this time Milady really pushed him away from her. "Hark," said she, "we have been overheard! Someone is coming! All is over! We are lost!" "No," said Felton; it is only the sentinel warning me that they are about to change the guard." "Then run to the door, and open it yourself." Felton obeyed; this woman was now his whole thought, his whole soul. He found himself face to face with a sergeant commanding a watch-patrol. "Well, what is the matter?" asked the young lieutenant. "You told me to open the door if I heard anyone cry out," said the soldier; "but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you cry out, without understanding what you said. I tried to open the door, but it was locked inside; then I called the sergeant." "And here I am," said the sergeant. Felton, quite bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless. Milady plainly perceived that it was now her turn to take part in the scene. She ran to the table, and seizing the knife which Felton had laid down, exclaimed, "And by what right will you prevent me from dying?" "Great God!" exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her hand. At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the corridor. The baron, attracted by the noise, in his chamber gown, his sword under his arm, stood in the doorway. "Ah," said he, "here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named; but be easy, no blood will flow." Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an immediate and terrible proof of her courage. "You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!" Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward her. He was too late; Milady had stabbed herself. But the knife had fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a cuirass, defended the chests of women. It had glided down it, tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh and the ribs. Milady's robe was not the less stained with blood in a second. Milady fell down, and seemed to be in a swoon. Felton snatched away the knife. "See, my Lord," said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, "here is a woman who was under my guard, and who has killed herself!" "Be at ease, Felton," said Lord de Winter. "She is not dead; demons do not die so easily. Be tranquil, and go wait for me in my chamber." "But, my Lord--" "Go, sir, I command you!" At this injunction from his superior, Felton obeyed; but in going out, he put the knife into his bosom. As to Lord de Winter, he contented himself with calling the woman who waited on Milady, and when she was come, he recommended the prisoner, who was still fainting, to her care, and left them alone. Meanwhile, all things considered and notwithstanding his suspicions, as the wound might be serious, he immediately sent off a mounted man to find a physician.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Means for Classical Tragedy

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-seven-means-for-classical-tragedy

Milady milks the moment before continuing her story. She says that her captor entered the room with an executioner who branded her with the fleur-de-lis. She ignores Felton's demands to know the identity of her captor as she bares the brand on her shoulder. Felton is completely enthralled. He falls to her feet, begging her pardon for having been her jailer. He kisses her feet. Felton asks again for the identity of her persecutor. Without saying the name aloud, Milady implicates the Duke of Buckingham. Felton swears to kill him. Milady explains Lord de Winter's was furious that his brother had married a penniless girl. She says that her husband knew her story and had sworn to kill Buckingham, but had died before he could do so. Milady again pretends to despair and demands the knife. Felton refuses; he swears she will live with honor. He swears the two of them will live and die together, and kisses her. The guard knocks on the door. Felton opens it, only to hear that his desperate cries on behalf of Milady had summoned both guard and sergeant. Milady runs over with the knife, demanding to know why Felton has a right to prevent her suicide. Lord de Winter overhears and begins laughing. He tells Felton there's no way Milady will go through with it. Milady, understanding that she has to give Felton proof of her intention, stabs herself. Except she stabs herself in such a way that it hits the underwire on her bra. Felton is upset and grabs the knife. Lord de Winter orders him to go, and then send for a physician. Felton leaves with Milady's knife in hand.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/58.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_58_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 58

chapter 58: escape

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Eight: Escape", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-eight-escape", "summary": "Milady's wound is not dangerous, but she pretends to be weak. She waits patiently for Felton to come to her, but is disappointed when she learns that he has been sent away. Milady notices that a piece of wood has been nailed over the grating to her room. No one can spy on her anymore, which is great news for her, because she no longer has to hide her emotions. Lord de Winter enters and tells her that Felton has been sent away and that she should prepare for her departure the next day. A storm breaks that evening. She hers tapping at her window. It's Felton! He files through the bars on her window. She climbs out into Felton's waiting arms. He begins climbing down a ladder. A patrol passes underneath them, but they remain undetected. She thanks Felton as the two board a nearby ship. The ship will take her wherever she wants to go, but Felton asks to be put ashore at Portsmouth. He is going to murder Buckingham. Milady promises that if he dies, she will die with him. During their trip to Portsmouth, Felton tells her about all his preparations. Milady, for her part, tries to encourage Felton in his assassination attempt, but soon realizes that encouragement is the last thing he needs: he is already more than eager to kill the Duke! The two decide that Milady will wait for Felton until ten o'clock. If he does not make it, she will set sail and meet him at a convent in Bethune.", "analysis": ""}

58 ESCAPE As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady's wound was not dangerous. So soon as she was left alone with the woman whom the baron had summoned to her assistance she opened her eyes. It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a very difficult task for so finished an actress as Milady. Thus the poor woman was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom, notwithstanding her hints, she persisted in watching all night. But the presence of this woman did not prevent Milady from thinking. There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was hers. If an angel appeared to that young man as an accuser of Milady, he would take him, in the mental disposition in which he now found himself, for a messenger sent by the devil. Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was now her only hope--her only means of safety. But Lord de Winter might suspect him; Felton himself might now be watched! Toward four o'clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since the time Milady stabbed herself, however short, the wound had closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither the direction nor the depth of it; he only satisfied himself by Milady's pulse that the case was not serious. In the morning Milady, under the pretext that she had not slept well in the night and wanted rest, sent away the woman who attended her. She had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the breakfast hour; but Felton did not come. Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron, about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one day left. Lord de Winter had announced her embarkation for the twenty-third, and it was now the morning of the twenty-second. Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the hour for dinner. Although she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was brought in at its usual time. Milady then perceived, with terror, that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded her was changed. Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton. She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on horseback. She inquired if the baron was still at the castle. The soldier replied that he was, and that he had given orders to be informed if the prisoner wished to speak to him. Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her only desire was to be left alone. The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served. Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then mistrusted. This was the last blow to the prisoner. Left alone, she arose. The bed, which she had kept from prudence and that they might believe her seriously wounded, burned her like a bed of fire. She cast a glance at the door; the baron had had a plank nailed over the grating. He no doubt feared that by this opening she might still by some diabolical means corrupt her guards. Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her transports without being observed. She traversed her chamber with the excitement of a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up in an iron cage. CERTES, if the knife had been left in her power, she would now have thought, not of killing herself, but of killing the baron. At six o'clock Lord de Winter came in. He was armed at all points. This man, in whom Milady till that time had only seen a very simple gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He appeared to foresee all, to divine all, to anticipate all. A single look at Milady apprised him of all that was passing in her mind. "Ay!" said he, "I see; but you shall not kill me today. You have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your infernal influence; but I will save him. He will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o'clock, I shall have the order for your exile, signed, BUCKINGHAM. If you speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my sergeant will blow your brains out. He has orders to do so. If when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the sea. That is agreed upon. "AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see you again, to take my leave." With these words the baron went out. Milady had listened to all this menacing tirade with a smile of disdain on her lips, but rage in her heart. Supper was served. Milady felt that she stood in need of all her strength. She did not know what might take place during this night which approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud rolled over the face of the sky, and distant lightning announced a storm. The storm broke about ten o'clock. Milady felt a consolation in seeing nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in her thoughts. It appeared to her that the blast as it swept along disheveled her brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away their leaves. She howled as the hurricane howled; and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan with despair. All at once she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a flash of lightning she saw the face of a man appear behind the bars. She ran to the window and opened it. "Felton!" cried she. "I am saved." "Yes," said Felton; "but silence, silence! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through the wicket." "Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton," replied Milady. "They have closed up the grating with a board." "That is well; God has made them senseless," said Felton. "But what must I do?" asked Milady. "Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?" "Oh, yes!" "Your wound?" "Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking." "Be ready, then, at the first signal." Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as Felton had desired her, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning of the storm she heard the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every flash she perceived the shadow of Felton through the panes. She passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat upon her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful agony at every movement she heard in the corridor. There are hours which last a year. At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again. Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed formed an opening for a man to pass through. "Are you ready?" asked Felton. "Yes. Must I take anything with me?" "Money, if you have any." "Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had." "So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a vessel." "Here!" said Milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton's hands. Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall. "Now," said he, "will you come?" "I am ready." Milady mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of her body through the window. She saw the young officer suspended over the abyss by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of terror reminded her that she was a woman. The dark space frightened her. "I expected this," said Felton. "It's nothing, it's nothing!" said Milady. "I will descend with my eyes shut." "Have you confidence in me?" said Felton. "You ask that?" "Put your two hands together. Cross them; that's right!" Felton tied her two wrists together with his handkerchief, and then with a cord over the handkerchief. "What are you doing?" asked Milady, with surprise. "Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing." "But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to pieces." "Don't be afraid. I am a sailor." Not a second was to be lost. Milady passed her two arms round Felton's neck, and let herself slip out of the window. Felton began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the weight of two bodies, the blast of the hurricane shook them in the air. All at once Felton stopped. "What is the matter?" asked Milady. "Silence," said Felton, "I hear footsteps." "We are discovered!" There was a silence of several seconds. "No," said Felton, "it is nothing." "But what, then, is the noise?" "That of the patrol going their rounds." "Where is their road?" "Just under us." "They will discover us!" "No, if it does not lighten." "But they will run against the bottom of the ladder." "Fortunately it is too short by six feet." "Here they are! My God!" "Silence!" Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty paces of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them laughing and talking. This was a terrible moment for the fugitives. The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and the murmur of their voices soon died away. "Now," said Felton, "we are safe." Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted. Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when he found no more support for his feet, he clung with his hands; at length, arrived at the last step, he let himself hang by the strength of his wrists, and touched the ground. He stooped down, picked up the bag of money, and placed it between his teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms, and set off briskly in the direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. He soon left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the rocks, and when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled. A similar signal replied to him; and five minutes after, a boat appeared, rowed by four men. The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there was not depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton walked into the sea up to his middle, being unwilling to trust his precious burden to anybody. Fortunately the storm began to subside, but still the sea was disturbed. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut-shell. "To the sloop," said Felton, "and row quickly." The four men bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let them get much hold of it. However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal thing. The night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible to see the shore from the boat; they would therefore be less likely to see the boat from the shore. A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the boat was advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give it, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound Milady's hands together. When her hands were loosed he took some sea water and sprinkled it over her face. Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" said she. "Saved!" replied the young officer. "Oh, saved, saved!" cried she. "Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!" The young man pressed her to his heart. "But what is the matter with my hands!" asked Milady; "it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice." Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised. "Alas!" said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking his head sorrowfully. "Oh, it's nothing, nothing!" cried Milady. "I remember now." Milady looked around her, as if in search of something. "It is there," said Felton, touching the bag of money with his foot. They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied. "What vessel is that?" asked Milady. "The one I have hired for you." "Where will it take me?" "Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth." "What are you going to do at Portsmouth?" asked Milady. "Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter," said Felton, with a gloomy smile. "What orders?" asked Milady. "You do not understand?" asked Felton. "No; explain yourself, I beg." "As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation." "But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?" "How could I know what I was the bearer of?" "That's true! And you are going to Portsmouth?" "I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet." "He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?" "For La Rochelle." "He need not sail!" cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind. "Be satisfied," replied Felton; "he will not sail." Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written there at full length. "Felton," cried she, "you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you." "Silence!" cried Felton; "we are here." In fact, they touched the sloop. Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much agitated. An instant after they were on the deck. "Captain," said Felton, "this is the person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France." "For a thousand pistoles," said the captain. "I have paid you five hundred of them." "That's correct," said the captain. "And here are the other five hundred," replied Milady, placing her hand upon the bag of gold. "No," said the captain, "I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne." "And shall we arrive there?" "Safe and sound, as true as my name's Jack Butler." "Well," said Milady, "if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles." "Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady," cried the captain; "and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!" "Meanwhile," said Felton, "convey me to the little bay of--; you know it was agreed you should put in there." The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward seven o'clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay that had been named. During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady--how, instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel; how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened his ladder. Milady knew the rest. On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged. It was agreed that Milady should wait for Felton till ten o'clock; if he did not return by ten o'clock she was to sail. In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Escape

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifty-eight-escape

Milady's wound is not dangerous, but she pretends to be weak. She waits patiently for Felton to come to her, but is disappointed when she learns that he has been sent away. Milady notices that a piece of wood has been nailed over the grating to her room. No one can spy on her anymore, which is great news for her, because she no longer has to hide her emotions. Lord de Winter enters and tells her that Felton has been sent away and that she should prepare for her departure the next day. A storm breaks that evening. She hers tapping at her window. It's Felton! He files through the bars on her window. She climbs out into Felton's waiting arms. He begins climbing down a ladder. A patrol passes underneath them, but they remain undetected. She thanks Felton as the two board a nearby ship. The ship will take her wherever she wants to go, but Felton asks to be put ashore at Portsmouth. He is going to murder Buckingham. Milady promises that if he dies, she will die with him. During their trip to Portsmouth, Felton tells her about all his preparations. Milady, for her part, tries to encourage Felton in his assassination attempt, but soon realizes that encouragement is the last thing he needs: he is already more than eager to kill the Duke! The two decide that Milady will wait for Felton until ten o'clock. If he does not make it, she will set sail and meet him at a convent in Bethune.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/60.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_60_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 60

chapter 60: in france

{"name": "Chapter Sixty: In France", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixty-in-france", "summary": "King Charles I of England tries to conceal the death of the Duke of Buckingham from the Rochellais for as long as possible. He orders the ports closed as soon as the death was announced, but two ships manages to leave before then--the first, bearing Milady's flag. Meanwhile, at camp in La Rochelle, King Louis XIII of France is getting bored of the siege and wants to go back to Paris. He takes twenty Musketeers with him; among them are Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and D'Artagnan. Aramis receives a letter from his seamstress friend that contains an authorization from the Queen for the bearer to remove Constance Bonacieux from the convent. The men are overjoyed that they can finally rescue Constance! Upon reaching Paris, the King thanks Treville and gives permission to grant leaves of absences. The first of these goes to our young heroes, who promptly take off for Bethune. Just as the men are dismounting to stop at an inn, a horseman rides past whom D'Artagnan recognizes as the man from Meung! The Musketeer wants to chase after his mystery man, but is held back by his friends. Athos also points out that the man is traveling in the opposite direction. Suddenly, a servant comes running out of the inn after the man from Meung, calling that he had dropped a slip of paper. D'Artagnan pays the servant for the note, which has the word, \"Armentieres\" written on it in Milady's handwriting. The four friends fly off to Bethune.", "analysis": ""}

60 IN FRANCE The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure. He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United Provinces. But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the event--that is to say, till two o'clock in the afternoon--two vessels had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who, already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral's ship. As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how it set sail. During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St. Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September. M de Treville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort. The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Treville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it. It was then that d'Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers--for without that circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his companions left it. It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the convent of Bethune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis therefore had written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme. Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days afterward Aramis received the following letter: "My Dear Cousin, "Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Bethune, the air of which you think is bad for her. My sister sends you this authorization with great pleasure, for she is very partial to the little girl, to whom she intends to be more serviceable hereafter. "I salute you, "MARIE MICHON" To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms: "At the Louvre, August 10, 1628 "The superior of the convent of Bethune will place in the hands of the person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage. "ANNE" It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramis and a seamstress who called the queen her sister amused the young men; but Aramis, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of his eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his friends not to revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was said to him about it, he would never again implore his cousins to interfere in such affairs. There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted: that was, the order to withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of Bethune. It was true that this order would not be of great use to them while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other end of France. Therefore d'Artagnan was going to ask leave of absence of M. de Treville, confiding to him candidly the importance of his departure, when the news was transmitted to him as well as to his three friends that the king was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort. Their joy was great. The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage, and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth. The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there the king and his minister took leave of each other with great demonstrations of friendship. The king, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as possible--for he was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had been formerly inspired in him by de Luynes, and for which he had always preserved a great predilection. Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen, when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other four cursed it heartily. D'Artagnan, in particular, had a perpetual buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus: "A very great lady has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere." At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the night. The king thanked M. de Treville, and permitted him to distribute furloughs for four days, on condition that the favored parties should not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille. The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four friends. Still further, Athos obtained of M. de Treville six days instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o'clock in the evening, and as a further kindness M. de Treville post-dated the leave to the morning of the twenty-fifth. "Good Lord!" said d'Artagnan, who, as we have often said, never stumbled at anything. "It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a very simple thing. In two days, and by using up two or three horses (that's nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Bethune. I present my letter from the queen to the superior, and I bring back the dear treasure I go to seek--not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to Paris, where she will be much better concealed, particularly while the cardinal is at La Rochelle. Well, once returned from the country, half by the protection of her cousin, half through what we have personally done for her, we shall obtain from the queen what we desire. Remain, then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue. Myself and Planchet are all that such a simple expedition requires." To this Athos replied quietly: "We also have money left--for I have not yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not eaten all theirs. We can therefore use up four horses as well as one. But consider, d'Artagnan," added he, in a tone so solemn that it made the young man shudder, "consider that Bethune is a city where the cardinal has given rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she goes, brings misery with her. If you had only to deal with four men, d'Artagnan, I would allow you to go alone. You have to do with that woman! We four will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in sufficient number." "You terrify me, Athos!" cried d'Artagnan. "My God! what do you fear?" "Everything!" replied Athos. D'Artagnan examined the countenances of his companions, which, like that of Athos, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding another word. On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as d'Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post yard, where he had just had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the road to Paris. At the moment he passed through the gateway into the street, the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, although it was in the month of August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler seized with his hand the moment it had left his head, pulling it eagerly over his eyes. D'Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon this man, became very pale, and let his glass fall. "What is the matter, monsieur?" said Planchet. "Oh, come, gentlemen, my master is ill!" The three friends hastened toward d'Artagnan, who, instead of being ill, ran toward his horse. They stopped him at the door. "Well, where the devil are you going now?" cried Athos. "It is he!" cried d'Artagnan, pale with anger, and with the sweat on his brow, "it is he! let me overtake him!" "He? What he?" asked Athos. "He, that man!" "What man?" "That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was abducted. I have seen him; that is he! I recognized him when the wind blew upon his cloak." "The devil!" said Athos, musingly. "To saddle, gentlemen! to saddle! Let us pursue him, and we shall overtake him!" "My dear friend," said Aramis, "remember that he goes in an opposite direction from that in which we are going, that he has a fresh horse, and ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, d'Artagnan; let us save the woman." "Monsieur, monsieur!" cried a hostler, running out and looking after the stranger, "monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat! Eh, monsieur, eh!" "Friend," said d'Artagnan, "a half-pistole for that paper!" "My faith, monsieur, with great pleasure! Here it is!" The hostler, enchanted with the good day's work he had done, returned to the yard. D'Artagnan unfolded the paper. "Well?" eagerly demanded all his three friends. "Nothing but one word!" said d'Artagnan. "Yes," said Aramis, "but that one word is the name of some town or village." "Armentieres," read Porthos; "Armentieres? I don't know such a place." "And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!" cried Athos. "Come on, come on!" said d'Artagnan; "let us keep that paper carefully, perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole. To horse, my friends, to horse!" And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Bethune.

Chapter Sixty: In France

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixty-in-france

King Charles I of England tries to conceal the death of the Duke of Buckingham from the Rochellais for as long as possible. He orders the ports closed as soon as the death was announced, but two ships manages to leave before then--the first, bearing Milady's flag. Meanwhile, at camp in La Rochelle, King Louis XIII of France is getting bored of the siege and wants to go back to Paris. He takes twenty Musketeers with him; among them are Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and D'Artagnan. Aramis receives a letter from his seamstress friend that contains an authorization from the Queen for the bearer to remove Constance Bonacieux from the convent. The men are overjoyed that they can finally rescue Constance! Upon reaching Paris, the King thanks Treville and gives permission to grant leaves of absences. The first of these goes to our young heroes, who promptly take off for Bethune. Just as the men are dismounting to stop at an inn, a horseman rides past whom D'Artagnan recognizes as the man from Meung! The Musketeer wants to chase after his mystery man, but is held back by his friends. Athos also points out that the man is traveling in the opposite direction. Suddenly, a servant comes running out of the inn after the man from Meung, calling that he had dropped a slip of paper. D'Artagnan pays the servant for the note, which has the word, "Armentieres" written on it in Milady's handwriting. The four friends fly off to Bethune.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/62.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_62_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 62

chapter 62: two varieties of demons

{"name": "Chapter Sixty-Two: Two Varieties of Demons", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixty-two-two-varieties-of-demons", "summary": "The two catch up briefly: Rochefort comes with a message from the Cardinal; Milady recounts her experience at the convent. She reveals that Constance is in the convent, and that D'Artagnan and his friends are soon expected! She wants these men locked up in the Bastille, and can't understand why the Cardinal has such an attachment to these Musketeers. Milady wants to leave, but Rochefort insists that she to remain in the convent. Rochefort asks if Constance will be killed; Milady tells him to rest easy on that score. The two then plot their next moves. Milady asks for Rochefort's carriage and a servant to collect her the following day. She then instructs Rochefort to meet her at a little village called Armentieres. He writes the name of the village down in order to remember it. She then asks for all his money, which he hands over. The two conspirators are ready to execute their plan.", "analysis": ""}

62 TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS Ah," cried Milady and Rochefort together, "it is you!" "Yes, it is I." "And you come?" asked Milady. "From La Rochelle; and you?" "From England." "Buckingham?" "Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him." "Ah," said Rochefort, with a smile; "this is a fortunate chance--one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?" "I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?" "His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you." "I only arrived yesterday." "And what have you been doing since yesterday?" "I have not lost my time." "Oh, I don't doubt that." "Do you know whom I have encountered here?" "No." "Guess." "How can I?" "That young woman whom the queen took out of prison." "The mistress of that fellow d'Artagnan?" "Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was unacquainted." "Well, well," said Rochefort, "here is a chance which may pair off with the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!" "Imagine my astonishment," continued Milady, "when I found myself face to face with this woman!" "Does she know you?" "No." "Then she looks upon you as a stranger?" Milady smiled. "I am her best friend." "Upon my honor," said Rochefort, "it takes you, my dear countess, to perform such miracles!" "And it is well I can, Chevalier," said Milady, "for do you know what is going on here?" "No." "They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from the queen." "Indeed! And who?" "d'Artagnan and his friends." "Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to the Bastille." "Why is it not done already?" "What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I cannot comprehend." "Indeed!" "Yes." "Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that among these four men two only are to be feared--d'Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse--he may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling himself about." "But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?" "I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on the road hither to take her away." "The devil! What's to be done?" "What did the cardinal say about me?" "I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post; and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have to do." "I must, then, remain here?" "Here, or in the neighborhood." "You cannot take me with you?" "No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal." "Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?" "Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the cardinal; let me know always where to find you." "Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here." "Why?" "You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute." "That's true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?" "Bah!" said Milady, with a smile that belonged only to herself; "you forget that I am her best friend." "Ah, that's true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this little woman--" "That he may be at ease." "Is that all?" "He will know what that means." "He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?" "Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the trouble of a little diligence." "My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers." "Capital!" "What, CAPITAL?" "Yes, I want your chaise." "And how shall I travel, then?" "On horseback." "You talk very comfortably,--a hundred and eighty leagues!" "What's that?" "One can do it! Afterward?" "Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal." "Well." "You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?" "I have my FULL POWER." "Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who presents himself in your name." "Very well." "Don't forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess." "To what purpose?" "I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence in that poor little Madame Bonacieux." "That's true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?" "Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may be lost." "You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run needlessly about the neighborhood." "That's correct; wait!" "Do you want a map?" "Oh, I know this country marvelously!" "You? When were you here?" "I was brought up here." "Truly?" "It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere." "You will wait for me, then?" "Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do--at Armentieres." "Where is that Armentieres?" "A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country." "Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of danger." "That is well understood." "And in that case, how shall I know where you are?" "You do not want your lackey?" "Is he a sure man?" "To the proof." "Give him to me. Nobody knows him. I will leave him at the place I quit, and he will conduct you to me." "And you say you will wait for me at Armentieres?" "At Armentieres." "Write that name on a bit of paper, lest I should forget it. There is nothing compromising in the name of a town. Is it not so?" "Eh, who knows? Never mind," said Milady, writing the name on half a sheet of paper; "I will compromise myself." "Well," said Rochefort, taking the paper from Milady, folding it, and placing it in the lining of his hat, "you may be easy. I will do as children do, for fear of losing the paper--repeat the name along the route. Now, is that all?" "I believe so." "Let us see: Buckingham dead or grievously wounded; your conversation with the cardinal overheard by the four Musketeers; Lord de Winter warned of your arrival at Portsmouth; d'Artagnan and Athos to the Bastille; Aramis the lover of Madame de Chevreuse; Porthos an ass; Madame Bonacieux found again; to send you the chaise as soon as possible; to place my lackey at your disposal; to make you out a victim of the cardinal in order that the abbess may entertain no suspicion; Armentieres, on the banks of the Lys. Is that all, then?" "In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a miracle of memory. A PROPOS, add one thing--" "What?" "I saw some very pretty woods which almost touch the convent garden. Say that I am permitted to walk in those woods. Who knows? Perhaps I shall stand in need of a back door for retreat." "You think of everything." "And you forget one thing." "What?" "To ask me if I want money." "That's true. How much do you want?" "All you have in gold." "I have five hundred pistoles, or thereabouts." "I have as much. With a thousand pistoles one may face everything. Empty your pockets." "There." "Right. And you go--" "In an hour--time to eat a morsel, during which I shall send for a post horse." "Capital! Adieu, Chevalier." "Adieu, Countess." "Commend me to the cardinal." "Commend me to Satan." Milady and Rochefort exchanged a smile and separated. An hour afterward Rochefort set out at a grand gallop; five hours after that he passed through Arras. Our readers already know how he was recognized by d'Artagnan, and how that recognition by inspiring fear in the four Musketeers had given fresh activity to their journey.

Chapter Sixty-Two: Two Varieties of Demons

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixty-two-two-varieties-of-demons

The two catch up briefly: Rochefort comes with a message from the Cardinal; Milady recounts her experience at the convent. She reveals that Constance is in the convent, and that D'Artagnan and his friends are soon expected! She wants these men locked up in the Bastille, and can't understand why the Cardinal has such an attachment to these Musketeers. Milady wants to leave, but Rochefort insists that she to remain in the convent. Rochefort asks if Constance will be killed; Milady tells him to rest easy on that score. The two then plot their next moves. Milady asks for Rochefort's carriage and a servant to collect her the following day. She then instructs Rochefort to meet her at a little village called Armentieres. He writes the name of the village down in order to remember it. She then asks for all his money, which he hands over. The two conspirators are ready to execute their plan.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/64.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_64_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 64

chapter 64: the man in the red cloak

{"name": "Chapter Sixty-Four: The Man in the Red Cloak", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixty-four-the-man-in-the-red-cloak", "summary": "Athos studies a map of the area and sees that there are four roads leading from Bethune to Armentieres. He calls for the four lackeys. Each is to take a different route to the village: Planchet is given the honor of following the road Milady's carriage was seen to take. The four lackeys are to begin their mission the next morning. Athos then gets up, puts on his sword, and goes in search of a particular house. It is very curious, however, that when he asks how to get to this house, passers-by are terrified and refuse to accompany him. The Musketeer enters the house and explains to the owner exactly what he wants. The owner is at first reluctant to accept this mission, but Athos threatens the man's life until he assents. Athos returns to find Planchet waiting for him. Planchet reports that Milady is in Armentieres at an inn called the Post, currently being guarded by the other three lackeys. Everyone gets ready to leave for Armentieres when Athos says that one person is still missing. He leaves and then returns with a man in a large red cloak. Once he arrives, the friends set off.", "analysis": ""}

64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK The despair of Athos had given place to a concentrated grief which only rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary man. Possessed by one single thought--that of the promise he had made, and of the responsibility he had taken--he retired last to his chamber, begged the host to procure him a map of the province, bent over it, examined every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different roads from Bethune to Armentieres, and summoned the lackeys. Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athos. They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentieres--each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four, was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by Rochefort's servant. Athos set the lackeys to work first because, since these men had been in the service of himself and his friends he had discovered in each of them different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions inspire less mistrust than masters, and meet with more sympathy among those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milady knew the masters, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew Milady perfectly. All four were to meet the next day at eleven o'clock. If they had discovered Milady's retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth was to return to Bethune in order to inform Athos and serve as a guide to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired. Athos then arose from his chair, girded on his sword, enveloped himself in his cloak, and left the hotel. It was nearly ten o'clock. At ten o'clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial towns are very little frequented. Athos nevertheless was visibly anxious to find someone of whom he could ask a question. At length he met a belated passenger, went up to him, and spoke a few words to him. The man he addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athos offered the man half a pistole to accompany him, but the man refused. Athos then plunged into the street the man had indicated with his finger; but arriving at four crossroads, he stopped again, visibly embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered him a better chance than any other place of meeting somebody, he stood still. In a few minutes a night watch passed. Athos repeated to him the same question he had asked the first person he met. The night watch evinced the same terror, refused, in his turn, to accompany Athos, and only pointed with his hand to the road he was to take. Athos walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which he and his friends had entered it. There he again appeared uneasy and embarrassed, and stopped for the third time. Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athos to ask charity, Athos offered him half a crown to accompany him where he was going. The mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver which shone in the darkness he consented, and walked on before Athos. Arrived at the angle of a street, he pointed to a small house, isolated, solitary, and dismal. Athos went toward the house, while the mendicant, who had received his reward, left as fast as his legs could carry him. Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door, amid the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb. Three times Athos knocked without receiving an answer. At the third knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened, and a man appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair and beard. Athos and he exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall man made a sign to the Musketeer that he might come in. Athos immediately profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind him. The man whom Athos had come so far to seek, and whom he had found with so much trouble, introduced him into his laboratory, where he was engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the table. All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house occupied himself with the study of natural science. There were large bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues unknown to common men, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall man alone inhabited this house. Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have described, and at the invitation of him whom he came to seek sat down near him. Then he explained to him the cause of his visit, and the service he required of him. But scarcely had he expressed his request when the unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with signs of terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and a seal, and presented them to him who had made too prematurely these signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read these lines, seen the signature, and recognized the seal, when he bowed to denote that he had no longer any objection to make, and that he was ready to obey. Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same way he came, re-entered the hotel, and went to his apartment. At daybreak d'Artagnan entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be done. "To wait," replied Athos. Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the poisoner, they had heard no tidings of her whatever, only that she must have made her escape through the garden, on the sand of which her footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut. As to the key, it had disappeared. At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter and the four friends repaired to the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim, clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the profane, or being seen by them. At the door of the chapel d'Artagnan felt his courage fall anew, and returned to look for Athos; but Athos had disappeared. Faithful to his mission of vengeance, Athos had requested to be conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light steps of this woman, who left sharp tracks wherever she went, he advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be opened, he went out into the forest. Then all his suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage had disappeared encircled the forest. Athos followed the road for some time, his eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came from the wound inflicted upon the man who accompanied the carriage as a courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped here. At this spot Milady had come out of the wood, and entered the carriage. Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all his suspicions, Athos returned to the hotel, and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him. Everything was as Athos had foreseen. Planchet had followed the road; like Athos, he had discovered the stains of blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot where the horses had halted. But he had gone farther than Athos--for at the village of Festubert, while drinking at an inn, he had learned without needing to ask a question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded man who accompanied a lady traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop, unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The man remained in the village; the woman had had a relay of horses, and continued her journey. Planchet went in search of the postillion who had driven her, and found him. He had taken the lady as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles she had set out for Armentieres. Planchet took the crossroad, and by seven o'clock in the morning he was at Armentieres. There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. He had not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he learned that a woman had come there alone about eleven o'clock the night before, had engaged a chamber, had sent for the master of the hotel, and told him she desired to remain some time in the neighborhood. Planchet had no need to learn more. He hastened to the rendezvous, found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the outlets of the hotel, and came to find Athos, who had just received this information when his friends returned. All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild countenance of Aramis. "What is to be done?" asked d'Artagnan. "To wait!" replied Athos. Each retired to his own apartment. At eight o'clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled, and Lord de Winter and his friends notified that they must prepare for the expedition. In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them in order. Athos came down last, and found d'Artagnan already on horseback, and growing impatient. "Patience!" cried Athos; "one of our party is still wanting." The four horsemen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be. At this moment Planchet brought out Athos's horse; the Musketeer leaped lightly into the saddle. "Wait for me," cried he, "I will soon be back," and he set off at a gallop. In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked, and wrapped in a large red cloak. Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all were ignorant who this man could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athos. At nine o'clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out, taking the route the carriage had taken. It was a melancholy sight--that of these six men, traveling in silence, each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as chastisement.

Chapter Sixty-Four: The Man in the Red Cloak

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixty-four-the-man-in-the-red-cloak

Athos studies a map of the area and sees that there are four roads leading from Bethune to Armentieres. He calls for the four lackeys. Each is to take a different route to the village: Planchet is given the honor of following the road Milady's carriage was seen to take. The four lackeys are to begin their mission the next morning. Athos then gets up, puts on his sword, and goes in search of a particular house. It is very curious, however, that when he asks how to get to this house, passers-by are terrified and refuse to accompany him. The Musketeer enters the house and explains to the owner exactly what he wants. The owner is at first reluctant to accept this mission, but Athos threatens the man's life until he assents. Athos returns to find Planchet waiting for him. Planchet reports that Milady is in Armentieres at an inn called the Post, currently being guarded by the other three lackeys. Everyone gets ready to leave for Armentieres when Athos says that one person is still missing. He leaves and then returns with a man in a large red cloak. Once he arrives, the friends set off.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Three Musketeers/section_1_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-1", "summary": "In the year 1625, in Gascony, a province of France, a young man named d'Artagnan is taking leave of his father to journey to Paris, where he will seek out the prestigious Monsieur de Treville, captain of the King's Musketeers and a childhood friend of d'Artagnan's father. D'Artagnan's father has only three gifts which he can give to his son: fifteen ecus in money, a ridiculous-looking horse about thirteen years old, and a letter of introduction to Monsieur de Treville. If d'Artagnan can convince Treville to allow him to become a musketeer, he believes that he will have his fortune made because the musketeers are a select group of swordsmen highly favored by the king. After a sentimental leave-taking from his mother, d'Artagnan begins his journey to Paris. He arrives at the market town of Meung, where he sees an unknown nobleman who he believes is laughing at him, or at least at his horse. D'Artagnan's impetuous temper causes him to insult the nobleman and pick a quarrel with him. D'Artagnan is outnumbered, however, and before long he is carried unconscious into the inn. Learning from the innkeeper that d'Artagnan has a letter to the powerful Monsieur de Treville, the nobleman steals it from d'Artagnan's doublet. When d'Artagnan recovers, he goes downstairs in time to see the nobleman talking with someone whom he addresses as \"Milady.\" Later, d'Artagnan discovers that his letter of recommendation to Treville is missing, and after threatening the innkeeper and his servants, he learns that the mysterious nobleman ransacked his belongings and apparently stole the valuable letter of introduction. D'Artagnan departs, and when he arrives in Paris, he rents a room that he discovers is near the home of Monsieur de Treville.", "analysis": "This first chapter moves quickly. We see that our hero is a country boy, unaccustomed to the sophisticated ways outside of his little town; he is also from a section of France which is famous for its brave and daring young men. Throughout the novel, d'Artagnan's birthplace will be referred to as a place famous for producing men of exceptional courage, military valor, and quick tempers. D'Artagnan possesses all of these qualities -- especially the latter. In fact, in the opening chapters of this novel, we see that d'Artagnan is so impetuous that he quickly embroils himself in a series of duels with three of the king's best swordsmen. D'Artagnan's encounter with the as-yet-unnamed Count de Rochefort introduces us to the man who will become d'Artagnan's mysterious nemesis . However, until the end of the novel, Rochefort will be referred to only as \"the man from Meung.\" At the end of the novel, when ordered to do so by Cardinal Richelieu, Rochefort and d'Artagnan will put aside their differences and become allies and friends. The puzzling appearance here of \"Milady\" will become even more important to the plot than d'Artagnan's chance encounter with Rochefort; Milady will play a major, pivotal role later in the novel. The ultimate importance of both of these mysterious characters suggests that Dumas had the plot of his novel well outlined before he began writing it."}

1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D'ARTAGNAN THE ELDER On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of ROMANCE OF THE ROSE was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity. In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all. A young man--we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap--and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer's son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback. For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Bearn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung--which place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency--produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider. And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d'Artagnan--for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named--from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d'Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present were above all price. "My son," said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Bearn PATOIS of which Henry IV could never rid himself, "this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever the honor to go there," continued M. d'Artagnan the elder, "--an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right--sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to you--not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de Treville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Treville. Afterward, Monsieur de Treville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Caesars, whom the king holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads--he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order that you may do as he has done." Upon which M. d'Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction. On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the other--not that M. d'Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only offspring, but M. d'Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. d'Artagnan was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and--let us speak it to the praise of M. d'Artagnan the younger--notwithstanding the efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great difficulty in concealing the half. The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Treville--the counsels being thrown into the bargain. With such a VADE MECUM d'Artagnan was morally and physically an exact copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d'Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a provocation--whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of the ancients. D'Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung. But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, without anyone--host, waiter, or hostler--coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse, d'Artagnan spied, though an open window on the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him with respect. D'Artagnan fancied quite naturally, according to his custom, that he must be the object of their conversation, and listened. This time d'Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors; and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man, the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily imagined. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a portmanteau. D'Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future life. Now, as at the moment in which d'Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Bearnese pony, his two auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt; d'Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture. "I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter--yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!" The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent, and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to d'Artagnan, "I was not speaking to you, sir." "But I am speaking to you!" replied the young man, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn. The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse, within two paces of d'Artagnan. His quiet manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still remained at the window. D'Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the scabbard. "This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup," resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of d'Artagnan, who, however, placed himself between him and them. "It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses." "There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master," cried the young emulator of the furious Treville. "I do not often laugh, sir," replied the stranger, "as you may perceive by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the privilege of laughing when I please." "And I," cried d'Artagnan, "will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!" "Indeed, sir," continued the stranger, more calm than ever; "well, that is perfectly right!" and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry by the front gate, beneath which d'Artagnan on arriving had observed a saddled horse. But, d'Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, "Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!" "Strike me!" said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the young man with as much astonishment as contempt. "Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!" Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to himself, "This is annoying," continued he. "What a godsend this would be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for his Musketeers!" He had scarcely finished, when d'Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon d'Artagnan with sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from the attack that d'Artagnan's adversary, while the latter turned round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight--a part in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, "A plague upon these Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!" "Not before I have killed you, poltroon!" cried d'Artagnan, making the best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him. "Another gasconade!" murmured the gentleman. "By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough of it." But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with; d'Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length d'Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting. It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attentions were bestowed upon him. As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their remaining undispersed. "Well, how is it with this madman?" exclaimed he, turning round as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to inquire if he was unhurt. "Your excellency is safe and sound?" asked the host. "Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know what has become of our young man." "He is better," said the host, "he fainted quite away." "Indeed!" said the gentleman. "But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you." "Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!" cried the stranger. "Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil," replied the host, with a grin of contempt; "for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns--which however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later period." "Then," said the stranger coolly, "he must be some prince in disguise." "I have told you this, good sir," resumed the host, "in order that you may be on your guard." "Did he name no one in his passion?" "Yes; he struck his pocket and said, 'We shall see what Monsieur de Treville will think of this insult offered to his protege.'" "Monsieur de Treville?" said the stranger, becoming attentive, "he put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de Treville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?" "A letter addressed to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the Musketeers." "Indeed!" "Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency." The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man disquieted. "The devil!" murmured he, between his teeth. "Can Treville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man," and the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. "A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design. "Host," said he, "could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet," added he, with a coldly menacing expression, "he annoys me. Where is he?" "In my wife's chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his wounds." "His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?" "On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this young fool--" "To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant." "What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?" "You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have they not obeyed me?" "It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure." "That is well; do as I have directed you, then." "What the devil!" said the host to himself. "Can he be afraid of this boy?" But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he bowed humbly and retired. "It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow," continued the stranger. "She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Treville contains." _*We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it._ And the stranger, muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen. In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry, re-ascended to his wife's chamber, and found d'Artagnan just recovering his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord--for in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord--he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness d'Artagnan should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D'Artagnan, half stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses. His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already observed with what rapidity d'Artagnan seized the expression of a countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which d'Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders, had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the stranger. "His Eminence, then, orders me--" said the lady. "To return instantly to England, and to inform him as soon as the duke leaves London." "And as to my other instructions?" asked the fair traveler. "They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel." "Very well; and you--what will you do?" "I--I return to Paris." "What, without chastising this insolent boy?" asked the lady. The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth, d'Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold of the door. "This insolent boy chastises others," cried he; "and I hope that this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before." "Will not escape him?" replied the stranger, knitting his brow. "No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?" "Remember," said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword, "the least delay may ruin everything." "You are right," cried the gentleman; "begone then, on your part, and I will depart as quickly on mine." And bowing to the lady, he sprang into his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop. "Pay him, booby!" cried the stranger to his servant, without checking the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master. "Base coward! false gentleman!" cried d'Artagnan, springing forward, in his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still, "Coward! coward! coward!" "He is a coward, indeed," grumbled the host, drawing near to d'Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before. "Yes, a base coward," murmured d'Artagnan; "but she--she was very beautiful." "What she?" demanded the host. "Milady," faltered d'Artagnan, and fainted a second time. "Ah, it's all one," said the host; "I have lost two customers, but this one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There will be eleven crowns gained." It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that remained in d'Artagnan's purse. The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day, but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five o'clock d'Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother's recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor, d'Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow. But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine, the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict abstinence--while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his size could reasonably be supposed to have done--d'Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Treville, it had disappeared. The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again, rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and rosemary--for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the servants the same sticks they had used the day before. "My letter of recommendation!" cried d'Artagnan, "my letter of recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!" Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two, and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when d'Artagnan proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make himself a larding pin. But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made was perfectly just. "But, after all," said he, lowering the point of his spit, "where is this letter?" "Yes, where is this letter?" cried d'Artagnan. "In the first place, I warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Treville, and it must be found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it." His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was the man whose name was perhaps most frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was, to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as the cardinal's familiar was called. Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter. "Does the letter contain anything valuable?" demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation. "Zounds! I think it does indeed!" cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court. "It contained my fortune!" "Bills upon Spain?" asked the disturbed host. "Bills upon his Majesty's private treasury," answered d'Artagnan, who, reckoning upon entering into the king's service in consequence of this recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply without telling of a falsehood. "The devil!" cried the host, at his wit's end. "But it's of no importance," continued d'Artagnan, with natural assurance; "it's of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have lost it." He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand; but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him. A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing. "That letter is not lost!" cried he. "What!" cried d'Artagnan. "No, it has been stolen from you." "Stolen? By whom?" "By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it." "Do you think so?" answered d'Artagnan, but little convinced, as he knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this letter was, and saw nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could have gained anything by being possessed of this paper. "Do you say," resumed d'Artagnan, "that you suspect that impertinent gentleman?" "I tell you I am sure of it," continued the host. "When I informed him that your lordship was the protege of Monsieur de Treville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was." "Then that's my thief," replied d'Artagnan. "I will complain to Monsieur de Treville, and Monsieur de Treville will complain to the king." He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that d'Artagnan had ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom d'Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the originality of his color. Thus d'Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg. As soon as the earnest money was paid, d'Artagnan took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. d'Artagnan, and which she had given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre, inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hotel of M. de Treville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier; that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by d'Artagnan--a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for the success of his journey. After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. This sleep, provincial as it was, brought him to nine o'clock in the morning; at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of M. de Treville, the third personage in the kingdom, in the paternal estimation.

Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-1

In the year 1625, in Gascony, a province of France, a young man named d'Artagnan is taking leave of his father to journey to Paris, where he will seek out the prestigious Monsieur de Treville, captain of the King's Musketeers and a childhood friend of d'Artagnan's father. D'Artagnan's father has only three gifts which he can give to his son: fifteen ecus in money, a ridiculous-looking horse about thirteen years old, and a letter of introduction to Monsieur de Treville. If d'Artagnan can convince Treville to allow him to become a musketeer, he believes that he will have his fortune made because the musketeers are a select group of swordsmen highly favored by the king. After a sentimental leave-taking from his mother, d'Artagnan begins his journey to Paris. He arrives at the market town of Meung, where he sees an unknown nobleman who he believes is laughing at him, or at least at his horse. D'Artagnan's impetuous temper causes him to insult the nobleman and pick a quarrel with him. D'Artagnan is outnumbered, however, and before long he is carried unconscious into the inn. Learning from the innkeeper that d'Artagnan has a letter to the powerful Monsieur de Treville, the nobleman steals it from d'Artagnan's doublet. When d'Artagnan recovers, he goes downstairs in time to see the nobleman talking with someone whom he addresses as "Milady." Later, d'Artagnan discovers that his letter of recommendation to Treville is missing, and after threatening the innkeeper and his servants, he learns that the mysterious nobleman ransacked his belongings and apparently stole the valuable letter of introduction. D'Artagnan departs, and when he arrives in Paris, he rents a room that he discovers is near the home of Monsieur de Treville.

This first chapter moves quickly. We see that our hero is a country boy, unaccustomed to the sophisticated ways outside of his little town; he is also from a section of France which is famous for its brave and daring young men. Throughout the novel, d'Artagnan's birthplace will be referred to as a place famous for producing men of exceptional courage, military valor, and quick tempers. D'Artagnan possesses all of these qualities -- especially the latter. In fact, in the opening chapters of this novel, we see that d'Artagnan is so impetuous that he quickly embroils himself in a series of duels with three of the king's best swordsmen. D'Artagnan's encounter with the as-yet-unnamed Count de Rochefort introduces us to the man who will become d'Artagnan's mysterious nemesis . However, until the end of the novel, Rochefort will be referred to only as "the man from Meung." At the end of the novel, when ordered to do so by Cardinal Richelieu, Rochefort and d'Artagnan will put aside their differences and become allies and friends. The puzzling appearance here of "Milady" will become even more important to the plot than d'Artagnan's chance encounter with Rochefort; Milady will play a major, pivotal role later in the novel. The ultimate importance of both of these mysterious characters suggests that Dumas had the plot of his novel well outlined before he began writing it.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Three Musketeers/section_3_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-5", "summary": "On his way back to meet Athos, d'Artagnan ponders his situation. If he wounds the already-wounded Athos, he will look bad; yet if he himself is wounded by the already-wounded Athos, he will be doubly disgraced. He searches for a way out of the dilemma. Arriving on time for the duel, he finds that Athos's seconds have not arrived. Meanwhile, Athos's shoulder has begun to throb painfully, so d'Artagnan offers him some of his mother's miraculous salve. This generosity impresses Athos. Afterward, the seconds arrive: Porthos and Aramis. D'Artagnan registers great surprise when he learns that these gentlemen are known as \"the three inseparables,\" or \"the three musketeers.\" just as Athos and d'Artagnan have their swords in position for the duel, they are interrupted by five of the cardinal's guards and are ordered to yield to arrest because of the edict against dueling. D'Artagnan has to decide whether he will support the cardinal's men or whether he should side with the King's Musketeers. Immediately, he decides on the musketeers. During the encounter, the cardinal's guards are soundly defeated, and d'Artagnan is accepted into the close camaraderie of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.", "analysis": "Prior to each of d'Artagnan's dueling encounters with the three musketeers, Dumas creates tension by making us guess how the hero will confront each of them and yet emerge with honor from each encounter. This question, of course, is ultimately obviated by the appearance of the cardinal's guards and by d'Artagnan's decision to fight on the side of the musketeers. His brilliant although unorthodox swordsmanship wins him the respect of the musketeers, and thus through a stroke of luck, d'Artagnan becomes, as it were, an unofficial \"fourth musketeer.\" Not until later in the novel, however, will he become an official musketeer."}

5 THE KING'S MUSKETEERS AND THE CARDINAL'S GUARDS D'Artagnan was acquainted with nobody in Paris. He went therefore to his appointment with Athos without a second, determined to be satisfied with those his adversary should choose. Besides, his intention was formed to make the brave Musketeer all suitable apologies, but without meanness or weakness, fearing that might result from this duel which generally results from an affair of this kind, when a young and vigorous man fights with an adversary who is wounded and weakened--if conquered, he doubles the triumph of his antagonist; if a conqueror, he is accused of foul play and want of courage. Now, we must have badly painted the character of our adventure seeker, or our readers must have already perceived that d'Artagnan was not an ordinary man; therefore, while repeating to himself that his death was inevitable, he did not make up his mind to die quietly, as one less courageous and less restrained might have done in his place. He reflected upon the different characters of those with whom he was going to fight, and began to view his situation more clearly. He hoped, by means of loyal excuses, to make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air and austere bearing pleased him much. He flattered himself he should be able to frighten Porthos with the adventure of the baldric, which he might, if not killed upon the spot, relate to everybody a recital which, well managed, would cover Porthos with ridicule. As to the astute Aramis, he did not entertain much dread of him; and supposing he should be able to get so far, he determined to dispatch him in good style or at least, by hitting him in the face, as Caesar recommended his soldiers do to those of Pompey, to damage forever the beauty of which he was so proud. In addition to this, d'Artagnan possessed that invincible stock of resolution which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart: "Endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de Treville." He flew, then, rather than walked, toward the convent of the Carmes Dechausses, or rather Deschaux, as it was called at that period, a sort of building without a window, surrounded by barren fields--an accessory to the Preaux-Clercs, and which was generally employed as the place for the duels of men who had no time to lose. When d'Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare spot of ground which extended along the foot of the monastery, Athos had been waiting about five minutes, and twelve o'clock was striking. He was, then, as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist with regard to duels could have nothing to say. Athos, who still suffered grievously from his wound, though it had been dressed anew by M. de Treville's surgeon, was seated on a post and waiting for his adversary with hat in hand, his feather even touching the ground. "Monsieur," said Athos, "I have engaged two of my friends as seconds; but these two friends are not yet come, at which I am astonished, as it is not at all their custom." "I have no seconds on my part, monsieur," said d'Artagnan; "for having only arrived yesterday in Paris, I as yet know no one but Monsieur de Treville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends." Athos reflected for an instant. "You know no one but Monsieur de Treville?" he asked. "Yes, monsieur, I know only him." "Well, but then," continued Athos, speaking half to himself, "if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer." "Not too much so," replied d'Artagnan, with a bow that was not deficient in dignity, "since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient." "Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand--it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance." "You have truly, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, bowing again, "a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful." "You confuse me," replied Athos, with his gentlemanly air; "let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s'blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns." "If you would permit me--" said d'Artagnan, with timidity. "What, monsieur?" "I have a miraculous balsam for wounds--a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself." "Well?" "Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured--well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man." D'Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy, without throwing the least doubt upon his courage. "PARDIEU, monsieur!" said Athos, "that's a proposition that pleases me; not that I can accept it, but a league off it savors of the gentleman. Thus spoke and acted the gallant knights of the time of Charlemagne, in whom every cavalier ought to seek his model. Unfortunately, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, we live in the times of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well the secret might be guarded, it would be known, I say, that we were to fight, and our combat would be prevented. I think these fellows will never come." "If you are in haste, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, with the same simplicity with which a moment before he had proposed to him to put off the duel for three days, "and if it be your will to dispatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself, I pray you." "There is another word which pleases me," cried Athos, with a gracious nod to d'Artagnan. "That did not come from a man without a heart. Monsieur, I love men of your kidney; and I foresee plainly that if we don't kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure in your conversation. We will wait for these gentlemen, so please you; I have plenty of time, and it will be more correct. Ah, here is one of them, I believe." In fact, at the end of the Rue Vaugirard the gigantic Porthos appeared. "What!" cried d'Artagnan, "is your first witness Monsieur Porthos?" "Yes, that disturbs you?" "By no means." "And here is the second." D'Artagnan turned in the direction pointed to by Athos, and perceived Aramis. "What!" cried he, in an accent of greater astonishment than before, "your second witness is Monsieur Aramis?" "Doubtless! Are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called among the Musketeers and the Guards, at court and in the city, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the Three Inseparables? And yet, as you come from Dax or Pau--" "From Tarbes," said d'Artagnan. "It is probable you are ignorant of this little fact," said Athos. "My faith!" replied d'Artagnan, "you are well named, gentlemen; and my adventure, if it should make any noise, will prove at least that your union is not founded upon contrasts." In the meantime, Porthos had come up, waved his hand to Athos, and then turning toward d'Artagnan, stood quite astonished. Let us say in passing that he had changed his baldric and relinquished his cloak. "Ah, ah!" said he, "what does this mean?" "This is the gentleman I am going to fight with," said Athos, pointing to d'Artagnan with his hand and saluting him with the same gesture. "Why, it is with him I am also going to fight," said Porthos. "But not before one o'clock," replied d'Artagnan. "And I also am to fight with this gentleman," said Aramis, coming in his turn onto the place. "But not until two o'clock," said d'Artagnan, with the same calmness. "But what are you going to fight about, Athos?" asked Aramis. "Faith! I don't very well know. He hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?" "Faith! I am going to fight--because I am going to fight," answered Porthos, reddening. Athos, whose keen eye lost nothing, perceived a faintly sly smile pass over the lips of the young Gascon as he replied, "We had a short discussion upon dress." "And you, Aramis?" asked Athos. "Oh, ours is a theological quarrel," replied Aramis, making a sign to d'Artagnan to keep secret the cause of their duel. Athos indeed saw a second smile on the lips of d'Artagnan. "Indeed?" said Athos. "Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon which we could not agree," said the Gascon. "Decidedly, this is a clever fellow," murmured Athos. "And now you are assembled, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "permit me to offer you my apologies." At this word APOLOGIES, a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lip of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis. "You do not understand me, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, throwing up his head, the sharp and bold lines of which were at the moment gilded by a bright ray of the sun. "I asked to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, which must much diminish the face-value of your bill, Monsieur Porthos, and render yours almost null, Monsieur Aramis. And now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and--on guard!" At these words, with the most gallant air possible, d'Artagnan drew his sword. The blood had mounted to the head of d'Artagnan, and at that moment he would have drawn his sword against all the Musketeers in the kingdom as willingly as he now did against Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. It was a quarter past midday. The sun was in its zenith, and the spot chosen for the scene of the duel was exposed to its full ardor. "It is very hot," said Athos, drawing his sword in its turn, "and yet I cannot take off my doublet; for I just now felt my wound begin to bleed again, and I should not like to annoy Monsieur with the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself." "That is true, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "and whether drawn by myself or another, I assure you I shall always view with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself." "Come, come, enough of such compliments!" cried Porthos. "Remember, we are waiting for our turns." "Speak for yourself when you are inclined to utter such incongruities," interrupted Aramis. "For my part, I think what they say is very well said, and quite worthy of two gentlemen." "When you please, monsieur," said Athos, putting himself on guard. "I waited your orders," said d'Artagnan, crossing swords. But scarcely had the two rapiers clashed, when a company of the Guards of his Eminence, commanded by M. de Jussac, turned the corner of the convent. "The cardinal's Guards!" cried Aramis and Porthos at the same time. "Sheathe your swords, gentlemen, sheathe your swords!" But it was too late. The two combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions. "Halloo!" cried Jussac, advancing toward them and making a sign to his men to do so likewise, "halloo, Musketeers? Fighting here, are you? And the edicts? What is become of them?" "You are very generous, gentlemen of the Guards," said Athos, full of rancor, for Jussac was one of the aggressors of the preceding day. "If we were to see you fighting, I can assure you that we would make no effort to prevent you. Leave us alone, then, and you will enjoy a little amusement without cost to yourselves." "Gentlemen," said Jussac, "it is with great regret that I pronounce the thing impossible. Duty before everything. Sheathe, then, if you please, and follow us." "Monsieur," said Aramis, parodying Jussac, "it would afford us great pleasure to obey your polite invitation if it depended upon ourselves; but unfortunately the thing is impossible--Monsieur de Treville has forbidden it. Pass on your way, then; it is the best thing to do." This raillery exasperated Jussac. "We will charge upon you, then," said he, "if you disobey." "There are five of them," said Athos, half aloud, "and we are but three; we shall be beaten again, and must die on the spot, for, on my part, I declare I will never appear again before the captain as a conquered man." Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly drew near one another, while Jussac drew up his soldiers. This short interval was sufficient to determine d'Artagnan on the part he was to take. It was one of those events which decide the life of a man; it was a choice between the king and the cardinal--the choice made, it must be persisted in. To fight, that was to disobey the law, that was to risk his head, that was to make at one blow an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this the young man perceived, and yet, to his praise we speak it, he did not hesitate a second. Turning towards Athos and his friends, "Gentlemen," said he, "allow me to correct your words, if you please. You said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four." "But you are not one of us," said Porthos. "That's true," replied d'Artagnan; "I have not the uniform, but I have the spirit. My heart is that of a Musketeer; I feel it, monsieur, and that impels me on." "Withdraw, young man," cried Jussac, who doubtless, by his gestures and the expression of his countenance, had guessed d'Artagnan's design. "You may retire; we consent to that. Save your skin; begone quickly." D'Artagnan did not budge. "Decidedly, you are a brave fellow," said Athos, pressing the young man's hand. "Come, come, choose your part," replied Jussac. "Well," said Porthos to Aramis, "we must do something." "Monsieur is full of generosity," said Athos. But all three reflected upon the youth of d'Artagnan, and dreaded his inexperience. "We should only be three, one of whom is wounded, with the addition of a boy," resumed Athos; "and yet it will not be the less said we were four men." "Yes, but to yield!" said Porthos. "That IS difficult," replied Athos. D'Artagnan comprehended their irresolution. "Try me, gentlemen," said he, "and I swear to you by my honor that I will not go hence if we are conquered." "What is your name, my brave fellow?" said Athos. "d'Artagnan, monsieur." "Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, forward!" cried Athos. "Come, gentlemen, have you decided?" cried Jussac for the third time. "It is done, gentlemen," said Athos. "And what is your choice?" asked Jussac. "We are about to have the honor of charging you," replied Aramis, lifting his hat with one hand and drawing his sword with the other. "Ah! You resist, do you?" cried Jussac. "S'blood; does that astonish you?" And the nine combatants rushed upon each other with a fury which however did not exclude a certain degree of method. Athos fixed upon a certain Cahusac, a favorite of the cardinal's. Porthos had Bicarat, and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries. As to d'Artagnan, he sprang toward Jussac himself. The heart of the young Gascon beat as if it would burst through his side--not from fear, God be thanked, he had not the shade of it, but with emulation; he fought like a furious tiger, turning ten times round his adversary, and changing his ground and his guard twenty times. Jussac was, as was then said, a fine blade, and had had much practice; nevertheless it required all his skill to defend himself against an adversary who, active and energetic, departed every instant from received rules, attacking him on all sides at once, and yet parrying like a man who had the greatest respect for his own epidermis. This contest at length exhausted Jussac's patience. Furious at being held in check by one whom he had considered a boy, he became warm and began to make mistakes. D'Artagnan, who though wanting in practice had a sound theory, redoubled his agility. Jussac, anxious to put an end to this, springing forward, aimed a terrible thrust at his adversary, but the latter parried it; and while Jussac was recovering himself, glided like a serpent beneath his blade, and passed his sword through his body. Jussac fell like a dead mass. D'Artagnan then cast an anxious and rapid glance over the field of battle. Aramis had killed one of his adversaries, but the other pressed him warmly. Nevertheless, Aramis was in a good situation, and able to defend himself. Bicarat and Porthos had just made counterhits. Porthos had received a thrust through his arm, and Bicarat one through his thigh. But neither of these two wounds was serious, and they only fought more earnestly. Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, became evidently paler, but did not give way a foot. He only changed his sword hand, and fought with his left hand. According to the laws of dueling at that period, d'Artagnan was at liberty to assist whom he pleased. While he was endeavoring to find out which of his companions stood in greatest need, he caught a glance from Athos. The glance was of sublime eloquence. Athos would have died rather than appeal for help; but he could look, and with that look ask assistance. D'Artagnan interpreted it; with a terrible bound he sprang to the side of Cahusac, crying, "To me, Monsieur Guardsman; I will slay you!" Cahusac turned. It was time; for Athos, whose great courage alone supported him, sank upon his knee. "S'blood!" cried he to d'Artagnan, "do not kill him, young man, I beg of you. I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured and sound again. Disarm him only--make sure of his sword. That's it! Very well done!" The exclamation was drawn from Athos by seeing the sword of Cahusac fly twenty paces from him. D'Artagnan and Cahusac sprang forward at the same instant, the one to recover, the other to obtain, the sword; but d'Artagnan, being the more active, reached it first and placed his foot upon it. Cahusac immediately ran to the Guardsman whom Aramis had killed, seized his rapier, and returned toward d'Artagnan; but on his way he met Athos, who during his relief which d'Artagnan had procured him had recovered his breath, and who, for fear that d'Artagnan would kill his enemy, wished to resume the fight. D'Artagnan perceived that it would be disobliging Athos not to leave him alone; and in a few minutes Cahusac fell, with a sword thrust through his throat. At the same instant Aramis placed his sword point on the breast of his fallen enemy, and forced him to ask for mercy. There only then remained Porthos and Bicarat. Porthos made a thousand flourishes, asking Bicarat what o'clock it could be, and offering him his compliments upon his brother's having just obtained a company in the regiment of Navarre; but, jest as he might, he gained nothing. Bicarat was one of those iron men who never fell dead. Nevertheless, it was necessary to finish. The watch might come up and take all the combatants, wounded or not, royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan surrounded Bicarat, and required him to surrender. Though alone against all and with a wound in his thigh, Bicarat wished to hold out; but Jussac, who had risen upon his elbow, cried out to him to yield. Bicarat was a Gascon, as d'Artagnan was; he turned a deaf ear, and contented himself with laughing, and between two parries finding time to point to a spot of earth with his sword, "Here," cried he, parodying a verse of the Bible, "here will Bicarat die; for I only am left, and they seek my life." "But there are four against you; leave off, I command you." "Ah, if you command me, that's another thing," said Bicarat. "As you are my commander, it is my duty to obey." And springing backward, he broke his sword across his knee to avoid the necessity of surrendering it, threw the pieces over the convent wall, and crossed him arms, whistling a cardinalist air. Bravery is always respected, even in an enemy. The Musketeers saluted Bicarat with their swords, and returned them to their sheaths. D'Artagnan did the same. Then, assisted by Bicarat, the only one left standing, they bore Jussac, Cahusac, and one of Aramis's adversaries who was only wounded, under the porch of the convent. The fourth, as we have said, was dead. They then rang the bell, and carrying away four swords out of five, they took their road, intoxicated with joy, toward the hotel of M. de Treville. They walked arm in arm, occupying the whole width of the street and taking in every Musketeer they met, so that in the end it became a triumphal march. The heart of d'Artagnan swam in delirium; he marched between Athos and Porthos, pressing them tenderly. "If I am not yet a Musketeer," said he to his new friends, as he passed through the gateway of M. de Treville's hotel, "at least I have entered upon my apprenticeship, haven't I?"

Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-5

On his way back to meet Athos, d'Artagnan ponders his situation. If he wounds the already-wounded Athos, he will look bad; yet if he himself is wounded by the already-wounded Athos, he will be doubly disgraced. He searches for a way out of the dilemma. Arriving on time for the duel, he finds that Athos's seconds have not arrived. Meanwhile, Athos's shoulder has begun to throb painfully, so d'Artagnan offers him some of his mother's miraculous salve. This generosity impresses Athos. Afterward, the seconds arrive: Porthos and Aramis. D'Artagnan registers great surprise when he learns that these gentlemen are known as "the three inseparables," or "the three musketeers." just as Athos and d'Artagnan have their swords in position for the duel, they are interrupted by five of the cardinal's guards and are ordered to yield to arrest because of the edict against dueling. D'Artagnan has to decide whether he will support the cardinal's men or whether he should side with the King's Musketeers. Immediately, he decides on the musketeers. During the encounter, the cardinal's guards are soundly defeated, and d'Artagnan is accepted into the close camaraderie of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

Prior to each of d'Artagnan's dueling encounters with the three musketeers, Dumas creates tension by making us guess how the hero will confront each of them and yet emerge with honor from each encounter. This question, of course, is ultimately obviated by the appearance of the cardinal's guards and by d'Artagnan's decision to fight on the side of the musketeers. His brilliant although unorthodox swordsmanship wins him the respect of the musketeers, and thus through a stroke of luck, d'Artagnan becomes, as it were, an unofficial "fourth musketeer." Not until later in the novel, however, will he become an official musketeer.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/chapters_49_to_51.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Three Musketeers/section_19_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapters 49-51

chapters 49-51

{"name": "Chapters 49-51", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-4-chapters-4951", "summary": "Milady's ship is detained by a storm, and when she finally reaches England, Planchet has already warned de Winter of Milady's wicked plans; meanwhile, Planchet is now boarding a ship heading back to France. Therefore, when Milady's ship docks, she is received by an austere English officer who, with utmost politeness, escorts her to a castle some distance away and places her in a locked room. Milady is livid with anger and indignation, but after awhile, Lord de Winter appears. To her horror, she learns that she is a prisoner. She tells her brother-in-law that her only reason for coming to England was to see him. De Winter is not fooled. He sarcastically acknowledges that her reason for coming is now fulfilled: she is a \"guest\" in his castle and they can visit together every day. Slyly, de Winter lets Milady know that he is aware of her first husband , as well as her recent plottings. And when he mentions her branded shoulder, she is ready to kill him -- but he warns her not to try, for if she does, he will either kill her or send her to the public executioner. De Winter then calls for his assistant, John Felton, and tells him to guard this wicked woman. He recounts many of the immoral and evil things she has done, and he warns Felton not to be deceived by her. Felton, who is deeply indebted to de Winter for many favors, promises to obey his master's instructions to the letter. Meanwhile, back in France, the cardinal is wandering around the campgrounds, waiting for Milady's report. By accident, he encounters the four musketeers, who are reading a letter. Richelieu approaches them and engages in a rather guarded political conversation, during which Athos gets the better of the cardinal, who grudgingly leaves.", "analysis": "These chapters further reveal the dark and murky depths of Milady's vile nature. For example, other people might have committed some of her immoral acts for the sake of money, but we hear from de Winter that Milady is already wealthy. Milady's desire for de Winter's money is simply another aspect of her enormous greed and lust for power. De Winter finally concludes that her only reason for doing evil is for the sheer pleasure she receives when she is doing it. She can be compared to Shakespeare's Iago ; both Iago and Milady enjoy evil for the sake of evil. Nonetheless, we should note that in spite of Milady's evil nature, she is treated politely and accommodatingly as a lady should be, rather than being thrown into a dungeon, where she belongs. This politeness is part of the nineteenth century's code of gentlemanly respect for womanhood -- even though in this case, Milady's \"womanhood\" is indelibly corrupt and evil. In Chapter 51, Athos is rather forward with the cardinal; he suggests that the letter he is reading is from his mistress, and he takes an even more dangerous chance when he says that the letter is not from either of two ladies who have been the cardinal's mistresses. The letter, of course, must be concealed at all costs because it contains the location of the secret whereabouts of Madame Bonacieux and the cardinal wants this information badly."}

49 FATALITY Meantime Milady, drunk with passion, roaring on the deck like a lioness that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw herself into the sea that she might regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the thought that she had been insulted by d'Artagnan, threatened by Athos, and that she had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea soon became so insupportable to her that at the risk of whatever terrible consequences might result to herself from it, she implored the captain to put her on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from his false position--placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat between the mice and the birds--was in great haste to regain England, and positively refused to obey what he took for a woman's caprice, promising his passenger, who had been particularly recommended to him by the cardinal, to land her, if the sea and the French permitted him, at one of the ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or Brest. But the wind was contrary, the sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. Nine days after leaving the Charente, pale with fatigue and vexation, Milady saw only the blue coasts of Finisterre appear. She calculated that to cross this corner of France and return to the cardinal it would take her at least three days. Add another day for landing, and that would make four. Add these four to the nine others, that would be thirteen days lost--thirteen days, during which so many important events might pass in London. She reflected likewise that the cardinal would be furious at her return, and consequently would be more disposed to listen to the complaints brought against her than to the accusations she brought against others. She allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without repeating her request to the captain, who, on his part, took care not to remind her of it. Milady therefore continued her voyage, and on the very day that Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France, the messenger of his Eminence entered the port in triumph. All the city was agitated by an extraordinary movement. Four large vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the jetty, his clothes richly laced with gold, glittering, as was customary with him, with diamonds and precious stones, his hat ornamented with a white feather which drooped upon his shoulder, Buckingham was seen surrounded by a staff almost as brilliant as himself. It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England remembers that there is a sun. The star of day, pale but nevertheless still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at once the heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the towers and the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration. Breathing that sea breeze, so much more invigorating and balsamic as the land is approached, contemplating all the power of those preparations she was commissioned to destroy, all the power of that army which she was to combat alone--she, a woman with a few bags of gold--Milady compared herself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses, men, and arms, which a gesture of her hand was to dissipate like a cloud of smoke. They entered the roadstead; but as they drew near in order to cast anchor, a little cutter, looking like a coastguard formidably armed, approached the merchant vessel and dropped into the sea a boat which directed its course to the ladder. This boat contained an officer, a mate, and eight rowers. The officer alone went on board, where he was received with all the deference inspired by the uniform. The officer conversed a few instants with the captain, gave him several papers, of which he was the bearer, to read, and upon the order of the merchant captain the whole crew of the vessel, both passengers and sailors, were called upon deck. When this species of summons was made the officer inquired aloud the point of the brig's departure, its route, its landings; and to all these questions the captain replied without difficulty and without hesitation. Then the officer began to pass in review all the people, one after the other, and stopping when he came to Milady, surveyed her very closely, but without addressing a single word to her. He then returned to the captain, said a few words to him, and as if from that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a maneuver which the crew executed immediately. Then the vessel resumed its course, still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it, menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The boat followed in the wake of the ship, a speck near the enormous mass. During the examination of Milady by the officer, as may well be imagined, Milady on her part was not less scrutinizing in her glances. But however great was the power of this woman with eyes of flame in reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished to divine, she met this time with a countenance of such impassivity that no discovery followed her investigation. The officer who had stopped in front of her and studied her with so much care might have been twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. He was of pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth, fine and well cut, remained motionless in its correct lines; his chin, strongly marked, denoted that strength of will which in the ordinary Britannic type denotes mostly nothing but obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets, enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair which, like the beard which covered the lower part of his face, was of a beautiful deep chestnut color. When they entered the port, it was already night. The fog increased the darkness, and formed round the sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to become rainy. The air they breathed was heavy, damp, and cold. Milady, that woman so courageous and firm, shivered in spite of herself. The officer desired to have Milady's packages pointed out to him, and ordered them to be placed in the boat. When this operation was complete, he invited her to descend by offering her his hand. Milady looked at this man, and hesitated. "Who are you, sir," asked she, "who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?" "You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy," replied the young man. "But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place themselves at the service of their female compatriots when they land in a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?" "Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hotels, in order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about them." These words were pronounced with the most exact politeness and the most perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not the power of convincing Milady. "But I am not a foreigner, sir," said she, with an accent as pure as ever was heard between Portsmouth and Manchester; "my name is Lady Clarik, and this measure--" "This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade it." "I will follow you, then, sir." Accepting the hand of the officer, she began the descent of the ladder, at the foot of which the boat waited. The officer followed her. A large cloak was spread at the stern; the officer requested her to sit down upon this cloak, and placed himself beside her. "Row!" said he to the sailors. The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound, giving but a single stroke, and the boat seemed to fly over the surface of the water. In five minutes they gained the land. The officer leaped to the pier, and offered his hand to Milady. A carriage was in waiting. "Is this carriage for us?" asked Milady. "Yes, madame," replied the officer. "The hotel, then, is far away?" "At the other end of the town." "Very well," said Milady; and she resolutely entered the carriage. The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the carriage; and this operation ended, he took his place beside Milady, and shut the door. Immediately, without any order being given or his place of destination indicated, the coachman set off at a rapid pace, and plunged into the streets of the city. So strange a reception naturally gave Milady ample matter for reflection; so seeing that the young officer did not seem at all disposed for conversation, she reclined in her corner of the carriage, and one after the other passed in review all the surmises which presented themselves to her mind. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, surprised at the length of the journey, she leaned forward toward the door to see whither she was being conducted. Houses were no longer to be seen; trees appeared in the darkness like great black phantoms chasing one another. Milady shuddered. "But we are no longer in the city, sir," said she. The young officer preserved silence. "I beg you to understand, sir, I will go no farther unless you tell me whither you are taking me." This threat brought no reply. "Oh, this is too much," cried Milady. "Help! help!" No voice replied to hers; the carriage continued to roll on with rapidity; the officer seemed a statue. Milady looked at the officer with one of those terrible expressions peculiar to her countenance, and which so rarely failed of their effect; anger made her eyes flash in the darkness. The young man remained immovable. Milady tried to open the door in order to throw herself out. "Take care, madame," said the young man, coolly, "you will kill yourself in jumping." Milady reseated herself, foaming. The officer leaned forward, looked at her in his turn, and appeared surprised to see that face, just before so beautiful, distorted with passion and almost hideous. The artful creature at once comprehended that she was injuring herself by allowing him thus to read her soul; she collected her features, and in a complaining voice said: "In the name of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute the violence that is done me?" "No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with all who land in England." "Then you don't know me, sir?" "It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you." "And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?" "None, I swear to you." There was so much serenity, coolness, mildness even, in the voice of the young man, that Milady felt reassured. At length after a journey of nearly an hour, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, which closed an avenue leading to a castle severe in form, massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel, Milady could hear a vast roaring, which she at once recognized as the noise of the sea dashing against some steep cliff. The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in a court large, dark, and square. Almost immediately the door of the carriage was opened, the young man sprang lightly out and presented his hand to Milady, who leaned upon it, and in her turn alighted with tolerable calmness. "Still, then, I am a prisoner," said Milady, looking around her, and bringing back her eyes with a most gracious smile to the young officer; "but I feel assured it will not be for long," added she. "My own conscience and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that." However flattering this compliment, the officer made no reply; but drawing from his belt a little silver whistle, such as boatswains use in ships of war, he whistled three times, with three different modulations. Immediately several men appeared, who unharnessed the smoking horses, and put the carriage into a coach house. Then the officer, with the same calm politeness, invited his prisoner to enter the house. She, with a still-smiling countenance, took his arm, and passed with him under a low arched door, which by a vaulted passage, lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase around an angle of stone. They then came to a massive door, which after the introduction into the lock of a key which the young man carried with him, turned heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the chamber destined for Milady. With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest details. It was a chamber whose furniture was at once appropriate for a prisoner or a free man; and yet bars at the windows and outside bolts at the door decided the question in favor of the prison. In an instant all the strength of mind of this creature, though drawn from the most vigorous sources, abandoned her; she sank into a large easy chair, with her arms crossed, her head lowered, and expecting every instant to see a judge enter to interrogate her. But no one entered except two or three marines, who brought her trunks and packages, deposited them in a corner, and retired without speaking. The officer superintended all these details with the same calmness Milady had constantly seen in him, never pronouncing a word himself, and making himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand or a sound of his whistle. It might have been said that between this man and his inferiors spoken language did not exist, or had become useless. At length Milady could hold out no longer; she broke the silence. "In the name of heaven, sir," cried she, "what means all that is passing? Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?" "You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentleman. There terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward you; the rest concerns another person." "And who is that other person?" asked Milady, warmly. "Can you not tell me his name?" At the moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. Some voices passed and faded away, and the sound of a single footstep approached the door. "That person is here, madame," said the officer, leaving the entrance open, and drawing himself up in an attitude of respect. At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold. He was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in his hand. Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she supported herself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced her head as if to meet a certainty. The stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced, after entering into the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milady involuntarily drew back. Then when she had no longer any doubt, she cried, in a state of stupor, "What, my brother, is it you?" "Yes, fair lady!" replied Lord de Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; "it is I, myself." "But this castle, then?" "Is mine." "This chamber?" "Is yours." "I am, then, your prisoner?" "Nearly so." "But this is a frightful abuse of power!" "No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother and sister ought to do." Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for his last orders, he said. "All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Mr. Felton." 50 CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER During the time which Lord de Winter took to shut the door, close a shutter, and draw a chair near to his sister-in-law's fauteuil, Milady, anxiously thoughtful, plunged her glance into the depths of possibility, and discovered all the plan, of which she could not even obtain a glance as long as she was ignorant into whose hands she had fallen. She knew her brother-in-law to be a worthy gentleman, a bold hunter, an intrepid player, enterprising with women, but by no means remarkable for his skill in intrigues. How had he discovered her arrival, and caused her to be seized? Why did he detain her? Athos had dropped some words which proved that the conversation she had with the cardinal had fallen into outside ears; but she could not suppose that he had dug a countermine so promptly and so boldly. She rather feared that her preceding operations in England might have been discovered. Buckingham might have guessed that it was she who had cut off the two studs, and avenge himself for that little treachery; but Buckingham was incapable of going to any excess against a woman, particularly if that woman was supposed to have acted from a feeling of jealousy. This supposition appeared to her most reasonable. It seemed to her that they wanted to revenge the past, and not to anticipate the future. At all events, she congratulated herself upon having fallen into the hands of her brother-in-law, with whom she reckoned she could deal very easily, rather than into the hands of an acknowledged and intelligent enemy. "Yes, let us chat, brother," said she, with a kind of cheerfulness, decided as she was to draw from the conversation, in spite of all the dissimulation Lord de Winter could bring, the revelations of which she stood in need to regulate her future conduct. "You have, then, decided to come to England again," said Lord de Winter, "in spite of the resolutions you so often expressed in Paris never to set your feet on British ground?" Milady replied to this question by another question. "To begin with, tell me," said she, "how have you watched me so closely as to be aware beforehand not only of my arrival, but even of the day, the hour, and the port at which I should arrive?" Lord de Winter adopted the same tactics as Milady, thinking that as his sister-in-law employed them they must be the best. "But tell me, my dear sister," replied he, "what makes you come to England?" "I come to see you," replied Milady, without knowing how much she aggravated by this reply the suspicions to which d'Artagnan's letter had given birth in the mind of her brother-in-law, and only desiring to gain the good will of her auditor by a falsehood. "Ah, to see me?" said de Winter, cunningly. "To be sure, to see you. What is there astonishing in that?" "And you had no other object in coming to England but to see me?" "No." "So it was for me alone you have taken the trouble to cross the Channel?" "For you alone." "The deuce! What tenderness, my sister!" "But am I not your nearest relative?" demanded Milady, with a tone of the most touching ingenuousness. "And my only heir, are you not?" said Lord de Winter in his turn, fixing his eyes on those of Milady. Whatever command she had over herself, Milady could not help starting; and as in pronouncing the last words Lord de Winter placed his hand upon the arm of his sister, this start did not escape him. In fact, the blow was direct and severe. The first idea that occurred to Milady's mind was that she had been betrayed by Kitty, and that she had recounted to the baron the selfish aversion toward himself of which she had imprudently allowed some marks to escape before her servant. She also recollected the furious and imprudent attack she had made upon d'Artagnan when he spared the life of her brother. "I do not understand, my Lord," said she, in order to gain time and make her adversary speak out. "What do you mean to say? Is there any secret meaning concealed beneath your words?" "Oh, my God, no!" said Lord de Winter, with apparent good nature. "You wish to see me, and you come to England. I learn this desire, or rather I suspect that you feel it; and in order to spare you all the annoyances of a nocturnal arrival in a port and all the fatigues of landing, I send one of my officers to meet you, I place a carriage at his orders, and he brings you hither to this castle, of which I am governor, whither I come every day, and where, in order to satisfy our mutual desire of seeing each other, I have prepared you a chamber. What is there more astonishing in all that I have said to you than in what you have told me?" "No; what I think astonishing is that you should expect my coming." "And yet that is the most simple thing in the world, my dear sister. Have you not observed that the captain of your little vessel, on entering the roadstead, sent forward, in order to obtain permission to enter the port, a little boat bearing his logbook and the register of his voyagers? I am commandant of the port. They brought me that book. I recognized your name in it. My heart told me what your mouth has just confirmed--that is to say, with what view you have exposed yourself to the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at least so troublesome at this moment--and I sent my cutter to meet you. You know the rest." Milady knew that Lord de Winter lied, and she was the more alarmed. "My brother," continued she, "was not that my Lord Buckingham whom I saw on the jetty this evening as we arrived?" "Himself. Ah, I can understand how the sight of him struck you," replied Lord de Winter. "You came from a country where he must be very much talked of, and I know that his armaments against France greatly engage the attention of your friend the cardinal." "My friend the cardinal!" cried Milady, seeing that on this point as on the other Lord de Winter seemed well instructed. "Is he not your friend?" replied the baron, negligently. "Ah, pardon! I thought so; but we will return to my Lord Duke presently. Let us not depart from the sentimental turn our conversation had taken. You came, you say, to see me?" "Yes." "Well, I reply that you shall be served to the height of your wishes, and that we shall see each other every day." "Am I, then, to remain here eternally?" demanded Milady, with a certain terror. "Do you find yourself badly lodged, sister? Demand anything you want, and I will hasten to have you furnished with it." "But I have neither my women nor my servants." "You shall have all, madame. Tell me on what footing your household was established by your first husband, and although I am only your brother-in-law, I will arrange one similar." "My first husband!" cried Milady, looking at Lord de Winter with eyes almost starting from their sockets. "Yes, your French husband. I don't speak of my brother. If you have forgotten, as he is still living, I can write to him and he will send me information on the subject." A cold sweat burst from the brow of Milady. "You jest!" said she, in a hollow voice. "Do I look so?" asked the baron, rising and going a step backward. "Or rather you insult me," continued she, pressing with her stiffened hands the two arms of her easy chair, and raising herself upon her wrists. "I insult you!" said Lord de Winter, with contempt. "In truth, madame, do you think that can be possible?" "Indeed, sir," said Milady, "you must be either drunk or mad. Leave the room, and send me a woman." "Women are very indiscreet, my sister. Cannot I serve you as a waiting maid? By that means all our secrets will remain in the family." "Insolent!" cried Milady; and as if acted upon by a spring, she bounded toward the baron, who awaited her attack with his arms crossed, but nevertheless with one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Come!" said he. "I know you are accustomed to assassinate people; but I warn you I shall defend myself, even against you." "You are right," said Milady. "You have all the appearance of being cowardly enough to lift your hand against a woman." "Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for mine would not be the first hand of a man that has been placed upon you, I imagine." And the baron pointed, with a slow and accusing gesture, to the left shoulder of Milady, which he almost touched with his finger. Milady uttered a deep, inward shriek, and retreated to a corner of the room like a panther which crouches for a spring. "Oh, growl as much as you please," cried Lord de Winter, "but don't try to bite, for I warn you that it would be to your disadvantage. There are here no procurators who regulate successions beforehand. There is no knight-errant to come and seek a quarrel with me on account of the fair lady I detain a prisoner; but I have judges quite ready who will quickly dispose of a woman so shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into the bed of Lord de Winter, my brother. And these judges, I warn you, will soon send you to an executioner who will make both your shoulders alike." The eyes of Milady darted such flashes that although he was a man and armed before an unarmed woman, he felt the chill of fear glide through his whole frame. However, he continued all the same, but with increasing warmth: "Yes, I can very well understand that after having inherited the fortune of my brother it would be very agreeable to you to be my heir likewise; but know beforehand, if you kill me or cause me to be killed, my precautions are taken. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into your hands. Were you not already rich enough--you who possess nearly a million? And could you not stop your fatal career, if you did not do evil for the infinite and supreme joy of doing it? Oh, be assured, if the memory of my brother were not sacred to me, you should rot in a state dungeon or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn. I will be silent, but you must endure your captivity quietly. In fifteen or twenty days I shall set out for La Rochelle with the army; but on the eve of my departure a vessel which I shall see depart will take you hence and convey you to our colonies in the south. And be assured that you shall be accompanied by one who will blow your brains out at the first attempt you make to return to England or the Continent." Milady listened with an attention that dilated her inflamed eyes. "Yes, at present," continued Lord de Winter, "you will remain in this castle. The walls are thick, the doors strong, and the bars solid; besides, your window opens immediately over the sea. The men of my crew, who are devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this apartment, and watch all the passages that lead to the courtyard. Even if you gained the yard, there would still be three iron gates for you to pass. The order is positive. A step, a gesture, a word, on your part, denoting an effort to escape, and you are to be fired upon. If they kill you, English justice will be under an obligation to me for having saved it trouble. Ah! I see your features regain their calmness, your countenance recovers its assurance. You are saying to yourself: 'Fifteen days, twenty days? Bah! I have an inventive mind; before that is expired some idea will occur to me. I have an infernal spirit. I shall meet with a victim. Before fifteen days are gone by I shall be away from here.' Ah, try it!" Milady, finding her thoughts betrayed, dug her nails into her flesh to subdue every emotion that might give to her face any expression except agony. Lord de Winter continued: "The officer who commands here in my absence you have already seen, and therefore know him. He knows how, as you must have observed, to obey an order--for you did not, I am sure, come from Portsmouth hither without endeavoring to make him speak. What do you say of him? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more mute? You have already tried the power of your seductions upon many men, and unfortunately you have always succeeded; but I give you leave to try them upon this one. PARDIEU! if you succeed with him, I pronounce you the demon himself." He went toward the door and opened it hastily. "Call Mr. Felton," said he. "Wait a minute longer, and I will introduce him to you." There followed between these two personages a strange silence, during which the sound of a slow and regular step was heard approaching. Shortly a human form appeared in the shade of the corridor, and the young lieutenant, with whom we are already acquainted, stopped at the threshold to receive the orders of the baron. "Come in, my dear John," said Lord de Winter, "come in, and shut the door." The young officer entered. "Now," said the baron, "look at this woman. She is young; she is beautiful; she possesses all earthly seductions. Well, she is a monster, who, at twenty-five years of age, has been guilty of as many crimes as you could read of in a year in the archives of our tribunals. Her voice prejudices her hearers in her favor; her beauty serves as a bait to her victims; her body even pays what she promises--I must do her that justice. She will try to seduce you, perhaps she will try to kill you. I have extricated you from misery, Felton; I have caused you to be named lieutenant; I once saved your life, you know on what occasion. I am for you not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a father. This woman has come back again into England for the purpose of conspiring against my life. I hold this serpent in my hands. Well, I call you, and say to you: Friend Felton, John, my child, guard me, and more particularly guard yourself, against this woman. Swear, by your hopes of salvation, to keep her safely for the chastisement she has merited. John Felton, I trust your word! John Felton, I put faith in your loyalty!" "My Lord," said the young officer, summoning to his mild countenance all the hatred he could find in his heart, "my Lord, I swear all shall be done as you desire." Milady received this look like a resigned victim; it was impossible to imagine a more submissive or a more mild expression than that which prevailed on her beautiful countenance. Lord de Winter himself could scarcely recognize the tigress who, a minute before, prepared apparently for a fight. "She is not to leave this chamber, understand, John," continued the baron. "She is to correspond with nobody; she is to speak to no one but you--if you will do her the honor to address a word to her." "That is sufficient, my Lord! I have sworn." "And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by men!" Milady let her head sink, as if crushed by this sentence. Lord de Winter went out, making a sign to Felton, who followed him, shutting the door after him. One instant after, the heavy step of a marine who served as sentinel was heard in the corridor--his ax in his girdle and his musket on his shoulder. Milady remained for some minutes in the same position, for she thought they might perhaps be examining her through the keyhole; she then slowly raised her head, which had resumed its formidable expression of menace and defiance, ran to the door to listen, looked out of her window, and returning to bury herself again in her large armchair, she reflected. 51 OFFICER Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England; but no news arrived that was not annoying and threatening. Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might appear--thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the dyke, which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the besieged city--the blockade might last a long time yet. This was a great affront to the king's army, and a great inconvenience to the cardinal, who had no longer, it is true, to embroil Louis XIII with Anne of Austria--for that affair was over--but he had to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre, who was embroiled with the Duc d'Angouleme. As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal the task of finishing it. The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its mayor, had attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor had hanged the mutineers. This execution quieted the ill-disposed, who resolved to allow themselves to die of hunger--this death always appearing to them more slow and less sure than strangulation. On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the messengers which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies which Buckingham sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the other, the trial was soon over. The cardinal pronounced the single word, "Hanged!" The king was invited to come and see the hanging. He came languidly, placing himself in a good situation to see all the details. This amused him sometimes a little, and made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not prevent his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of returning to Paris--so that if the messengers and the spies had failed, his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness, would have found himself much embarrassed. Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not surrender. The last spy that was taken was the bearer of a letter. This letter told Buckingham that the city was at an extremity; but instead of adding, "If your succor does not arrive within fifteen days, we will surrender," it added, quite simply, "If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we shall all be dead with hunger when it comes." The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham was their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned positively that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage would fail with their hope. The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news from England which would announce to him that Buckingham would not come. The question of carrying the city by assault, though often debated in the council of the king, had been always rejected. In the first place, La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the cardinal, whatever he said, very well knew that the horror of bloodshed in this encounter, in which Frenchman would combat against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of sixty years impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that period what we now call a man of progress. In fact, the sack of La Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand Huguenots who allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too closely, in 1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and then, above all this, this extreme measure, which was not at all repugnant to the king, good Catholic as he was, always fell before this argument of the besieging generals--La Rochelle is impregnable except to famine. The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he entertained of his terrible emissary--for he comprehended the strange qualities of this woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a lion. Had she betrayed him? Was she dead? He knew her well enough in all cases to know that, whether acting for or against him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not remain motionless without great impediments; but whence did these impediments arise? That was what he could not know. And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady. He had divined in the past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle alone could cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that this woman was his own, as she could look to no other but himself for a support superior to the danger which threatened her. He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no success foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate chance. He continued to press the raising of the famous dyke which was to starve La Rochelle. Meanwhile, he cast his eyes over that unfortunate city, which contained so much deep misery and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying of Louis XI, his political predecessor, as he himself was the predecessor of Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of Tristan's gossip: "Divide in order to reign." Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown over the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in which he represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and barbarous was the conduct of their leaders. These leaders had corn in abundance, and would not let them partake of it; they adopted as a maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that it was of very little consequence that women, children, and old men should die, so long as the men who were to defend the walls remained strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from devotedness or from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice; but the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the men that the children, women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their sons, their wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more just for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order that equal conditions should give birth to unanimous resolutions. These notes had all the effect that he who wrote them could expect, in that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to open private negotiations with the royal army. But at the moment when the cardinal saw his means already bearing fruit, and applauded himself for having put it in action, an inhabitant of La Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal lines--God knows how, such was the watchfulness of Bassompierre, Schomberg, and the Duc d'Angouleme, themselves watched over by the cardinal--an inhabitant of La Rochelle, we say, entered the city, coming from Portsmouth, and saying that he had seen a magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight days. Still further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length the great league was about to declare itself against France, and that the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial, and Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in all parts of the city. Copies were put up at the corners of the streets; and even they who had begun to open negotiations interrupted them, being resolved to await the succor so pompously announced. This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu's former anxiety, and forced him in spite of himself once more to turn his eyes to the other side of the sea. During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true chief, the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor money being wanting in the camp. All the corps rivaled one another in audacity and gaiety. To take spies and hang them, to make hazardous expeditions upon the dyke or the sea, to imagine wild plans, and to execute them coolly--such were the pastimes which made the army find these days short which were not only so long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and anxiety, but even to the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely. Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest GENDARME of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so slowly keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought from all the corners of France, were executing under his orders, if he met a Musketeer of the company of Treville, he drew near and looked at him in a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in him one of our four companions, he turned his penetrating look and profound thoughts in another direction. One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without hope in the negotiations with the city, without news from England, the cardinal went out, without any other aim than to be out of doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdiniere, strolled along the beach. Mingling the immensity of his dreams with the immensity of the ocean, he came, his horse going at a foot's pace, to a hill from the top of which he perceived behind a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its passage one of those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year, seven men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just received. This letter was so important that it made them forsake their cards and their dice on the drumhead. The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen. The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and nothing when he was in that state of mind increased his depression so much as gaiety in others. Besides, he had another strange fancy, which was always to believe that the causes of his sadness created the gaiety of others. Making a sign to La Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his horse, and went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by means of the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and of the hedge which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this conversation which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from the hedge he recognized the talkative Gascon; and as he had already perceived that these men were Musketeers, he did not doubt that the three others were those called the Inseparables; that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was augmented by this discovery. His eyes took a strange expression, and with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge; but he had not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables without any positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made him start, and attracted the attention of the Musketeers. "Officer!" cried Grimaud. "You are speaking, you scoundrel!" said Athos, rising upon his elbow, and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look. Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented himself with pointing his index finger in the direction of the hedge, announcing by this gesture the cardinal and his escort. With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and saluted with respect. The cardinal seemed furious. "It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard," said he. "Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider themselves superior officers?" "Monseigneur," replied Athos, for amid the general fright he alone had preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never forsook him, "Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys." "Lackeys?" grumbled the cardinal. "Lackeys who have the order to warn their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are sentinels." "Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks for the favor you have done us in uniting us. D'Artagnan," continued Athos, "you, who but lately were so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it is; avail yourself of it." These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king more majestic than kings by birth. D'Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of gratitude which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the cardinal. "It does not signify, gentlemen," continued the cardinal, without appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by the diversion which Athos had started, "it does not signify, gentlemen. I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody else." Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and bowed in sign of assent. Then he resumed in his turn: "Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased. If we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may perceive," continued Athos, knitting his brow, for this sort of investigation began to annoy him, "that we have not come out without our arms." And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets piled near the drum, on which were the cards and dice. "Your Eminence may believe," added d'Artagnan, "that we would have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants." The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little. "Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed and guarded by your lackeys?" said the cardinal. "You look like four conspirators." "Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true," said Athos; "we do conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning. Only we conspire against the Rochellais." "Ah, you gentlemen of policy!" replied the cardinal, knitting his brow in his turn, "the secret of many unknown things might perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me coming." The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward his Eminence. "One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we were undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at least be acquainted with our real position." "And if it were an interrogatory!" replied the cardinal. "Others besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied thereto." "Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us, and we are ready to reply." "What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and which you so promptly concealed?" "A woman's letter, monseigneur." "Ah, yes, I see," said the cardinal; "we must be discreet with this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a confessor, and you know I have taken orders." "Monseigneur," said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible because he risked his head in making this reply, "the letter is a woman's letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor Madame d'Aiguillon." The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his eyes. He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdiniere. Athos saw the movement; he made a step toward the muskets, upon which the other three friends had fixed their eyes, like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be taken. The cardinalists were three; the Musketeers, lackeys included, were seven. He judged that the match would be so much the less equal, if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of those rapid turns which he always had at command, all his anger faded away into a smile. "Well, well!" said he, "you are brave young men, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you for watching over yourselves, when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I would request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu, gentlemen!" And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted them with his hand, and rode away. The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with their eyes without speaking a single word until he had disappeared. Then they looked at one another. The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for notwithstanding the friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart. Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile. When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, "That Grimaud kept bad watch!" cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to vent his ill-humor on somebody. Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger, and Grimaud was silent. "Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?" said d'Artagnan. "I," said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, "I had made up my mind. If he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him, I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would have run my sword through his body." "I expected as much," said Athos; "and that was why I threw myself between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to blame for talking thus to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but women and children." "My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the wrong, after all." "How, in the wrong?" said Athos. "Whose, then, is the air we breathe? Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the sand upon which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress? Do these belong to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have supposed the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You are in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up, and you wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal. That's a match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your game. Why should you expose your game to your adversary? That is never done. Let him find it out if he can! We can find out his!" "Well, that's all very sensible, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "In that case, let there be no more question of what's past, and let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted him." Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the wine jar. "You had only read a line or two," said d'Artagnan; "read the letter again from the commencement." "Willingly," said Aramis. "My dear Cousin, "I think I shall make up my mind to set out for Bethune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as she knows she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those she regrets, particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her. Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such viands pass with difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such affairs, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She has experienced much anxiety; but she is now at length a little reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly. "Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace you. "MARIE MICHON" "Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?" said d'Artagnan. "Dear Constance! I have at length, then, intelligence of you. She lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Bethune! Where is Bethune, Athos?" "Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction." "And that will not be long, it is to be hoped," said Porthos; "for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see much that is left unless they eat one another." "Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys, merited it no less, "poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of all religions! All the same," resumed he, after having clicked his tongue against his palate, "they are brave fellows! But what the devil are you about, Aramis?" continued Athos. "Why, you are squeezing that letter into your pocket!" "Yes," said d'Artagnan, "Athos is right, it must be burned. And yet if we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a secret to interrogate ashes?" "He must have one," said Athos. "What will you do with the letter, then?" asked Porthos. "Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. Grimaud rose and obeyed. "As a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward drink this glass of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat heartily." Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which Athos held in his hand, he ground the paper well between his teeth and then swallowed it. "Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!" said Athos; "and now take this. That's well. We dispense with your saying grace." Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his eyes, raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation, spoke a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive. "And now," said Athos, "unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty much at our ease respecting the letter." Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring between his mustaches, "These four men must positively be mine."

Chapters 49-51

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Milady's ship is detained by a storm, and when she finally reaches England, Planchet has already warned de Winter of Milady's wicked plans; meanwhile, Planchet is now boarding a ship heading back to France. Therefore, when Milady's ship docks, she is received by an austere English officer who, with utmost politeness, escorts her to a castle some distance away and places her in a locked room. Milady is livid with anger and indignation, but after awhile, Lord de Winter appears. To her horror, she learns that she is a prisoner. She tells her brother-in-law that her only reason for coming to England was to see him. De Winter is not fooled. He sarcastically acknowledges that her reason for coming is now fulfilled: she is a "guest" in his castle and they can visit together every day. Slyly, de Winter lets Milady know that he is aware of her first husband , as well as her recent plottings. And when he mentions her branded shoulder, she is ready to kill him -- but he warns her not to try, for if she does, he will either kill her or send her to the public executioner. De Winter then calls for his assistant, John Felton, and tells him to guard this wicked woman. He recounts many of the immoral and evil things she has done, and he warns Felton not to be deceived by her. Felton, who is deeply indebted to de Winter for many favors, promises to obey his master's instructions to the letter. Meanwhile, back in France, the cardinal is wandering around the campgrounds, waiting for Milady's report. By accident, he encounters the four musketeers, who are reading a letter. Richelieu approaches them and engages in a rather guarded political conversation, during which Athos gets the better of the cardinal, who grudgingly leaves.

These chapters further reveal the dark and murky depths of Milady's vile nature. For example, other people might have committed some of her immoral acts for the sake of money, but we hear from de Winter that Milady is already wealthy. Milady's desire for de Winter's money is simply another aspect of her enormous greed and lust for power. De Winter finally concludes that her only reason for doing evil is for the sheer pleasure she receives when she is doing it. She can be compared to Shakespeare's Iago ; both Iago and Milady enjoy evil for the sake of evil. Nonetheless, we should note that in spite of Milady's evil nature, she is treated politely and accommodatingly as a lady should be, rather than being thrown into a dungeon, where she belongs. This politeness is part of the nineteenth century's code of gentlemanly respect for womanhood -- even though in this case, Milady's "womanhood" is indelibly corrupt and evil. In Chapter 51, Athos is rather forward with the cardinal; he suggests that the letter he is reading is from his mistress, and he takes an even more dangerous chance when he says that the letter is not from either of two ladies who have been the cardinal's mistresses. The letter, of course, must be concealed at all costs because it contains the location of the secret whereabouts of Madame Bonacieux and the cardinal wants this information badly.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/chapters_58_to_59.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Three Musketeers/section_21_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapters 58-59

chapters 58-59

{"name": "Chapters 58-59", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-4-chapters-5859", "summary": "De Winter, suspecting that Felton is under Milady's influence, sends him on an errand away from the castle. That night, Milady hears a tap at the window; it is Felton. He has chartered a boat to take them to France, and he plans to file through the bars on her window and help her escape. Felton is successful and helps Milady climb down a rope ladder. They board the boat and he tells her that he has to debark at Portsmouth in order to take his revenge on Buckingham before Buckingham leaves for France. Milady is convinced that Felton will be able to dispose of Buckingham; her vengeance will be fulfilled. It is agreed that she will wait for Felton until 10 o'clock before setting sail. Felton's mind seethes with all of the horrible things he has heard about Buckingham. His strange, maniacal devotion to Milady, together with his fanatical religious notions, make him totally irrational. When he is allowed into Buckingham's office, he pleads for Milady's freedom, but Buckingham absolutely refuses. Crazed, Felton pulls out a dagger and stabs Buckingham. He tries to flee, but he is apprehended by de Winter. As Buckingham is dying, he learns that Queen Anne's friend, Monsieur de La Porte, is outside; La Porte has a letter from the queen which he reads to the dying Buckingham, assuring Buckingham of Anne's love for him. After Buckingham dies, de Winter questions Felton, who maintains that he killed Buckingham only because of a matter concerning promotions. Then Felton sees the sloop with Milady on it sailing out to sea. Obviously she heard the cannon alerting the nation that something extraordinary had happened, and she surmised that Buckingham was dead. Instantly, she set sail -- alone. Felton has been betrayed and abandoned.", "analysis": "These two chapters bring to an end the \"English episodes\" concerning Milady and the puritanical fanatic, Felton, whose religious blindness allowed him to become her dupe. Ironically, the cardinal casually remarked earlier: if all else fails, maybe some fanatic will rid the world of Buckingham. The cardinal was brilliantly prophetic. Dumas has arranged his material so carefully that neither author nor reader wishes to dwell upon the particulars of Felton's religious views; we are content to leave him to his destiny."}

58 ESCAPE As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady's wound was not dangerous. So soon as she was left alone with the woman whom the baron had summoned to her assistance she opened her eyes. It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a very difficult task for so finished an actress as Milady. Thus the poor woman was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom, notwithstanding her hints, she persisted in watching all night. But the presence of this woman did not prevent Milady from thinking. There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was hers. If an angel appeared to that young man as an accuser of Milady, he would take him, in the mental disposition in which he now found himself, for a messenger sent by the devil. Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was now her only hope--her only means of safety. But Lord de Winter might suspect him; Felton himself might now be watched! Toward four o'clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since the time Milady stabbed herself, however short, the wound had closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither the direction nor the depth of it; he only satisfied himself by Milady's pulse that the case was not serious. In the morning Milady, under the pretext that she had not slept well in the night and wanted rest, sent away the woman who attended her. She had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the breakfast hour; but Felton did not come. Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron, about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one day left. Lord de Winter had announced her embarkation for the twenty-third, and it was now the morning of the twenty-second. Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the hour for dinner. Although she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was brought in at its usual time. Milady then perceived, with terror, that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded her was changed. Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton. She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on horseback. She inquired if the baron was still at the castle. The soldier replied that he was, and that he had given orders to be informed if the prisoner wished to speak to him. Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her only desire was to be left alone. The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served. Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then mistrusted. This was the last blow to the prisoner. Left alone, she arose. The bed, which she had kept from prudence and that they might believe her seriously wounded, burned her like a bed of fire. She cast a glance at the door; the baron had had a plank nailed over the grating. He no doubt feared that by this opening she might still by some diabolical means corrupt her guards. Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her transports without being observed. She traversed her chamber with the excitement of a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up in an iron cage. CERTES, if the knife had been left in her power, she would now have thought, not of killing herself, but of killing the baron. At six o'clock Lord de Winter came in. He was armed at all points. This man, in whom Milady till that time had only seen a very simple gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He appeared to foresee all, to divine all, to anticipate all. A single look at Milady apprised him of all that was passing in her mind. "Ay!" said he, "I see; but you shall not kill me today. You have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your infernal influence; but I will save him. He will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o'clock, I shall have the order for your exile, signed, BUCKINGHAM. If you speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my sergeant will blow your brains out. He has orders to do so. If when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the sea. That is agreed upon. "AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see you again, to take my leave." With these words the baron went out. Milady had listened to all this menacing tirade with a smile of disdain on her lips, but rage in her heart. Supper was served. Milady felt that she stood in need of all her strength. She did not know what might take place during this night which approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud rolled over the face of the sky, and distant lightning announced a storm. The storm broke about ten o'clock. Milady felt a consolation in seeing nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in her thoughts. It appeared to her that the blast as it swept along disheveled her brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away their leaves. She howled as the hurricane howled; and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan with despair. All at once she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a flash of lightning she saw the face of a man appear behind the bars. She ran to the window and opened it. "Felton!" cried she. "I am saved." "Yes," said Felton; "but silence, silence! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through the wicket." "Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton," replied Milady. "They have closed up the grating with a board." "That is well; God has made them senseless," said Felton. "But what must I do?" asked Milady. "Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?" "Oh, yes!" "Your wound?" "Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking." "Be ready, then, at the first signal." Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as Felton had desired her, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning of the storm she heard the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every flash she perceived the shadow of Felton through the panes. She passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat upon her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful agony at every movement she heard in the corridor. There are hours which last a year. At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again. Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed formed an opening for a man to pass through. "Are you ready?" asked Felton. "Yes. Must I take anything with me?" "Money, if you have any." "Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had." "So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a vessel." "Here!" said Milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton's hands. Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall. "Now," said he, "will you come?" "I am ready." Milady mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of her body through the window. She saw the young officer suspended over the abyss by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of terror reminded her that she was a woman. The dark space frightened her. "I expected this," said Felton. "It's nothing, it's nothing!" said Milady. "I will descend with my eyes shut." "Have you confidence in me?" said Felton. "You ask that?" "Put your two hands together. Cross them; that's right!" Felton tied her two wrists together with his handkerchief, and then with a cord over the handkerchief. "What are you doing?" asked Milady, with surprise. "Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing." "But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to pieces." "Don't be afraid. I am a sailor." Not a second was to be lost. Milady passed her two arms round Felton's neck, and let herself slip out of the window. Felton began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the weight of two bodies, the blast of the hurricane shook them in the air. All at once Felton stopped. "What is the matter?" asked Milady. "Silence," said Felton, "I hear footsteps." "We are discovered!" There was a silence of several seconds. "No," said Felton, "it is nothing." "But what, then, is the noise?" "That of the patrol going their rounds." "Where is their road?" "Just under us." "They will discover us!" "No, if it does not lighten." "But they will run against the bottom of the ladder." "Fortunately it is too short by six feet." "Here they are! My God!" "Silence!" Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty paces of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them laughing and talking. This was a terrible moment for the fugitives. The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and the murmur of their voices soon died away. "Now," said Felton, "we are safe." Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted. Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when he found no more support for his feet, he clung with his hands; at length, arrived at the last step, he let himself hang by the strength of his wrists, and touched the ground. He stooped down, picked up the bag of money, and placed it between his teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms, and set off briskly in the direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. He soon left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the rocks, and when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled. A similar signal replied to him; and five minutes after, a boat appeared, rowed by four men. The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there was not depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton walked into the sea up to his middle, being unwilling to trust his precious burden to anybody. Fortunately the storm began to subside, but still the sea was disturbed. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut-shell. "To the sloop," said Felton, "and row quickly." The four men bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let them get much hold of it. However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal thing. The night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible to see the shore from the boat; they would therefore be less likely to see the boat from the shore. A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the boat was advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give it, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound Milady's hands together. When her hands were loosed he took some sea water and sprinkled it over her face. Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" said she. "Saved!" replied the young officer. "Oh, saved, saved!" cried she. "Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!" The young man pressed her to his heart. "But what is the matter with my hands!" asked Milady; "it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice." Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised. "Alas!" said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking his head sorrowfully. "Oh, it's nothing, nothing!" cried Milady. "I remember now." Milady looked around her, as if in search of something. "It is there," said Felton, touching the bag of money with his foot. They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied. "What vessel is that?" asked Milady. "The one I have hired for you." "Where will it take me?" "Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth." "What are you going to do at Portsmouth?" asked Milady. "Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter," said Felton, with a gloomy smile. "What orders?" asked Milady. "You do not understand?" asked Felton. "No; explain yourself, I beg." "As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation." "But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?" "How could I know what I was the bearer of?" "That's true! And you are going to Portsmouth?" "I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet." "He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?" "For La Rochelle." "He need not sail!" cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind. "Be satisfied," replied Felton; "he will not sail." Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written there at full length. "Felton," cried she, "you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you." "Silence!" cried Felton; "we are here." In fact, they touched the sloop. Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much agitated. An instant after they were on the deck. "Captain," said Felton, "this is the person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France." "For a thousand pistoles," said the captain. "I have paid you five hundred of them." "That's correct," said the captain. "And here are the other five hundred," replied Milady, placing her hand upon the bag of gold. "No," said the captain, "I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne." "And shall we arrive there?" "Safe and sound, as true as my name's Jack Butler." "Well," said Milady, "if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles." "Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady," cried the captain; "and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!" "Meanwhile," said Felton, "convey me to the little bay of--; you know it was agreed you should put in there." The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward seven o'clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay that had been named. During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady--how, instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel; how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened his ladder. Milady knew the rest. On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged. It was agreed that Milady should wait for Felton till ten o'clock; if he did not return by ten o'clock she was to sail. In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune. 59 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST 23, 1628 Felton took leave of Milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand. His whole body appeared in its ordinary state of calmness, only an unusual fire beamed from his eyes, like the effects of a fever; his brow was more pale than it generally was; his teeth were clenched, and his speech had a short dry accent which indicated that something dark was at work within him. As long as he remained in the boat which conveyed him to land, he kept his face toward Milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her eyes. Both were free from the fear of pursuit; nobody ever came into Milady's apartment before nine o'clock, and it would require three hours to go from the castle to London. Felton jumped onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of the cliff, saluted Milady a last time, and took his course toward the city. At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and he could only see the mast of the sloop. He immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which he saw at nearly half a league before him, standing out in the haze of the morning, with its houses and towers. Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels whose masts, like a forest of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the wind. Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in his mind all the accusations against the favorite of James I and Charles I, furnished by two years of premature meditation and a long sojourn among the Puritans. When he compared the public crimes of this minister--startling crimes, European crimes, if so we may say--with the private and unknown crimes with which Milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable of the two men which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of whom the public knew not the life. This was because his love, so strange, so new, and so ardent, made him view the infamous and imaginary accusations of Milady de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one views as frightful monsters atoms in reality imperceptible by the side of an ant. The rapidity of his walk heated his blood still more; the idea that he left behind him, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the woman he loved, or rather whom he adored as a saint, the emotion he had experienced, present fatigue--all together exalted his mind above human feeling. He entered Portsmouth about eight o'clock in the morning. The whole population was on foot; drums were beating in the streets and in the port; the troops about to embark were marching toward the sea. Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty, covered with dust, and streaming with perspiration. His countenance, usually so pale, was purple with heat and passion. The sentinel wanted to repulse him; but Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket the letter of which he was the bearer, he said, "A pressing message from Lord de Winter." At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace's most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer. Felton darted into the palace. At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which, on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees. Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke's confidential lackey, at the same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other. Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easily to be seen how he cursed the delay. The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary attention. "Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter," said Patrick. "From Lord de Winter!" repeated Buckingham; "let him come in." Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet doublet embroidered with pearls. "Why didn't the baron come himself?" demanded Buckingham. "I expected him this morning." "He desired me to tell your Grace," replied Felton, "that he very much regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he is obliged to keep at the castle." "Yes, I know that," said Buckingham; "he has a prisoner." "It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace," replied Felton. "Well, then, speak!" "That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my Lord!" "Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham; "but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently." Patrick went out. "We are alone, sir," said Buckingham; "speak!" "My Lord," said Felton, "the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman named Charlotte Backson." "Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it." "Here it is, my Lord." "Give it to me," said the duke. And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it. "Pardon, my Lord," said Felton, stopping the duke; "but does your Grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this young woman?" "Yes, sir, I know it," replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink. "Then your Grace knows her real name?" asked Felton, in a sharp tone. "I know it"; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale. "And knowing that real name, my Lord," replied Felton, "will you sign it all the same?" "Doubtless," said Buckingham, "and rather twice than once." "I cannot believe," continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp and rough, "that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this relates." "I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it." "And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?" Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily. "Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?" "Reply to them, my Lord," said Felton; "the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe." Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter, undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened. "Without remorse," said he. "The baron knows, as well as myself, that Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very favorably to commute her punishment to transportation." The duke put his pen to the paper. "You will not sign that order, my Lord!" said Felton, making a step toward the duke. "I will not sign this order! And why not?" "Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady." "I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn," said Buckingham. "This lady is infamous." "My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand her liberty of you." "Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?" said Buckingham. "My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lord, think of what you're about to do, and beware of going too far!" "What do you say? God pardon me!" cried Buckingham, "I really think he threatens me!" "No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes." "Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest." "You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her; let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you." "You will exact!" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment, and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced them. "My Lord," continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, "my Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here!" "Ah, this is too much!" cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door. Felton barred his passage. "I ask it humbly of you, my Lord," said he; "sign the order for the liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you have dishonored." "Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I will call my attendant, and have you placed in irons." "You shall not call," said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. "Beware, my Lord, you are in the hands of God!" "In the hands of the devil, you mean!" cried Buckingham, raising his voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely shouting. "Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter," said Felton, holding out a paper to the duke. "By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!" "Sign, my Lord!" "Never." "Never?" "Help!" shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his sword. But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was upon the duke. At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, "A letter from France, my Lord." "From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from whom that letter came. Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his side up to the handle. "Ah, traitor," cried Buckingham, "you have killed me!" "Murder!" screamed Patrick. Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying, "I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!" Felton made no resistance. Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of the guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke's chamber. At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber. He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the wound. "Laporte," said the duke, in a dying voice, "Laporte, do you come from her?" "Yes, monseigneur," replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of Austria, "but too late, perhaps." "Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter. Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!" And the duke swooned. Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition, the officers of Buckingham's household, had all made their way into the chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread itself throughout the city. The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had taken place. Lord de Winter tore his hair. "Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my God! what a misfortune!" He had been informed at seven o'clock in the morning that a rope ladder floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to Milady's chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars filed, had remembered the verbal caution d'Artagnan had transmitted to him by his messenger, had trembled for the duke, and running to the stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top step, as we have said, had encountered Felton. The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his eyes, and hope revived in all hearts. "Gentlemen," said he, "leave me alone with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is that you, de Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See the state in which he has put me." "Oh, my Lord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself." "And you would be quite wrong, my dear de Winter," said Buckingham, holding out his hand to him. "I do not know the man who deserves being regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray you." The baron went out sobbing. There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found. "You will live, my Lord, you will live!" repeated the faithful servant of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke's sofa. "What has she written to me?" said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, "what has she written to me? Read me her letter." "Oh, my Lord!" said Laporte. "Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?" Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing. "Read!" said he, "read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to me." Laporte made no further objection, and read: "My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord, for which I should never console myself. "Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you. "Your affectionate "ANNE" Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter disappointment, he asked, "Have you nothing else to say to me by the living voice, Laporte?" "The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had advice that your assassination would be attempted." "And is that all--is that all?" replied Buckingham, impatiently. "She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you." "Ah," said Buckingham, "God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger!" Laporte burst into tears. "Patrick," said the duke, "bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept." Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having belonged to the queen. "Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in pearls." Patrick again obeyed. "Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these are the only tokens I ever received from her--this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial"--he looked round for some valuable object--"you will add--" He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the blood spread over its blade. "And you will add to them this knife," said the duke, pressing the hand of Laporte. He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; then, in a last convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped from the sofa to the floor. Patrick uttered a loud cry. Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought, which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love. At this moment the duke's surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was already on board the admiral's ship, where they had been obliged to seek him. He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his own, and letting it fall, "All is useless," said he, "he is dead." "Dead, dead!" cried Patrick. At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult. As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace. "Wretch!" said he to the young man, who since the death of Buckingham had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after abandoned him, "wretch! what have you done?" "I have avenged myself!" said he. "Avenged yourself," said the baron. "Rather say that you have served as an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime shall be her last." "I don't know what you mean," replied Felton, quietly, "and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord. I killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain; I have punished him for his injustice, that is all." De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and could not tell what to think of such insensibility. One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton. At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the step and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to accuse herself, and die with him. All at once he started. His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea, commanded by the terrace where he was. With the eagle glance of a sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed toward the coast of France. He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking, and at once perceived all the treachery. "One last favor, my Lord!" said he to the baron. "What?" asked his Lordship. "What o'clock is it?" The baron drew out his watch. "It wants ten minutes to nine," said he. Milady had hastened her departure by an hour and a half. As soon as she heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the anchor to be weighed. The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at great distance from the coast. "God has so willed it!" said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board of which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white outline of her to whom he had sacrificed his life. De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all. "Be punished ALONE, for the first, miserable man!" said Lord de Winter to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the sea; "but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved so much that your accomplice is not saved." Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable. As to Lord de Winter, he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight to the port.

Chapters 58-59

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101053932/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-three-musketeers/summary-and-analysis/part-4-chapters-5859

De Winter, suspecting that Felton is under Milady's influence, sends him on an errand away from the castle. That night, Milady hears a tap at the window; it is Felton. He has chartered a boat to take them to France, and he plans to file through the bars on her window and help her escape. Felton is successful and helps Milady climb down a rope ladder. They board the boat and he tells her that he has to debark at Portsmouth in order to take his revenge on Buckingham before Buckingham leaves for France. Milady is convinced that Felton will be able to dispose of Buckingham; her vengeance will be fulfilled. It is agreed that she will wait for Felton until 10 o'clock before setting sail. Felton's mind seethes with all of the horrible things he has heard about Buckingham. His strange, maniacal devotion to Milady, together with his fanatical religious notions, make him totally irrational. When he is allowed into Buckingham's office, he pleads for Milady's freedom, but Buckingham absolutely refuses. Crazed, Felton pulls out a dagger and stabs Buckingham. He tries to flee, but he is apprehended by de Winter. As Buckingham is dying, he learns that Queen Anne's friend, Monsieur de La Porte, is outside; La Porte has a letter from the queen which he reads to the dying Buckingham, assuring Buckingham of Anne's love for him. After Buckingham dies, de Winter questions Felton, who maintains that he killed Buckingham only because of a matter concerning promotions. Then Felton sees the sloop with Milady on it sailing out to sea. Obviously she heard the cannon alerting the nation that something extraordinary had happened, and she surmised that Buckingham was dead. Instantly, she set sail -- alone. Felton has been betrayed and abandoned.

These two chapters bring to an end the "English episodes" concerning Milady and the puritanical fanatic, Felton, whose religious blindness allowed him to become her dupe. Ironically, the cardinal casually remarked earlier: if all else fails, maybe some fanatic will rid the world of Buckingham. The cardinal was brilliantly prophetic. Dumas has arranged his material so carefully that neither author nor reader wishes to dwell upon the particulars of Felton's religious views; we are content to leave him to his destiny.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_1_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-2", "summary": "Before Beauty is two, he witnesses something he says he'll never forget--a hunt. Beauty and the other horses watch as a pack of hunting dogs tear past their field in pursuit of a hare, followed by men on horseback. For a young horse, the noise level is like the equivalent of a rock concert. Beauty, his mom, and the other colts watch as a hare, \"wild with fright\" , is chased down and killed by the pack of dogs. Two horses fall trying to jump a brook to get the hare. Duchess tells Beauty that the horse has broken his neck. One of the colts says that it serves the hunting horse right, but Duchess disagrees and blames his rider: \"I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields\" , she says. One of the riders is also hurt, badly enough that he's not moving--young George Gordon, the Squire's only son. Mr. Bond, the farrier , comes to examine the fallen black horse and sees that his leg is broken. Someone goes for a gun and shoots the horse on the spot. Beauty's mom is really upset, and says she knew the horse, Rob Roy. She's so shaken that \"she never would go to that part of the field afterwards\" . The horses see George Gordon's funeral procession after that, and Beauty comments that all of it was for \"one little hare\" . There's some perspective for you.", "analysis": ""}

02 The Hunt Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it. "They have found a hare," said my mother, "and if they come this way we shall see the hunt." And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a "yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, some of them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking, and ran about every way with their noses to the ground. "They have lost the scent," said the old horse; "perhaps the hare will get off." "What hare?" I said. "Oh! I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after;" and before long the dogs began their "yo! yo, o, o!" again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook. "Now we shall see the hare," said my mother; and just then a hare wild with fright rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream, and came dashing across the field followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased. As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still. "His neck is broke," said my mother. "And serve him right, too," said one of the colts. I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us. "Well, no," she said, "you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don't know." While my mother was saying this we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterward that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family. There was now riding off in all directions to the doctor's, to the farrier's, and no doubt to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more. My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was "Rob Roy"; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterward. Not many days after we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate we saw a long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but 'twas all for one little hare.

Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-2

Before Beauty is two, he witnesses something he says he'll never forget--a hunt. Beauty and the other horses watch as a pack of hunting dogs tear past their field in pursuit of a hare, followed by men on horseback. For a young horse, the noise level is like the equivalent of a rock concert. Beauty, his mom, and the other colts watch as a hare, "wild with fright" , is chased down and killed by the pack of dogs. Two horses fall trying to jump a brook to get the hare. Duchess tells Beauty that the horse has broken his neck. One of the colts says that it serves the hunting horse right, but Duchess disagrees and blames his rider: "I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields" , she says. One of the riders is also hurt, badly enough that he's not moving--young George Gordon, the Squire's only son. Mr. Bond, the farrier , comes to examine the fallen black horse and sees that his leg is broken. Someone goes for a gun and shoots the horse on the spot. Beauty's mom is really upset, and says she knew the horse, Rob Roy. She's so shaken that "she never would go to that part of the field afterwards" . The horses see George Gordon's funeral procession after that, and Beauty comments that all of it was for "one little hare" . There's some perspective for you.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_2_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-3", "summary": "Now that Beauty is older, he's shiny and bright black, with \"one white foot and a pretty white star\" on his forehead. Farmer Grey examines Beauty when he turns four and decides Beauty is ready to be broken in. Just so you know, breaking in a horse is not like breaking in a pair of shoes--it means training a horse to wear a saddle and bridle. Beauty himself explains all the finer details of the process; lucky for us, he's a great teacher . Beauty gives a vivid description of how awful it is to wear a bit, \"a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth so that in no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing. It is very bad! Yes, very bad!\" . On the flip side, if you wear a bit, Farmer Grey gives you treats and praise, so Beauty gets used to it. Slowly Farmer Grey introduces Beauty to the saddle, horseshoes, and a harness, always taking care to make sure Beauty isn't scared. Note to horse enthusiasts: This chapter is packed with horsey details and pretty much everything you'd ever need to know about Victorian horse equipment. Farmer Grey even takes Beauty to a field near a train just so Beauty can get used to the sound of a train passing: \" as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it\" , Beauty explains. He credits Farmer Grey for making him \"as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable\" . Beauty and Duchess often go out together so that Duchess can teach him how to behave in a double harness. She also reminds him that men can be kind, but they can also be cruel and ignorant, and horses have no control over who owns them. But even so, she tells Beauty to always do his best, and \"keep up your good name\" .", "analysis": ""}

03 My Breaking In I was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up. When I was four years old Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down; and then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like me, and said, "When he has been well broken in he will do very well." My master said he would break me in himself, as he should not like me to be frightened or hurt, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began. Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry on his back a man, woman or child; to go just the way they wish, and to go quietly. Besides this he has to learn to wear a collar, a crupper, and a breeching, and to stand still while they are put on; then to have a cart or a chaise fixed behind, so that he cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him; and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own; but always do his master's will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you see this breaking in is a great thing. I had of course long been used to a halter and a headstall, and to be led about in the fields and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal of coaxing he got the bit into my mouth, and the bridle fixed, but it was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth, between one's teeth, and over one's tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth, and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! yes, very bad! at least I thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats, and what with my master's pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to wear my bit and bridle. Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; my master put it on my back very gently, while old Daniel held my head; he then made the girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the time; then I had a few oats, then a little leading about; and this he did every day till I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At length, one morning, my master got on my back and rode me round the meadow on the soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I felt rather proud to carry my master, and as he continued to ride me a little every day I soon became accustomed to it. The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith's forge, to see that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in his hand, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it. And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness; there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes called blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either side, but only straight in front of me; next, there was a small saddle with a nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the crupper. I hated the crupper; to have my long tail doubled up and poked through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my mother. I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighboring farmer's, who had a meadow which was skirted on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in among them. I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came--with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke--a long black train of something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I turned and galloped to the further side of the meadow as fast as I could go, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black frightful thing came puffing and grinding past. For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing of a train as the cows and sheep did. Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a steam engine; but thanks to my good master's care, I am as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable. Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way. My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master; "but," said she, "there are a great many kinds of men; there are good thoughtful men like our master, that any horse may be proud to serve; and there are bad, cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog to call their own. Besides, there are a great many foolish men, vain, ignorant, and careless, who never trouble themselves to think; these spoil more horses than all, just for want of sense; they don't mean it, but they do it for all that. I hope you will fall into good hands; but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name."

Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-3

Now that Beauty is older, he's shiny and bright black, with "one white foot and a pretty white star" on his forehead. Farmer Grey examines Beauty when he turns four and decides Beauty is ready to be broken in. Just so you know, breaking in a horse is not like breaking in a pair of shoes--it means training a horse to wear a saddle and bridle. Beauty himself explains all the finer details of the process; lucky for us, he's a great teacher . Beauty gives a vivid description of how awful it is to wear a bit, "a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth so that in no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing. It is very bad! Yes, very bad!" . On the flip side, if you wear a bit, Farmer Grey gives you treats and praise, so Beauty gets used to it. Slowly Farmer Grey introduces Beauty to the saddle, horseshoes, and a harness, always taking care to make sure Beauty isn't scared. Note to horse enthusiasts: This chapter is packed with horsey details and pretty much everything you'd ever need to know about Victorian horse equipment. Farmer Grey even takes Beauty to a field near a train just so Beauty can get used to the sound of a train passing: " as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it" , Beauty explains. He credits Farmer Grey for making him "as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable" . Beauty and Duchess often go out together so that Duchess can teach him how to behave in a double harness. She also reminds him that men can be kind, but they can also be cruel and ignorant, and horses have no control over who owns them. But even so, she tells Beauty to always do his best, and "keep up your good name" .

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_3_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "At last, Farmer Grey says goodbye to \"Darkie\" and Black Beauty leaves his childhood home, moving to Birtwick Park, an estate owned by Squire Gordon. Birtwick seems like horse heaven. Beauty tells us that his new box in the stable is \"clean, sweet, and airy\" . Beauty has some new roommates at Squire Gordon's, too--Merrylegs, a fat grey pony, and Ginger, a cranky yet beautiful chestnut mare. Merrylegs seems friendly and easygoing, but Ginger's a little peeved because Beauty's taken her place in the best box in the stable: \"I do not want to have words with a young thing like you\" , she tells him. Ooh, burn. Merrylegs explains that Ginger's a little bad-tempered and tends to bite and snap. He's hopeful that Beauty isn't a biter, and Beauty assures him that he's not. \"It is just a bad habit,\" Merrylegs says of Ginger. \"She says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite?\" . Turns out if you mistreat a young horse like Ginger, they develop habits like biting and kicking. Oh, and according to Merrylegs, who's seen it all at twelve years old, there's \"no better place for a horse all round the country\" than Birtwick Park.", "analysis": ""}

04 Birtwick Park At this time I used to stand in the stable and my coat was brushed every day till it shone like a rook's wing. It was early in May, when there came a man from Squire Gordon's, who took me away to the hall. My master said, "Good-by, Darkie; be a good horse, and always do your best." I could not say "good-by", so I put my nose into his hand; he patted me kindly, and I left my first home. As I lived some years with Squire Gordon, I may as well tell something about the place. Squire Gordon's park skirted the village of Birtwick. It was entered by a large iron gate, at which stood the first lodge, and then you trotted along on a smooth road between clumps of large old trees; then another lodge and another gate, which brought you to the house and the gardens. Beyond this lay the home paddock, the old orchard, and the stables. There was accommodation for many horses and carriages; but I need only describe the stable into which I was taken; this was very roomy, with four good stalls; a large swinging window opened into the yard, which made it pleasant and airy. The first stall was a large square one, shut in behind with a wooden gate; the others were common stalls, good stalls, but not nearly so large; it had a low rack for hay and a low manger for corn; it was called a loose box, because the horse that was put into it was not tied up, but left loose, to do as he liked. It is a great thing to have a loose box. Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high but that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at the top. He gave me some very nice oats, he patted me, spoke kindly, and then went away. When I had eaten my corn I looked round. In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose. I put my head up to the iron rails at the top of my box, and said, "How do you do? What is your name?" He turned round as far as his halter would allow, held up his head, and said, "My name is Merrylegs. I am very handsome; I carry the young ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low chair. They think a great deal of me, and so does James. Are you going to live next door to me in the box?" I said, "Yes." "Well, then," he said, "I hope you are good-tempered; I do not like any one next door who bites." Just then a horse's head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears were laid back, and the eye looked rather ill-tempered. This was a tall chestnut mare, with a long handsome neck. She looked across to me and said: "So it is you who have turned me out of my box; it is a very strange thing for a colt like you to come and turn a lady out of her own home." "I beg your pardon," I said, "I have turned no one out; the man who brought me put me here, and I had nothing to do with it; and as to my being a colt, I am turned four years old and am a grown-up horse. I never had words yet with horse or mare, and it is my wish to live at peace." "Well," she said, "we shall see. Of course, I do not want to have words with a young thing like you." I said no more. In the afternoon, when she went out, Merrylegs told me all about it. "The thing is this," said Merrylegs. "Ginger has a bad habit of biting and snapping; that is why they call her Ginger, and when she was in the loose box she used to snap very much. One day she bit James in the arm and made it bleed, and so Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond of me, were afraid to come into the stable. They used to bring me nice things to eat, an apple or a carrot, or a piece of bread, but after Ginger stood in that box they dared not come, and I missed them very much. I hope they will now come again, if you do not bite or snap." I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay, and corn, and could not think what pleasure Ginger found it. "Well, I don't think she does find pleasure," says Merrylegs; "it is just a bad habit; she says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite? Of course, it is a very bad habit; but I am sure, if all she says be true, she must have been very ill-used before she came here. John does all he can to please her, and James does all he can, and our master never uses a whip if a horse acts right; so I think she might be good-tempered here. You see," he said, with a wise look, "I am twelve years old; I know a great deal, and I can tell you there is not a better place for a horse all round the country than this. John is the best groom that ever was; he has been here fourteen years; and you never saw such a kind boy as James is; so that it is all Ginger's own fault that she did not stay in that box."

Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-4

At last, Farmer Grey says goodbye to "Darkie" and Black Beauty leaves his childhood home, moving to Birtwick Park, an estate owned by Squire Gordon. Birtwick seems like horse heaven. Beauty tells us that his new box in the stable is "clean, sweet, and airy" . Beauty has some new roommates at Squire Gordon's, too--Merrylegs, a fat grey pony, and Ginger, a cranky yet beautiful chestnut mare. Merrylegs seems friendly and easygoing, but Ginger's a little peeved because Beauty's taken her place in the best box in the stable: "I do not want to have words with a young thing like you" , she tells him. Ooh, burn. Merrylegs explains that Ginger's a little bad-tempered and tends to bite and snap. He's hopeful that Beauty isn't a biter, and Beauty assures him that he's not. "It is just a bad habit," Merrylegs says of Ginger. "She says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite?" . Turns out if you mistreat a young horse like Ginger, they develop habits like biting and kicking. Oh, and according to Merrylegs, who's seen it all at twelve years old, there's "no better place for a horse all round the country" than Birtwick Park.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_4_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-5", "summary": "Beauty introduces us to his caretaker at Birtwick Park, John Manly. John carefully prepares Beauty for riding and takes him out for the first time. John reports to Squire Gordon that Beauty is \"as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit, too\" ; he thinks Beauty \"has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young\" . He'd be right. Squire Gordon rides Beauty next and agrees that he's fantastic. He decides to call him Black Beauty--somehow, we're not surprised. Beauty overhears John and the stable boy, James Howard, saying that Beauty looks just like a horse they remember, Rob Roy, the horse who died in the hunt. John says that Rob Roy's mother was Duchess, too. Beauty is super surprised, but says this explains his mother's sadness at Rob Roy's fate: \"I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled\" . He mentions that most horses never know their relatives, since they are sold at a young age. John turns out to be a loving and kind caretaker, and Beauty \"grew very fond of him\" . Beauty and Ginger are paired together to pull the carriage, and they get along well. Beauty gives her rave reviews as a partner, saying, \"I never wish to have a better partner in double harness\" , and he and Ginger become friends. Beauty thinks highly of Merrylegs too, calling him a \"cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow\" who behaves sweetly with the children on the estate.", "analysis": ""}

05 A Fair Start The name of the coachman was John Manly; he had a wife and one little child, and they lived in the coachman's cottage, very near the stables. The next morning he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming, and just as I was going into my box, with my coat soft and bright, the squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased. "John," he said, "I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other business. You may as well take him around after breakfast; go by the common and the Highwood, and back by the watermill and the river; that will show his paces." "I will, sir," said John. After breakfast he came and fitted me with a bridle. He was very particular in letting out and taking in the straps, to fit my head comfortably; then he brought a saddle, but it was not broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute and went for another, which fitted nicely. He rode me first slowly, then a trot, then a canter, and when we were on the common he gave me a light touch with his whip, and we had a splendid gallop. "Ho, ho! my boy," he said, as he pulled me up, "you would like to follow the hounds, I think." As we came back through the park we met the Squire and Mrs. Gordon walking; they stopped, and John jumped off. "Well, John, how does he go?" "First-rate, sir," answered John; "he is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him. Down at the end of the common we met one of those traveling carts hung all over with baskets, rugs, and such like; you know, sir, many horses will not pass those carts quietly; he just took a good look at it, and then went on as quiet and pleasant as could be. They were shooting rabbits near the Highwood, and a gun went off close by; he pulled up a little and looked, but did not stir a step to right or left. I just held the rein steady and did not hurry him, and it's my opinion he has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young." "That's well," said the squire, "I will try him myself to-morrow." The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother's counsel and my good old master's, and I tried to do exactly what he wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider, and thoughtful for his horse too. When he came home the lady was at the hall door as he rode up. "Well, my dear," she said, "how do you like him?" "He is exactly what John said," he replied; "a pleasanter creature I never wish to mount. What shall we call him?" "Would you like Ebony?" said she; "he is as black as ebony." "No, not Ebony." "Will you call him Blackbird, like your uncle's old horse?" "No, he is far handsomer than old Blackbird ever was." "Yes," she said, "he is really quite a beauty, and he has such a sweet, good-tempered face, and such a fine, intelligent eye--what do you say to calling him Black Beauty?" "Black Beauty--why, yes, I think that is a very good name. If you like it shall be his name;" and so it was. When John went into the stable he told James that master and mistress had chosen a good, sensible English name for me, that meant something; not like Marengo, or Pegasus, or Abdallah. They both laughed, and James said, "If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him Rob Roy, for I never saw two horses more alike." "That's no wonder," said John; "didn't you know that Farmer Grey's old Duchess was the mother of them both?" I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least they never know each other after they are sold. John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a lady's hair, and he would talk to me a great deal; of course I did not understand all he said, but I learned more and more to know what he meant, and what he wanted me to do. I grew very fond of him, he was so gentle and kind; he seemed to know just how a horse feels, and when he cleaned me he knew the tender places and the ticklish places; when he brushed my head he went as carefully over my eyes as if they were his own, and never stirred up any ill-temper. James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his way, so I thought myself well off. There was another man who helped in the yard, but he had very little to do with Ginger and me. A few days after this I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage. I wondered how we should get on together; but except laying her ears back when I was led up to her, she behaved very well. She did her work honestly, and did her full share, and I never wish to have a better partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening her pace, she would throw her weight right into the collar, and pull away straight up. We had both the same sort of courage at our work, and John had oftener to hold us in than to urge us forward; he never had to use the whip with either of us; then our paces were much the same, and I found it very easy to keep step with her when trotting, which made it pleasant, and master always liked it when we kept step well, and so did John. After we had been out two or three times together we grew quite friendly and sociable, which made me feel very much at home. As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow that he was a favorite with every one, and especially with Miss Jessie and Flora, who used to ride him about in the orchard, and have fine games with him and their little dog Frisky. Our master had two other horses that stood in another stable. One was Justice, a roan cob, used for riding or for the luggage cart; the other was an old brown hunter, named Sir Oliver; he was past work now, but was a great favorite with the master, who gave him the run of the park; he sometimes did a little light carting on the estate, or carried one of the young ladies when they rode out with their father, for he was very gentle and could be trusted with a child as well as Merrylegs. The cob was a strong, well-made, good-tempered horse, and we sometimes had a little chat in the paddock, but of course I could not be so intimate with him as with Ginger, who stood in the same stable.

Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-5

Beauty introduces us to his caretaker at Birtwick Park, John Manly. John carefully prepares Beauty for riding and takes him out for the first time. John reports to Squire Gordon that Beauty is "as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit, too" ; he thinks Beauty "has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young" . He'd be right. Squire Gordon rides Beauty next and agrees that he's fantastic. He decides to call him Black Beauty--somehow, we're not surprised. Beauty overhears John and the stable boy, James Howard, saying that Beauty looks just like a horse they remember, Rob Roy, the horse who died in the hunt. John says that Rob Roy's mother was Duchess, too. Beauty is super surprised, but says this explains his mother's sadness at Rob Roy's fate: "I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled" . He mentions that most horses never know their relatives, since they are sold at a young age. John turns out to be a loving and kind caretaker, and Beauty "grew very fond of him" . Beauty and Ginger are paired together to pull the carriage, and they get along well. Beauty gives her rave reviews as a partner, saying, "I never wish to have a better partner in double harness" , and he and Ginger become friends. Beauty thinks highly of Merrylegs too, calling him a "cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow" who behaves sweetly with the children on the estate.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_5_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "Although Beauty just loves his life at Birtwick, he does say he misses one thing--his freedom. \"For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now I must stand up in a stable night and day, except when I am wanted, and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years\" . Translation? Don't fence him in. He says he's not complaining, but... maybe just a little, Beauty? Beauty explains that young horses have a hard time keeping quiet if they're kept in a stall all day, but that John understands, and sometimes, on rare Sundays, Beauty still gets a few hours to roll in the grass.", "analysis": ""}

06 Liberty I was quite happy in my new place, and if there was one thing that I missed it must not be thought I was discontented; all who had to do with me were good and I had a light airy stable and the best of food. What more could I want? Why, liberty! For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now, week after week, month after month, and no doubt year after year, I must stand up in a stable night and day except when I am wanted, and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years. Straps here and straps there, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers over my eyes. Now, I am not complaining, for I know it must be so. I only mean to say that for a young horse full of strength and spirits, who has been used to some large field or plain where he can fling up his head and toss up his tail and gallop away at full speed, then round and back again with a snort to his companions--I say it is hard never to have a bit more liberty to do as you like. Sometimes, when I have had less exercise than usual, I have felt so full of life and spring that when John has taken me out to exercise I really could not keep quiet; do what I would, it seemed as if I must jump, or dance, or prance, and many a good shake I know I must have given him, especially at the first; but he was always good and patient. "Steady, steady, my boy," he would say; "wait a bit, and we will have a good swing, and soon get the tickle out of your feet." Then as soon as we were out of the village, he would give me a few miles at a spanking trot, and then bring me back as fresh as before, only clear of the fidgets, as he called them. Spirited horses, when not enough exercised, are often called skittish, when it is only play; and some grooms will punish them, but our John did not; he knew it was only high spirits. Still, he had his own ways of making me understand by the tone of his voice or the touch of the rein. If he was very serious and quite determined, I always knew it by his voice, and that had more power with me than anything else, for I was very fond of him. I ought to say that sometimes we had our liberty for a few hours; this used to be on fine Sundays in the summer-time. The carriage never went out on Sundays, because the church was not far off. It was a great treat to us to be turned out into the home paddock or the old orchard; the grass was so cool and soft to our feet, the air so sweet, and the freedom to do as we liked was so pleasant--to gallop, to lie down, and roll over on our backs, or to nibble the sweet grass. Then it was a very good time for talking, as we stood together under the shade of the large chestnut tree.

Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-6

Although Beauty just loves his life at Birtwick, he does say he misses one thing--his freedom. "For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now I must stand up in a stable night and day, except when I am wanted, and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years" . Translation? Don't fence him in. He says he's not complaining, but... maybe just a little, Beauty? Beauty explains that young horses have a hard time keeping quiet if they're kept in a stall all day, but that John understands, and sometimes, on rare Sundays, Beauty still gets a few hours to roll in the grass.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_7_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-8", "summary": "The next time Beauty and Ginger are alone together, Ginger continues her story. She tells Beauty that she was sold to a \"fashionable gentleman\" and sent to London, where she was driven with something called a bearing rein. For those of us who've never studied horse life in Victorian England, a bearing rein is a mechanism to hold a horse's neck in a high, arched position, which was the height of trendiness at the time. Ginger describes how painful it is to have to use a bearing rein: It prevents a horse from moving their head, adds a second bit inside their mouths, and is \"enough to drive one mad\" . Ginger says she was ready and willing to work, but her new master gave her \"only a surly word or a blow\" to break her in to the bearing rein. The new rein made her so irritable that she \"began to snap and kick\" when anyone put it on. Finally she lost her temper--who wouldn't?--and was sold to another owner. For a while Ginger was content, as she'd been sold to a country gentleman, but soon her new master hired a groomer who was just as bad as Samson: \"Everything he did was rough, and I began to hate him\" , she says. Pushed beyond her limit, Ginger bit him and he beat her. The groomer told her new master, and she was sold again, at last to Birtwick Park. By this time, Ginger is understandably wary of men: \"I had then made up my mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself\" . It's a pretty logical conclusion given her life experiences. Beauty suggests that she not attack John or James, who are excellent with horses, and Ginger agrees with him, and says she'll try not to. Over time, Ginger starts to calm down at Birtwick due to the kindness of the humans there. \"Yes, sir, she's wonderfully improved; she's not the same creature that she was\" , John tells Squire Gordon.", "analysis": ""}

08 Ginger's Story Continued The next time that Ginger and I were together in the paddock she told me about her first place. "After my breaking in," she said, "I was bought by a dealer to match another chestnut horse. For some weeks he drove us together, and then we were sold to a fashionable gentleman, and were sent up to London. I had been driven with a check-rein by the dealer, and I hated it worse than anything else; but in this place we were reined far tighter, the coachman and his master thinking we looked more stylish so. We were often driven about in the park and other fashionable places. You who never had a check-rein on don't know what it is, but I can tell you it is dreadful. "I like to toss my head about and hold it as high as any horse; but fancy now yourself, if you tossed your head up high and were obliged to hold it there, and that for hours together, not able to move it at all, except with a jerk still higher, your neck aching till you did not know how to bear it. Besides that, to have two bits instead of one--and mine was a sharp one, it hurt my tongue and my jaw, and the blood from my tongue colored the froth that kept flying from my lips as I chafed and fretted at the bits and rein. It was worst when we had to stand by the hour waiting for our mistress at some grand party or entertainment, and if I fretted or stamped with impatience the whip was laid on. It was enough to drive one mad." "Did not your master take any thought for you?" I said. "No," said she, "he only cared to have a stylish turnout, as they call it; I think he knew very little about horses; he left that to his coachman, who told him I had an irritable temper! that I had not been well broken to the check-rein, but I should soon get used to it; but he was not the man to do it, for when I was in the stable, miserable and angry, instead of being smoothed and quieted by kindness, I got only a surly word or a blow. If he had been civil I would have tried to bear it. I was willing to work, and ready to work hard too; but to be tormented for nothing but their fancies angered me. What right had they to make me suffer like that? Besides the soreness in my mouth, and the pain in my neck, it always made my windpipe feel bad, and if I had stopped there long I know it would have spoiled my breathing; but I grew more and more restless and irritable, I could not help it; and I began to snap and kick when any one came to harness me; for this the groom beat me, and one day, as they had just buckled us into the carriage, and were straining my head up with that rein, I began to plunge and kick with all my might. I soon broke a lot of harness, and kicked myself clear; so that was an end of that place. "After this I was sent to Tattersall's to be sold; of course I could not be warranted free from vice, so nothing was said about that. My handsome appearance and good paces soon brought a gentleman to bid for me, and I was bought by another dealer; he tried me in all kinds of ways and with different bits, and he soon found out what I could not bear. At last he drove me quite without a check-rein, and then sold me as a perfectly quiet horse to a gentleman in the country; he was a good master, and I was getting on very well, but his old groom left him and a new one came. This man was as hard-tempered and hard-handed as Samson; he always spoke in a rough, impatient voice, and if I did not move in the stall the moment he wanted me, he would hit me above the hocks with his stable broom or the fork, whichever he might have in his hand. Everything he did was rough, and I began to hate him; he wanted to make me afraid of him, but I was too high-mettled for that, and one day when he had aggravated me more than usual I bit him, which of course put him in a great rage, and he began to hit me about the head with a riding whip. After that he never dared to come into my stall again; either my heels or my teeth were ready for him, and he knew it. I was quite quiet with my master, but of course he listened to what the man said, and so I was sold again. "The same dealer heard of me, and said he thought he knew one place where I should do well. ''Twas a pity,' he said, 'that such a fine horse should go to the bad, for want of a real good chance,' and the end of it was that I came here not long before you did; but I had then made up my mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself. Of course it is very different here, but who knows how long it will last? I wish I could think about things as you do; but I can't, after all I have gone through." "Well," I said, "I think it would be a real shame if you were to bite or kick John or James." "I don't mean to," she said, "while they are good to me. I did bite James once pretty sharp, but John said, 'Try her with kindness,' and instead of punishing me as I expected, James came to me with his arm bound up, and brought me a bran mash and stroked me; and I have never snapped at him since, and I won't either." I was sorry for Ginger, but of course I knew very little then, and I thought most likely she made the worst of it; however, I found that as the weeks went on she grew much more gentle and cheerful, and had lost the watchful, defiant look that she used to turn on any strange person who came near her; and one day James said, "I do believe that mare is getting fond of me, she quite whinnied after me this morning when I had been rubbing her forehead." "Ay, ay, Jim, 'tis 'the Birtwick balls'," said John, "she'll be as good as Black Beauty by and by; kindness is all the physic she wants, poor thing!" Master noticed the change, too, and one day when he got out of the carriage and came to speak to us, as he often did, he stroked her beautiful neck. "Well, my pretty one, well, how do things go with you now? You are a good bit happier than when you came to us, I think." She put her nose up to him in a friendly, trustful way, while he rubbed it gently. "We shall make a cure of her, John," he said. "Yes, sir, she's wonderfully improved; she's not the same creature that she was; it's 'the Birtwick balls', sir," said John, laughing. This was a little joke of John's; he used to say that a regular course of "the Birtwick horseballs" would cure almost any vicious horse; these balls, he said, were made up of patience and gentleness, firmness and petting, one pound of each to be mixed up with half a pint of common sense, and given to the horse every day.

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-8

The next time Beauty and Ginger are alone together, Ginger continues her story. She tells Beauty that she was sold to a "fashionable gentleman" and sent to London, where she was driven with something called a bearing rein. For those of us who've never studied horse life in Victorian England, a bearing rein is a mechanism to hold a horse's neck in a high, arched position, which was the height of trendiness at the time. Ginger describes how painful it is to have to use a bearing rein: It prevents a horse from moving their head, adds a second bit inside their mouths, and is "enough to drive one mad" . Ginger says she was ready and willing to work, but her new master gave her "only a surly word or a blow" to break her in to the bearing rein. The new rein made her so irritable that she "began to snap and kick" when anyone put it on. Finally she lost her temper--who wouldn't?--and was sold to another owner. For a while Ginger was content, as she'd been sold to a country gentleman, but soon her new master hired a groomer who was just as bad as Samson: "Everything he did was rough, and I began to hate him" , she says. Pushed beyond her limit, Ginger bit him and he beat her. The groomer told her new master, and she was sold again, at last to Birtwick Park. By this time, Ginger is understandably wary of men: "I had then made up my mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself" . It's a pretty logical conclusion given her life experiences. Beauty suggests that she not attack John or James, who are excellent with horses, and Ginger agrees with him, and says she'll try not to. Over time, Ginger starts to calm down at Birtwick due to the kindness of the humans there. "Yes, sir, she's wonderfully improved; she's not the same creature that she was" , John tells Squire Gordon.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_8_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 9

chapter 9

{"name": "Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-9", "summary": "Next up in Beauty's story is Merrylegs, who's used as a playmate for the children who live and visit at Birtwick Park. They take turns riding him, and one day James brings Merrylegs back to the stable and gives him a warning about getting into trouble. Merrylegs says he's \"only been giving those young people a lesson\" . See, some of them weren't paying attention to when he'd had enough, so Merrylegs \"just pitched them off backwards; that was the only thing they could understand\" . Merrylegs assures Beauty he would never throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora, Squire Gordon's children, though: \"I am the best friend and the best riding master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys\" . He says that the visiting boys must be broken in much like horses--the visiting kids began to whip Merrylegs with sticks, and didn't understand when Merrylegs was exhausted. \"They never think a pony can get tired, or have any feelings\" , he says. Merrylegs explains that he gently tipped the boys off his back because he didn't know how else to teach them. He says the children are under his charge while they are riding, and he tries to keep them safe. Merrylegs adds that if he ever did start to misbehave and kick, he'd be sold and certainly enslaved or worked to death by someone else. \"I hope I shall never come to that\" . Us too, Merrylegs.", "analysis": ""}

09 Merrylegs Mr. Blomefield, the vicar, had a large family of boys and girls; sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora. One of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. When they came there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and this they would do by the hour together. One afternoon he had been out with them a long time, and when James brought him in and put on his halter he said: "There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into trouble." "What have you been doing, Merrylegs?" I asked. "Oh!" said he, tossing his little head, "I have only been giving those young people a lesson; they did not know when they had had enough, nor when I had had enough, so I just pitched them off backward; that was the only thing they could understand." "What!" said I, "you threw the children off? I thought you did know better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?" He looked very much offended, and said: "Of course not; I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever came into the stable; why, I am as careful of our young ladies as the master could be, and as for the little ones it is I who teach them to ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back I go as smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they are all right I go on again faster, you see, just to use them to it; so don't you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend and the best riding-master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys; boys," said he, shaking his mane, "are quite different; they must be broken in as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught what's what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about, up and down the fields and all about the orchard, for a good hour. They had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding-whip, and laid it on a little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint. Boys, you see, think a horse or pony is like a steam-engine or a thrashing-machine, and can go on as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as the one who was whipping me could not understand I just rose up on my hind legs and let him slip off behind--that was all. He mounted me again, and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as he began to use his stick I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they were able to understand--that was all. They are not bad boys; they don't wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him I think he was very angry to see such big sticks. He said they were only fit for drovers or gypsies, and not for young gentlemen." "If I had been you," said Ginger, "I would have given those boys a good kick, and that would have given them a lesson." "No doubt you would," said Merrylegs; "but then I am not quite such a fool (begging your pardon) as to anger our master or make James ashamed of me. Besides, those children are under my charge when they are riding; I tell you they are intrusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our master say to Mrs. Blomefield, 'My dear madam, you need not be anxious about the children; my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as you or I could; I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money, he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy;' and do you think I am such an ungrateful brute as to forget all the kind treatment I have had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn vicious because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No, no! you never had a good place where they were kind to you, and so you don't know, and I'm sorry for you; but I can tell you good places make good horses. I wouldn't vex our people for anything; I love them, I do," said Merrylegs, and he gave a low "ho, ho, ho!" through his nose, as he used to do in the morning when he heard James' footstep at the door. "Besides," he went on, "if I took to kicking where should I be? Why, sold off in a jiffy, and no character, and I might find myself slaved about under a butcher's boy, or worked to death at some seaside place where no one cared for me, except to find out how fast I could go, or be flogged along in some cart with three or four great men in it going out for a Sunday spree, as I have often seen in the place I lived in before I came here; no," said he, shaking his head, "I hope I shall never come to that."

Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-9

Next up in Beauty's story is Merrylegs, who's used as a playmate for the children who live and visit at Birtwick Park. They take turns riding him, and one day James brings Merrylegs back to the stable and gives him a warning about getting into trouble. Merrylegs says he's "only been giving those young people a lesson" . See, some of them weren't paying attention to when he'd had enough, so Merrylegs "just pitched them off backwards; that was the only thing they could understand" . Merrylegs assures Beauty he would never throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora, Squire Gordon's children, though: "I am the best friend and the best riding master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys" . He says that the visiting boys must be broken in much like horses--the visiting kids began to whip Merrylegs with sticks, and didn't understand when Merrylegs was exhausted. "They never think a pony can get tired, or have any feelings" , he says. Merrylegs explains that he gently tipped the boys off his back because he didn't know how else to teach them. He says the children are under his charge while they are riding, and he tries to keep them safe. Merrylegs adds that if he ever did start to misbehave and kick, he'd be sold and certainly enslaved or worked to death by someone else. "I hope I shall never come to that" . Us too, Merrylegs.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_10_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-11", "summary": "Beauty begins to realize how fantastic Birtwick really is: \"Our master and mistress were respected and beloved by all who knew them\" . More than this, though, they're exceptionally kind to animals, and have campaigned to get rid of bearing reins in their immediate area. Beauty recalls a time his master was riding him home when they came across a man driving a cart with a bay pony. The man is whipping the pony roughly, and Beauty's master immediately stops and addresses the man. The man, Sawyer, argues with Squire Gordon, who asks him, \"Do you think that treatment like this will make him fond of your will?\" . His lecture hits a near-preachy crescendo when he says, \"Remember, we shall all have to be judged according to our works, whether they be toward man or toward beast\" . Beauty mentions another similar event: They come across Captain Langley, a friend of Squire Gordon's, and see that Langley is driving a pair of grey horses with bearing reins. Uh-oh... Squire Gordon appeals to Langley's military past, asking him if his men could perform a drill with \"their heads tied to a backboard!\" . Another passionate rant about the evil of fashion and how this practice physically hurts horses ensues, until Captain Langley agrees to think about it. Good call, Captain.", "analysis": ""}

11 Plain Speaking The longer I lived at Birtwick the more proud and happy I felt at having such a place. Our master and mistress were respected and beloved by all who knew them; they were good and kind to everybody and everything; not only men and women, but horses and donkeys, dogs and cats, cattle and birds; there was no oppressed or ill-used creature that had not a friend in them, and their servants took the same tone. If any of the village children were known to treat any creature cruelly they soon heard about it from the Hall. The squire and Farmer Grey had worked together, as they said, for more than twenty years to get check-reins on the cart-horses done away with, and in our parts you seldom saw them; and sometimes, if mistress met a heavily laden horse with his head strained up she would stop the carriage and get out, and reason with the driver in her sweet serious voice, and try to show him how foolish and cruel it was. I don't think any man could withstand our mistress. I wish all ladies were like her. Our master, too, used to come down very heavy sometimes. I remember he was riding me toward home one morning when we saw a powerful man driving toward us in a light pony chaise, with a beautiful little bay pony, with slender legs and a high-bred sensitive head and face. Just as he came to the park gates the little thing turned toward them; the man, without word or warning, wrenched the creature's head round with such a force and suddenness that he nearly threw it on its haunches. Recovering itself it was going on, when he began to lash it furiously. The pony plunged forward, but the strong, heavy hand held the pretty creature back with force almost enough to break its jaw, while the whip still cut into him. It was a dreadful sight to me, for I knew what fearful pain it gave that delicate little mouth; but master gave me the word, and we were up with him in a second. "Sawyer," he cried in a stern voice, "is that pony made of flesh and blood?" "Flesh and blood and temper," he said; "he's too fond of his own will, and that won't suit me." He spoke as if he was in a strong passion. He was a builder who had often been to the park on business. "And do you think," said master sternly, "that treatment like this will make him fond of your will?" "He had no business to make that turn; his road was straight on!" said the man roughly. "You have often driven that pony up to my place," said master; "it only shows the creature's memory and intelligence; how did he know that you were not going there again? But that has little to do with it. I must say, Mr. Sawyer, that a more unmanly, brutal treatment of a little pony it was never my painful lot to witness, and by giving way to such passion you injure your own character as much, nay more, than you injure your horse; and remember, we shall all have to be judged according to our works, whether they be toward man or toward beast." Master rode me home slowly, and I could tell by his voice how the thing had grieved him. He was just as free to speak to gentlemen of his own rank as to those below him; for another day, when we were out, we met a Captain Langley, a friend of our master's; he was driving a splendid pair of grays in a kind of break. After a little conversation the captain said: "What do you think of my new team, Mr. Douglas? You know, you are the judge of horses in these parts, and I should like your opinion." The master backed me a little, so as to get a good view of them. "They are an uncommonly handsome pair," he said, "and if they are as good as they look I am sure you need not wish for anything better; but I see you still hold that pet scheme of yours for worrying your horses and lessening their power." "What do you mean," said the other, "the check-reins? Oh, ah! I know that's a hobby of yours; well, the fact is, I like to see my horses hold their heads up." "So do I," said master, "as well as any man, but I don't like to see them held up; that takes all the shine out of it. Now, you are a military man, Langley, and no doubt like to see your regiment look well on parade, 'heads up', and all that; but you would not take much credit for your drill if all your men had their heads tied to a backboard! It might not be much harm on parade, except to worry and fatigue them; but how would it be in a bayonet charge against the enemy, when they want the free use of every muscle, and all their strength thrown forward? I would not give much for their chance of victory. And it is just the same with horses: you fret and worry their tempers, and decrease their power; you will not let them throw their weight against their work, and so they have to do too much with their joints and muscles, and of course it wears them up faster. You may depend upon it, horses were intended to have their heads free, as free as men's are; and if we could act a little more according to common sense, and a good deal less according to fashion, we should find many things work easier; besides, you know as well as I that if a horse makes a false step, he has much less chance of recovering himself if his head and neck are fastened back. And now," said the master, laughing, "I have given my hobby a good trot out, can't you make up your mind to mount him, too, captain? Your example would go a long way." "I believe you are right in theory," said the other, "and that's rather a hard hit about the soldiers; but--well--I'll think about it," and so they parted.

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-11

Beauty begins to realize how fantastic Birtwick really is: "Our master and mistress were respected and beloved by all who knew them" . More than this, though, they're exceptionally kind to animals, and have campaigned to get rid of bearing reins in their immediate area. Beauty recalls a time his master was riding him home when they came across a man driving a cart with a bay pony. The man is whipping the pony roughly, and Beauty's master immediately stops and addresses the man. The man, Sawyer, argues with Squire Gordon, who asks him, "Do you think that treatment like this will make him fond of your will?" . His lecture hits a near-preachy crescendo when he says, "Remember, we shall all have to be judged according to our works, whether they be toward man or toward beast" . Beauty mentions another similar event: They come across Captain Langley, a friend of Squire Gordon's, and see that Langley is driving a pair of grey horses with bearing reins. Uh-oh... Squire Gordon appeals to Langley's military past, asking him if his men could perform a drill with "their heads tied to a backboard!" . Another passionate rant about the evil of fashion and how this practice physically hurts horses ensues, until Captain Langley agrees to think about it. Good call, Captain.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_11_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-12", "summary": "One day Beauty is hooked up to the dogcart to drive his master on a long trip, accompanied by John. He's excited about this and comments on the rain and the high water in the nearby river. When they start back toward home, the storm has gotten worse, becoming more violent until a tree crashes down on the road in front of them, blocking their path. They decide to take another route across a river, but when they get there, Beauty knows something's amiss--\"the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge, I felt sure there was something wrong\" . Squire Gordon and John urge Beauty forward, but he refuses to move. John asks him what's wrong, but unfortunately, as this book often reminds us, horses can't talk. In the nick of time, they're stopped by the man at the tollgate, who tells them the bridge is broken in the middle. What's that saying about good horse sense? They turn around, and Beauty hears Squire Gordon and John talking in the carriage, saying they certainly would have drowned if they'd tried to cross. When they finally arrive home, Squire Gordon tells his wife, \" if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were, we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge\" . Beauty earns himself a delicious supper as a result.", "analysis": ""}

12 A Stormy Day One day late in the autumn my master had a long journey to go on business. I was put into the dog-cart, and John went with his master. I always liked to go in the dog-cart, it was so light and the high wheels ran along so pleasantly. There had been a great deal of rain, and now the wind was very high and blew the dry leaves across the road in a shower. We went along merrily till we came to the toll-bar and the low wooden bridge. The river banks were rather high, and the bridge, instead of rising, went across just level, so that in the middle, if the river was full, the water would be nearly up to the woodwork and planks; but as there were good substantial rails on each side, people did not mind it. The man at the gate said the river was rising fast, and he feared it would be a bad night. Many of the meadows were under water, and in one low part of the road the water was halfway up to my knees; the bottom was good, and master drove gently, so it was no matter. When we got to the town of course I had a good bait, but as the master's business engaged him a long time we did not start for home till rather late in the afternoon. The wind was then much higher, and I heard the master say to John that he had never been out in such a storm; and so I thought, as we went along the skirts of a wood, where the great branches were swaying about like twigs, and the rushing sound was terrible. "I wish we were well out of this wood," said my master. "Yes, sir," said John, "it would be rather awkward if one of these branches came down upon us." The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a groan, and a crack, and a splitting sound, and tearing, crashing down among the other trees came an oak, torn up by the roots, and it fell right across the road just before us. I will never say I was not frightened, for I was. I stopped still, and I believe I trembled; of course I did not turn round or run away; I was not brought up to that. John jumped out and was in a moment at my head. "That was a very near touch," said my master. "What's to be done now?" "Well, sir, we can't drive over that tree, nor yet get round it; there will be nothing for it, but to go back to the four crossways, and that will be a good six miles before we get round to the wooden bridge again; it will make us late, but the horse is fresh." So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge it was very nearly dark; we could just see that the water was over the middle of it; but as that happened sometimes when the floods were out, master did not stop. We were going along at a good pace, but the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge I felt sure there was something wrong. I dare not go forward, and I made a dead stop. "Go on, Beauty," said my master, and he gave me a touch with the whip, but I dare not stir; he gave me a sharp cut; I jumped, but I dare not go forward. "There's something wrong, sir," said John, and he sprang out of the dog-cart and came to my head and looked all about. He tried to lead me forward. "Come on, Beauty, what's the matter?" Of course I could not tell him, but I knew very well that the bridge was not safe. Just then the man at the toll-gate on the other side ran out of the house, tossing a torch about like one mad. "Hoy, hoy, hoy! halloo! stop!" he cried. "What's the matter?" shouted my master. "The bridge is broken in the middle, and part of it is carried away; if you come on you'll be into the river." "Thank God!" said my master. "You Beauty!" said John, and took the bridle and gently turned me round to the right-hand road by the river side. The sun had set some time; the wind seemed to have lulled off after that furious blast which tore up the tree. It grew darker and darker, stiller and stiller. I trotted quietly along, the wheels hardly making a sound on the soft road. For a good while neither master nor John spoke, and then master began in a serious voice. I could not understand much of what they said, but I found they thought, if I had gone on as the master wanted me, most likely the bridge would have given way under us, and horse, chaise, master, and man would have fallen into the river; and as the current was flowing very strongly, and there was no light and no help at hand, it was more than likely we should all have been drowned. Master said, God had given men reason, by which they could find out things for themselves; but he had given animals knowledge which did not depend on reason, and which was much more prompt and perfect in its way, and by which they had often saved the lives of men. John had many stories to tell of dogs and horses, and the wonderful things they had done; he thought people did not value their animals half enough nor make friends of them as they ought to do. I am sure he makes friends of them if ever a man did. At last we came to the park gates and found the gardener looking out for us. He said that mistress had been in a dreadful way ever since dark, fearing some accident had happened, and that she had sent James off on Justice, the roan cob, toward the wooden bridge to make inquiry after us. We saw a light at the hall-door and at the upper windows, and as we came up mistress ran out, saying, "Are you really safe, my dear? Oh! I have been so anxious, fancying all sorts of things. Have you had no accident?" "No, my dear; but if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge." I heard no more, as they went into the house, and John took me to the stable. Oh, what a good supper he gave me that night, a good bran mash and some crushed beans with my oats, and such a thick bed of straw! and I was glad of it, for I was tired.

Chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-12

One day Beauty is hooked up to the dogcart to drive his master on a long trip, accompanied by John. He's excited about this and comments on the rain and the high water in the nearby river. When they start back toward home, the storm has gotten worse, becoming more violent until a tree crashes down on the road in front of them, blocking their path. They decide to take another route across a river, but when they get there, Beauty knows something's amiss--"the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge, I felt sure there was something wrong" . Squire Gordon and John urge Beauty forward, but he refuses to move. John asks him what's wrong, but unfortunately, as this book often reminds us, horses can't talk. In the nick of time, they're stopped by the man at the tollgate, who tells them the bridge is broken in the middle. What's that saying about good horse sense? They turn around, and Beauty hears Squire Gordon and John talking in the carriage, saying they certainly would have drowned if they'd tried to cross. When they finally arrive home, Squire Gordon tells his wife, " if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were, we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge" . Beauty earns himself a delicious supper as a result.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_12_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-13", "summary": "One day when John and Beauty are out riding, they spot a boy trying to leap a pony over a gate. The pony keeps refusing and turning away, though, and when he does, the boy whips him. And then the boy takes it a step further, beating and kicking the poor animal . As they watch, the pony throws the boy, who falls headfirst into a hedge; the pony takes off. John laughs and says that it serves the boy right. The boy calls for help, but instead of offering some, John rides to farmer Bushby's nearby to tell him about the boy, who turns out to be Bushby's son, Bill. John tells Bushby that he saw the boy \"whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good little pony about shamefully\" , and says he left the boy rather than helping out. The farmer says it isn't the first time Bill's treated the pony that way, and he plans to teach him a lesson. Back at Birtwick, John tells James about what happened. James describes Bill as a bully who caught flies and pulled their wings off. Delightful, right? James talks about a time Bill got in trouble for torturing flies, prompting a lecture from the schoolmaster about cruelty and the Devil . So according to Black Beauty, those kids in your class who torture insects are pretty much pure evil.", "analysis": ""}

13 The Devil's Trade Mark One day when John and I had been out on some business of our master's, and were returning gently on a long, straight road, at some distance we saw a boy trying to leap a pony over a gate; the pony would not take the leap, and the boy cut him with the whip, but he only turned off on one side. He whipped him again, but the pony turned off on the other side. Then the boy got off and gave him a hard thrashing, and knocked him about the head; then he got up again and tried to make him leap the gate, kicking him all the time shamefully, but still the pony refused. When we were nearly at the spot the pony put down his head and threw up his heels, and sent the boy neatly over into a broad quickset hedge, and with the rein dangling from his head he set off home at a full gallop. John laughed out quite loud. "Served him right," he said. "Oh, oh, oh!" cried the boy as he struggled about among the thorns; "I say, come and help me out." "Thank ye," said John, "I think you are quite in the right place, and maybe a little scratching will teach you not to leap a pony over a gate that is too high for him," and so with that John rode off. "It may be," said he to himself, "that young fellow is a liar as well as a cruel one; we'll just go home by Farmer Bushby's, Beauty, and then if anybody wants to know you and I can tell 'em, ye see." So we turned off to the right, and soon came up to the stack-yard, and within sight of the house. The farmer was hurrying out into the road, and his wife was standing at the gate, looking very frightened. "Have you seen my boy?" said Mr. Bushby as we came up; "he went out an hour ago on my black pony, and the creature is just come back without a rider." "I should think, sir," said John, "he had better be without a rider, unless he can be ridden properly." "What do you mean?" said the farmer. "Well, sir, I saw your son whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good little pony about shamefully because he would not leap a gate that was too high for him. The pony behaved well, sir, and showed no vice; but at last he just threw up his heels and tipped the young gentleman into the thorn hedge. He wanted me to help him out, but I hope you will excuse me, sir, I did not feel inclined to do so. There's no bones broken, sir; he'll only get a few scratches. I love horses, and it riles me to see them badly used; it is a bad plan to aggravate an animal till he uses his heels; the first time is not always the last." During this time the mother began to cry, "Oh, my poor Bill, I must go and meet him; he must be hurt." "You had better go into the house, wife," said the farmer; "Bill wants a lesson about this, and I must see that he gets it; this is not the first time, nor the second, that he has ill-used that pony, and I shall stop it. I am much obliged to you, Manly. Good-evening." So we went on, John chuckling all the way home; then he told James about it, who laughed and said, "Serve him right. I knew that boy at school; he took great airs on himself because he was a farmer's son; he used to swagger about and bully the little boys. Of course, we elder ones would not have any of that nonsense, and let him know that in the school and the playground farmers' sons and laborers' sons were all alike. I well remember one day, just before afternoon school, I found him at the large window catching flies and pulling off their wings. He did not see me and I gave him a box on the ears that laid him sprawling on the floor. Well, angry as I was, I was almost frightened, he roared and bellowed in such a style. The boys rushed in from the playground, and the master ran in from the road to see who was being murdered. Of course I said fair and square at once what I had done, and why; then I showed the master the flies, some crushed and some crawling about helpless, and I showed him the wings on the window sill. I never saw him so angry before; but as Bill was still howling and whining, like the coward that he was, he did not give him any more punishment of that kind, but set him up on a stool for the rest of the afternoon, and said that he should not go out to play for that week. Then he talked to all the boys very seriously about cruelty, and said how hard-hearted and cowardly it was to hurt the weak and the helpless; but what stuck in my mind was this, he said that cruelty was the devil's own trade-mark, and if we saw any one who took pleasure in cruelty we might know who he belonged to, for the devil was a murderer from the beginning, and a tormentor to the end. On the other hand, where we saw people who loved their neighbors, and were kind to man and beast, we might know that was God's mark." "Your master never taught you a truer thing," said John; "there is no religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man and beast it is all a sham--all a sham, James, and it won't stand when things come to be turned inside out."

Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-13

One day when John and Beauty are out riding, they spot a boy trying to leap a pony over a gate. The pony keeps refusing and turning away, though, and when he does, the boy whips him. And then the boy takes it a step further, beating and kicking the poor animal . As they watch, the pony throws the boy, who falls headfirst into a hedge; the pony takes off. John laughs and says that it serves the boy right. The boy calls for help, but instead of offering some, John rides to farmer Bushby's nearby to tell him about the boy, who turns out to be Bushby's son, Bill. John tells Bushby that he saw the boy "whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good little pony about shamefully" , and says he left the boy rather than helping out. The farmer says it isn't the first time Bill's treated the pony that way, and he plans to teach him a lesson. Back at Birtwick, John tells James about what happened. James describes Bill as a bully who caught flies and pulled their wings off. Delightful, right? James talks about a time Bill got in trouble for torturing flies, prompting a lecture from the schoolmaster about cruelty and the Devil . So according to Black Beauty, those kids in your class who torture insects are pretty much pure evil.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_13_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-14", "summary": "One December morning, Squire Gordon comes into the stable and begins asking John questions about James, the stable boy. John insists that James is the finest stable boy in all the land, noting \"that a steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this stable\" . Squire Gordon completely agrees with John--he was just double-checking. Turns out he's asking because his brother-in-law is looking for a groom, which is a step up in the world from stable boy. Squire Gordon doesn't want to lose James, but he also doesn't want to deny him the opportunity. John agrees, saying, \"I would not stand in his light for the world\" . These guys are so nice, right? They all decide that James should go to Squire Gordon's brother-in-law's house, Clifford Hall, and until then James practices his driving, leaving Beauty to comment that they're driving into the city a lot, which is a hectic place to take a horse.", "analysis": ""}

14 James Howard Early one morning in December John had just led me into my box after my daily exercise, and was strapping my cloth on and James was coming in from the corn chamber with some oats, when the master came into the stable. He looked rather serious, and held an open letter in his hand. John fastened the door of my box, touched his cap, and waited for orders. "Good-morning, John," said the master. "I want to know if you have any complaint to make of James." "Complaint, sir? No, sir." "Is he industrious at his work and respectful to you?" "Yes, sir, always." "You never find he slights his work when your back is turned?" "Never, sir." "That's well; but I must put another question. Have you no reason to suspect, when he goes out with the horses to exercise them or to take a message, that he stops about talking to his acquaintances, or goes into houses where he has no business, leaving the horses outside?" "No, sir, certainly not; and if anybody has been saying that about James, I don't believe it, and I don't mean to believe it unless I have it fairly proved before witnesses; it's not for me to say who has been trying to take away James' character, but I will say this, sir, that a steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this stable. I can trust his word and I can trust his work; he is gentle and clever with the horses, and I would rather have them in charge with him than with half the young fellows I know of in laced hats and liveries; and whoever wants a character of James Howard," said John, with a decided jerk of his head, "let them come to John Manly." The master stood all this time grave and attentive, but as John finished his speech a broad smile spread over his face, and looking kindly across at James, who all this time had stood still at the door, he said, "James, my lad, set down the oats and come here; I am very glad to find that John's opinion of your character agrees so exactly with my own. John is a cautious man," he said, with a droll smile, "and it is not always easy to get his opinion about people, so I thought if I beat the bush on this side the birds would fly out, and I should learn what I wanted to know quickly; so now we will come to business. I have a letter from my brother-in-law, Sir Clifford Williams, of Clifford Hall. He wants me to find him a trustworthy young groom, about twenty or twenty-one, who knows his business. His old coachman, who has lived with him thirty years, is getting feeble, and he wants a man to work with him and get into his ways, who would be able, when the old man was pensioned off, to step into his place. He would have eighteen shillings a week at first, a stable suit, a driving suit, a bedroom over the coachhouse, and a boy under him. Sir Clifford is a good master, and if you could get the place it would be a good start for you. I don't want to part with you, and if you left us I know John would lose his right hand." "That I should, sir," said John, "but I would not stand in his light for the world." "How old are you, James?" said master. "Nineteen next May, sir." "That's young; what do you think, John?" "Well, sir, it is young; but he is as steady as a man, and is strong, and well grown, and though he has not had much experience in driving, he has a light firm hand and a quick eye, and he is very careful, and I am quite sure no horse of his will be ruined for want of having his feet and shoes looked after." "Your word will go the furthest, John," said the master, "for Sir Clifford adds in a postscript, 'If I could find a man trained by your John I should like him better than any other;' so, James, lad, think it over, talk to your mother at dinner-time, and then let me know what you wish." In a few days after this conversation it was fully settled that James should go to Clifford Hall, in a month or six weeks, as it suited his master, and in the meantime he was to get all the practice in driving that could be given to him. I never knew the carriage to go out so often before; when the mistress did not go out the master drove himself in the two-wheeled chaise; but now, whether it was master or the young ladies, or only an errand, Ginger and I were put in the carriage and James drove us. At the first John rode with him on the box, telling him this and that, and after that James drove alone. Then it was wonderful what a number of places the master would go to in the city on Saturday, and what queer streets we were driven through. He was sure to go to the railway station just as the train was coming in, and cabs and carriages, carts and omnibuses were all trying to get over the bridge together; that bridge wanted good horses and good drivers when the railway bell was ringing, for it was narrow, and there was a very sharp turn up to the station, where it would not have been at all difficult for people to run into each other, if they did not look sharp and keep their wits about them.

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-14

One December morning, Squire Gordon comes into the stable and begins asking John questions about James, the stable boy. John insists that James is the finest stable boy in all the land, noting "that a steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this stable" . Squire Gordon completely agrees with John--he was just double-checking. Turns out he's asking because his brother-in-law is looking for a groom, which is a step up in the world from stable boy. Squire Gordon doesn't want to lose James, but he also doesn't want to deny him the opportunity. John agrees, saying, "I would not stand in his light for the world" . These guys are so nice, right? They all decide that James should go to Squire Gordon's brother-in-law's house, Clifford Hall, and until then James practices his driving, leaving Beauty to comment that they're driving into the city a lot, which is a hectic place to take a horse.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_14_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 15

chapter 15

{"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-15", "summary": "All right, what's an ostler? If you haven't yet Googled it, an ostler is someone employed at an inn to take care of horses. Now that we've established that, we can let Beauty get on with his story. Squire and Mistress Gordon ask James to drive them to visit some friends who live forty-six miles away. It's a long trip, and they stop at a hotel along the way, where two ostlers come to care for Beauty and Ginger. One of the ostlers really knows how to, er, ostle... we think: \"I never was cleaned so lightly and quickly as by that little old man\" , Beauty says. When James compliments the ostler's work, the ostler says he has forty years of practice, and before that he was a jockey. After an injury he took a job caring for horses, because he couldn't live without them. He thinks Beauty and Ginger are fabulous . We find out, through James's conversation with the ostler, that Squire Gordon is the \"best rider in the county\" , though he hardly rides anymore since his son was killed riding Rob Roy.", "analysis": ""}

15 The Old Hostler After this it was decided by my master and mistress to pay a visit to some friends who lived about forty-six miles from our home, and James was to drive them. The first day we traveled thirty-two miles. There were some long, heavy hills, but James drove so carefully and thoughtfully that we were not at all harassed. He never forgot to put on the brake as we went downhill, nor to take it off at the right place. He kept our feet on the smoothest part of the road, and if the uphill was very long, he set the carriage wheels a little across the road, so as not to run back, and gave us a breathing. All these little things help a horse very much, particularly if he gets kind words into the bargain. We stopped once or twice on the road, and just as the sun was going down we reached the town where we were to spend the night. We stopped at the principal hotel, which was in the market-place; it was a very large one; we drove under an archway into a long yard, at the further end of which were the stables and coachhouses. Two hostlers came to take us out. The head hostler was a pleasant, active little man, with a crooked leg, and a yellow striped waistcoat. I never saw a man unbuckle harness so quickly as he did, and with a pat and a good word he led me to a long stable, with six or eight stalls in it, and two or three horses. The other man brought Ginger; James stood by while we were rubbed down and cleaned. I never was cleaned so lightly and quickly as by that little old man. When he had done James stepped up and felt me over, as if he thought I could not be thoroughly done, but he found my coat as clean and smooth as silk. "Well," he said, "I thought I was pretty quick, and our John quicker still, but you do beat all I ever saw for being quick and thorough at the same time." "Practice makes perfect," said the crooked little hostler, "and 'twould be a pity if it didn't; forty years' practice, and not perfect! ha, ha! that would be a pity; and as to being quick, why, bless you! that is only a matter of habit; if you get into the habit of being quick it is just as easy as being slow; easier, I should say; in fact it don't agree with my health to be hulking about over a job twice as long as it need take. Bless you! I couldn't whistle if I crawled over my work as some folks do! You see, I have been about horses ever since I was twelve years old, in hunting stables, and racing stables; and being small, ye see, I was jockey for several years; but at the Goodwood, ye see, the turf was very slippery and my poor Larkspur got a fall, and I broke my knee, and so of course I was of no more use there. But I could not live without horses, of course I couldn't, so I took to the hotels. And I can tell ye it is a downright pleasure to handle an animal like this, well-bred, well-mannered, well-cared-for; bless ye! I can tell how a horse is treated. Give me the handling of a horse for twenty minutes, and I'll tell you what sort of a groom he has had. Look at this one, pleasant, quiet, turns about just as you want him, holds up his feet to be cleaned out, or anything else you please to wish; then you'll find another fidgety, fretty, won't move the right way, or starts across the stall, tosses up his head as soon as you come near him, lays his ears, and seems afraid of you; or else squares about at you with his heels. Poor things! I know what sort of treatment they have had. If they are timid it makes them start or shy; if they are high-mettled it makes them vicious or dangerous; their tempers are mostly made when they are young. Bless you! they are like children, train 'em up in the way they should go, as the good book says, and when they are old they will not depart from it, if they have a chance." "I like to hear you talk," said James, "that's the way we lay it down at home, at our master's." "Who is your master, young man? if it be a proper question. I should judge he is a good one, from what I see." "He is Squire Gordon, of Birtwick Park, the other side the Beacon Hills," said James. "Ah! so, so, I have heard tell of him; fine judge of horses, ain't he? the best rider in the county." "I believe he is," said James, "but he rides very little now, since the poor young master was killed." "Ah! poor gentleman; I read all about it in the paper at the time. A fine horse killed, too, wasn't there?" "Yes," said James; "he was a splendid creature, brother to this one, and just like him." "Pity! pity!" said the old man; "'twas a bad place to leap, if I remember; a thin fence at top, a steep bank down to the stream, wasn't it? No chance for a horse to see where he is going. Now, I am for bold riding as much as any man, but still there are some leaps that only a very knowing old huntsman has any right to take. A man's life and a horse's life are worth more than a fox's tail; at least, I should say they ought to be." During this time the other man had finished Ginger and had brought our corn, and James and the old man left the stable together.

Chapter 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-15

All right, what's an ostler? If you haven't yet Googled it, an ostler is someone employed at an inn to take care of horses. Now that we've established that, we can let Beauty get on with his story. Squire and Mistress Gordon ask James to drive them to visit some friends who live forty-six miles away. It's a long trip, and they stop at a hotel along the way, where two ostlers come to care for Beauty and Ginger. One of the ostlers really knows how to, er, ostle... we think: "I never was cleaned so lightly and quickly as by that little old man" , Beauty says. When James compliments the ostler's work, the ostler says he has forty years of practice, and before that he was a jockey. After an injury he took a job caring for horses, because he couldn't live without them. He thinks Beauty and Ginger are fabulous . We find out, through James's conversation with the ostler, that Squire Gordon is the "best rider in the county" , though he hardly rides anymore since his son was killed riding Rob Roy.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_15_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-16", "summary": "Later on at the hotel's stable, a young man helping the ostler accidentally leaves his lit pipe in the hayloft. Beauty wakes up in the middle of the night to find the stables filled with smoke; he describes the noise of fire, but has no idea what it is. The horses in the stable are very frightened, and an ostler rushes in to try to get the horses outside, though in sensing the ostler's fear, Beauty's fear only grows. In fact, none of the horses will leave the stable--they're too frightened by the panicked ostler. The old, experienced ostler finally comes in and manages to lead a horse out, and then James comes for Beauty, his voice \"quiet and cheery\" . James ties his scarf over Beauty's eyes and leads him out of the stable, then goes back inside for Ginger as Beauty gives a loud whinny. Thankfully Ginger hears Beauty outside--\"had she not heard me outside, she would never have had courage to come out\" , she tells him later. After a long delay, James makes it out with Ginger, although both have inhaled a lot of smoke. As they all watch, the fire engine arrives pulled by two horses, and the rest of the horses and their caretakers hurry away to the Marketplace near the hotel. Tragically, Beauty can hear the horses left in the stable shriek with pain; some of them never make it out. The next morning Beauty hears James talking about the fire, which is blamed on Dick Towler, the boy with the pipe. Okay, no pipes in the stable, everyone. Got it? The hotel stable has been destroyed in the fire, and the two horses unable to escape were buried under the debris.", "analysis": ""}

16 The Fire Later on in the evening a traveler's horse was brought in by the second hostler, and while he was cleaning him a young man with a pipe in his mouth lounged into the stable to gossip. "I say, Towler," said the hostler, "just run up the ladder into the loft and put some hay down into this horse's rack, will you? only lay down your pipe." "All right," said the other, and went up through the trapdoor; and I heard him step across the floor overhead and put down the hay. James came in to look at us the last thing, and then the door was locked. I cannot say how long I had slept, nor what time in the night it was, but I woke up very uncomfortable, though I hardly knew why. I got up; the air seemed all thick and choking. I heard Ginger coughing and one of the other horses seemed very restless; it was quite dark, and I could see nothing, but the stable seemed full of smoke, and I hardly knew how to breathe. The trapdoor had been left open, and I thought that was the place it came through. I listened, and heard a soft rushing sort of noise and a low crackling and snapping. I did not know what it was, but there was something in the sound so strange that it made me tremble all over. The other horses were all awake; some were pulling at their halters, others stamping. At last I heard steps outside, and the hostler who had put up the traveler's horse burst into the stable with a lantern, and began to untie the horses, and try to lead them out; but he seemed in such a hurry and so frightened himself that he frightened me still more. The first horse would not go with him; he tried the second and third, and they too would not stir. He came to me next and tried to drag me out of the stall by force; of course that was no use. He tried us all by turns and then left the stable. No doubt we were very foolish, but danger seemed to be all round, and there was nobody we knew to trust in, and all was strange and uncertain. The fresh air that had come in through the open door made it easier to breathe, but the rushing sound overhead grew louder, and as I looked upward through the bars of my empty rack I saw a red light flickering on the wall. Then I heard a cry of "Fire!" outside, and the old hostler quietly and quickly came in; he got one horse out, and went to another, but the flames were playing round the trapdoor, and the roaring overhead was dreadful. The next thing I heard was James' voice, quiet and cheery, as it always was. "Come, my beauties, it is time for us to be off, so wake up and come along." I stood nearest the door, so he came to me first, patting me as he came in. "Come, Beauty, on with your bridle, my boy, we'll soon be out of this smother." It was on in no time; then he took the scarf off his neck, and tied it lightly over my eyes, and patting and coaxing he led me out of the stable. Safe in the yard, he slipped the scarf off my eyes, and shouted, "Here somebody! take this horse while I go back for the other." A tall, broad man stepped forward and took me, and James darted back into the stable. I set up a shrill whinny as I saw him go. Ginger told me afterward that whinny was the best thing I could have done for her, for had she not heard me outside she would never have had courage to come out. There was much confusion in the yard; the horses being got out of other stables, and the carriages and gigs being pulled out of houses and sheds, lest the flames should spread further. On the other side the yard windows were thrown up, and people were shouting all sorts of things; but I kept my eye fixed on the stable door, where the smoke poured out thicker than ever, and I could see flashes of red light; presently I heard above all the stir and din a loud, clear voice, which I knew was master's: "James Howard! James Howard! Are you there?" There was no answer, but I heard a crash of something falling in the stable, and the next moment I gave a loud, joyful neigh, for I saw James coming through the smoke leading Ginger with him; she was coughing violently, and he was not able to speak. "My brave lad!" said master, laying his hand on his shoulder, "are you hurt?" James shook his head, for he could not yet speak. "Ay," said the big man who held me; "he is a brave lad, and no mistake." "And now," said master, "when you have got your breath, James, we'll get out of this place as quickly as we can," and we were moving toward the entry, when from the market-place there came a sound of galloping feet and loud rumbling wheels. "'Tis the fire-engine! the fire-engine!" shouted two or three voices, "stand back, make way!" and clattering and thundering over the stones two horses dashed into the yard with a heavy engine behind them. The firemen leaped to the ground; there was no need to ask where the fire was--it was rolling up in a great blaze from the roof. We got out as fast as we could into the broad quiet market-place; the stars were shining, and except the noise behind us, all was still. Master led the way to a large hotel on the other side, and as soon as the hostler came, he said, "James, I must now hasten to your mistress; I trust the horses entirely to you, order whatever you think is needed," and with that he was gone. The master did not run, but I never saw mortal man walk so fast as he did that night. There was a dreadful sound before we got into our stalls--the shrieks of those poor horses that were left burning to death in the stable--it was very terrible! and made both Ginger and me feel very bad. We, however, were taken in and well done by. The next morning the master came to see how we were and to speak to James. I did not hear much, for the hostler was rubbing me down, but I could see that James looked very happy, and I thought the master was proud of him. Our mistress had been so much alarmed in the night that the journey was put off till the afternoon, so James had the morning on hand, and went first to the inn to see about our harness and the carriage, and then to hear more about the fire. When he came back we heard him tell the hostler about it. At first no one could guess how the fire had been caused, but at last a man said he saw Dick Towler go into the stable with a pipe in his mouth, and when he came out he had not one, and went to the tap for another. Then the under hostler said he had asked Dick to go up the ladder to put down some hay, but told him to lay down his pipe first. Dick denied taking the pipe with him, but no one believed him. I remember our John Manly's rule, never to allow a pipe in the stable, and thought it ought to be the rule everywhere. James said the roof and floor had all fallen in, and that only the black walls were standing; the two poor horses that could not be got out were buried under the burnt rafters and tiles.

Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-16

Later on at the hotel's stable, a young man helping the ostler accidentally leaves his lit pipe in the hayloft. Beauty wakes up in the middle of the night to find the stables filled with smoke; he describes the noise of fire, but has no idea what it is. The horses in the stable are very frightened, and an ostler rushes in to try to get the horses outside, though in sensing the ostler's fear, Beauty's fear only grows. In fact, none of the horses will leave the stable--they're too frightened by the panicked ostler. The old, experienced ostler finally comes in and manages to lead a horse out, and then James comes for Beauty, his voice "quiet and cheery" . James ties his scarf over Beauty's eyes and leads him out of the stable, then goes back inside for Ginger as Beauty gives a loud whinny. Thankfully Ginger hears Beauty outside--"had she not heard me outside, she would never have had courage to come out" , she tells him later. After a long delay, James makes it out with Ginger, although both have inhaled a lot of smoke. As they all watch, the fire engine arrives pulled by two horses, and the rest of the horses and their caretakers hurry away to the Marketplace near the hotel. Tragically, Beauty can hear the horses left in the stable shriek with pain; some of them never make it out. The next morning Beauty hears James talking about the fire, which is blamed on Dick Towler, the boy with the pipe. Okay, no pipes in the stable, everyone. Got it? The hotel stable has been destroyed in the fire, and the two horses unable to escape were buried under the debris.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_16_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 17

chapter 17

{"name": "Chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-17", "summary": "Crisis over at last, they reach the home of Squire Gordon's friend. The coachman there compliments James on his ability to get Beauty and Ginger out of the burning stable: \"It is one of the hardest things in the world to get horses out of a stable when there is either fire or flood\" . So how do you think James made it happen? Back at Birtwick Park, James asks who will be replacing him as stable boy. John tells him that Little Joe Green, only fourteen, will be coming, even though he's still small. When James tells John he's a good man for giving Joe a chance, John begins to talk, giving a rare glimpse of his past. He says he was Joe Green's age when his own parents died of a fever, leaving John and his crippled sister Nelly alone. He and his sister were taken in by a kind farmer and given work, which was fortunate since otherwise they might have gone to the workhouse. John was apprenticed under a coachman named Norman: \"He might have turned around and said that at his age he could not be troubled with a raw boy from the plough-tail, but he was like a father to me, and took no end of pains with me\" . Sounds like John sees a lot of himself in Joe Green, maybe? James gets a little emotional at the thought of leaving John. Joe comes to the stables to learn from James, but Joe's still too short to groom Beauty or Ginger, so he takes charge of grooming Merrylegs. Merrylegs isn't so sure at first, but secretly tells Beauty after two weeks that Joe's probably going to work out fine. James leaves at last, with words of encouragement from John; Merrylegs is especially sad.", "analysis": ""}

17 John Manly's Talk The rest of our journey was very easy, and a little after sunset we reached the house of my master's friend. We were taken into a clean, snug stable; there was a kind coachman, who made us very comfortable, and who seemed to think a good deal of James when he heard about the fire. "There is one thing quite clear, young man," he said, "your horses know who they can trust; it is one of the hardest things in the world to get horses out of a stable when there is either fire or flood. I don't know why they won't come out, but they won't--not one in twenty." We stopped two or three days at this place and then returned home. All went well on the journey; we were glad to be in our own stable again, and John was equally glad to see us. Before he and James left us for the night James said, "I wonder who is coming in my place." "Little Joe Green at the lodge," said John. "Little Joe Green! why, he's a child!" "He is fourteen and a half," said John. "But he is such a little chap!" "Yes, he is small, but he is quick and willing, and kind-hearted, too, and then he wishes very much to come, and his father would like it; and I know the master would like to give him the chance. He said if I thought he would not do he would look out for a bigger boy; but I said I was quite agreeable to try him for six weeks." "Six weeks!" said James; "why, it will be six months before he can be of much use! It will make you a deal of work, John." "Well," said John with a laugh, "work and I are very good friends; I never was afraid of work yet." "You are a very good man," said James. "I wish I may ever be like you." "I don't often speak of myself," said John, "but as you are going away from us out into the world to shift for yourself I'll just tell you how I look on these things. I was just as old as Joseph when my father and mother died of the fever within ten days of each other, and left me and my cripple sister Nelly alone in the world, without a relation that we could look to for help. I was a farmer's boy, not earning enough to keep myself, much less both of us, and she must have gone to the workhouse but for our mistress (Nelly calls her her angel, and she has good right to do so). She went and hired a room for her with old Widow Mallet, and she gave her knitting and needlework when she was able to do it; and when she was ill she sent her dinners and many nice, comfortable things, and was like a mother to her. Then the master he took me into the stable under old Norman, the coachman that was then. I had my food at the house and my bed in the loft, and a suit of clothes, and three shillings a week, so that I could help Nelly. Then there was Norman; he might have turned round and said at his age he could not be troubled with a raw boy from the plow-tail, but he was like a father to me, and took no end of pains with me. When the old man died some years after I stepped into his place, and now of course I have top wages, and can lay by for a rainy day or a sunny day, as it may happen, and Nelly is as happy as a bird. So you see, James, I am not the man that should turn up his nose at a little boy and vex a good, kind master. No, no! I shall miss you very much, James, but we shall pull through, and there's nothing like doing a kindness when 'tis put in your way, and I am glad I can do it." "Then," said James, "you don't hold with that saying, 'Everybody look after himself, and take care of number one'?" "No, indeed," said John, "where should I and Nelly have been if master and mistress and old Norman had only taken care of number one? Why, she in the workhouse and I hoeing turnips! Where would Black Beauty and Ginger have been if you had only thought of number one? why, roasted to death! No, Jim, no! that is a selfish, heathenish saying, whoever uses it; and any man who thinks he has nothing to do but take care of number one, why, it's a pity but what he had been drowned like a puppy or a kitten, before he got his eyes open; that's what I think," said John, with a very decided jerk of his head. James laughed at this; but there was a thickness in his voice when he said, "You have been my best friend except my mother; I hope you won't forget me." "No, lad, no!" said John, "and if ever I can do you a good turn I hope you won't forget me." The next day Joe came to the stables to learn all he could before James left. He learned to sweep the stable, to bring in the straw and hay; he began to clean the harness, and helped to wash the carriage. As he was quite too short to do anything in the way of grooming Ginger and me, James taught him upon Merrylegs, for he was to have full charge of him, under John. He was a nice little bright fellow, and always came whistling to his work. Merrylegs was a good deal put out at being "mauled about," as he said, "by a boy who knew nothing;" but toward the end of the second week he told me confidentially that he thought the boy would turn out well. At last the day came when James had to leave us; cheerful as he always was, he looked quite down-hearted that morning. "You see," he said to John, "I am leaving a great deal behind; my mother and Betsy, and you, and a good master and mistress, and then the horses, and my old Merrylegs. At the new place there will not be a soul that I shall know. If it were not that I shall get a higher place, and be able to help my mother better, I don't think I should have made up my mind to it; it is a real pinch, John." "Ay, James, lad, so it is; but I should not think much of you if you could leave your home for the first time and not feel it. Cheer up, you'll make friends there; and if you get on well, as I am sure you will, it will be a fine thing for your mother, and she will be proud enough that you have got into such a good place as that." So John cheered him up, but every one was sorry to lose James; as for Merrylegs, he pined after him for several days, and went quite off his appetite. So John took him out several mornings with a leading rein, when he exercised me, and, trotting and galloping by my side, got up the little fellow's spirits again, and he was soon all right. Joe's father would often come in and give a little help, as he understood the work; and Joe took a great deal of pains to learn, and John was quite encouraged about him.

Chapter 17

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-17

Crisis over at last, they reach the home of Squire Gordon's friend. The coachman there compliments James on his ability to get Beauty and Ginger out of the burning stable: "It is one of the hardest things in the world to get horses out of a stable when there is either fire or flood" . So how do you think James made it happen? Back at Birtwick Park, James asks who will be replacing him as stable boy. John tells him that Little Joe Green, only fourteen, will be coming, even though he's still small. When James tells John he's a good man for giving Joe a chance, John begins to talk, giving a rare glimpse of his past. He says he was Joe Green's age when his own parents died of a fever, leaving John and his crippled sister Nelly alone. He and his sister were taken in by a kind farmer and given work, which was fortunate since otherwise they might have gone to the workhouse. John was apprenticed under a coachman named Norman: "He might have turned around and said that at his age he could not be troubled with a raw boy from the plough-tail, but he was like a father to me, and took no end of pains with me" . Sounds like John sees a lot of himself in Joe Green, maybe? James gets a little emotional at the thought of leaving John. Joe comes to the stables to learn from James, but Joe's still too short to groom Beauty or Ginger, so he takes charge of grooming Merrylegs. Merrylegs isn't so sure at first, but secretly tells Beauty after two weeks that Joe's probably going to work out fine. James leaves at last, with words of encouragement from John; Merrylegs is especially sad.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/271-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Black Beauty/section_18_part_0.txt

Black Beauty.part 1.chapter 19

chapter 19

{"name": "Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-19", "summary": "Beauty's illness worsens, and Mr. Bond, the horse doctor, visits often. \"One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood. I felt very faint after it, and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought so too\" . This probably doesn't sound like a familiar medical procedure, but \"bleeding\" people and animals was believed to cure diseases at the time. Joe Green's father, Thomas, comes in to help John one night, and asks if John would speak to Joe about Beauty. Joe is apparently distraught over what's happened to Beauty and blames himself. John says he knows Joe isn't a bad boy, but John himself is having a hard time with the situation; he genuinely loves Beauty, and he's been deeply worried. He says, \"That horse is the pride of my heart and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner is more than I can bear\" . When Thomas comments that it was only ignorance, John launches into a startling, angry rant, saying, \"Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness?\" . Whoa--and here we thought ignorance was bliss. Beauty starts to feel better, but often remembers John's tirade later.", "analysis": ""}

19 Only Ignorance I do not know how long I was ill. Mr. Bond, the horse-doctor, came every day. One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood. I felt very faint after it and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought so too. Ginger and Merrylegs had been moved into the other stable, so that I might be quiet, for the fever made me very quick of hearing; any little noise seemed quite loud, and I could tell every one's footstep going to and from the house. I knew all that was going on. One night John had to give me a draught; Thomas Green came in to help him. After I had taken it and John had made me as comfortable as he could, he said he should stay half an hour to see how the medicine settled. Thomas said he would stay with him, so they went and sat down on a bench that had been brought into Merrylegs' stall, and put down the lantern at their feet, that I might not be disturbed with the light. For awhile both men sat silent, and then Tom Green said in a low voice: "I wish, John, you'd say a bit of a kind word to Joe. The boy is quite broken-hearted; he can't eat his meals, and he can't smile. He says he knows it was all his fault, though he is sure he did the best he knew, and he says if Beauty dies no one will ever speak to him again. It goes to my heart to hear him. I think you might give him just a word; he is not a bad boy." After a short pause John said slowly, "You must not be too hard upon me, Tom. I know he meant no harm, I never said he did; I know he is not a bad boy. But you see, I am sore myself; that horse is the pride of my heart, to say nothing of his being such a favorite with the master and mistress; and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner is more than I can bear. But if you think I am hard on the boy I will try to give him a good word to-morrow--that is, I mean if Beauty is better." "Well, John, thank you. I knew you did not wish to be too hard, and I am glad you see it was only ignorance." John's voice almost startled me as he answered: "Only ignorance! only ignorance! how can you talk about only ignorance? Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness?--and which does the most mischief heaven only knows. If people can say, 'Oh! I did not know, I did not mean any harm,' they think it is all right. I suppose Martha Mulwash did not mean to kill that baby when she dosed it with Dalby and soothing syrups; but she did kill it, and was tried for manslaughter." "And serve her right, too," said Tom. "A woman should not undertake to nurse a tender little child without knowing what is good and what is bad for it." "Bill Starkey," continued John, "did not mean to frighten his brother into fits when he dressed up like a ghost and ran after him in the moonlight; but he did; and that bright, handsome little fellow, that might have been the pride of any mother's heart is just no better than an idiot, and never will be, if he lives to be eighty years old. You were a good deal cut up yourself, Tom, two weeks ago, when those young ladies left your hothouse door open, with a frosty east wind blowing right in; you said it killed a good many of your plants." "A good many!" said Tom; "there was not one of the tender cuttings that was not nipped off. I shall have to strike all over again, and the worst of it is that I don't know where to go to get fresh ones. I was nearly mad when I came in and saw what was done." "And yet," said John, "I am sure the young ladies did not mean it; it was only ignorance." I heard no more of this conversation, for the medicine did well and sent me to sleep, and in the morning I felt much better; but I often thought of John's words when I came to know more of the world.

Chapter 19

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205154804/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/black-beauty/summary/chapter-19

Beauty's illness worsens, and Mr. Bond, the horse doctor, visits often. "One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood. I felt very faint after it, and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought so too" . This probably doesn't sound like a familiar medical procedure, but "bleeding" people and animals was believed to cure diseases at the time. Joe Green's father, Thomas, comes in to help John one night, and asks if John would speak to Joe about Beauty. Joe is apparently distraught over what's happened to Beauty and blames himself. John says he knows Joe isn't a bad boy, but John himself is having a hard time with the situation; he genuinely loves Beauty, and he's been deeply worried. He says, "That horse is the pride of my heart and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner is more than I can bear" . When Thomas comments that it was only ignorance, John launches into a startling, angry rant, saying, "Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness?" . Whoa--and here we thought ignorance was bliss. Beauty starts to feel better, but often remembers John's tirade later.