But worse was to come. Out of the house came the two old gentlemen, accompanied by the Town Clerk. It was plain they knew all. Claudio and Don Pedro were now brought face to face with the father who, in all good faith, they had ruined.
“Which is the villain?” cried Leonato. “Let me see his eyes, that when I note another man like him I may avoid him. Which of these is he?”
“If you would know your wronger, look on me,” moaned Borachio.
“Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast killed mine innocent child?”
“Yea, even I alone.”
Leonato looked carefully at the miserable wretch in chains. He shook his head. “No, not so, villain, thou beliest thyself.” He turned to Claudio and Don Pedro. He gazed upon them with contempt. “Here stand a pair of honourable men, a third is fled that had a hand in it. I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death; record it with your high and worthy deeds. ’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.”
Claudio and Don Pedro hung their heads in shame as they were brought face to face with themselves. They had dishonoured honour: to guard their own, they had destroyed another’s.
“I cannot bid you bid my daughter live,” said Leonato sadly, as the pair begged to know how they could make amends, “that were impossible.” Then he proposed a strange penance that they should undergo. First, they should publicly proclaim Hero’s innocence, then they should visit her tomb that night, and pay the respects of mourning that were her due. “Tomorrow morning,” concluded Leonato, solemnly, “come you to my house, and since you could not be my son-in-law, be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter, almost the copy of my child that’s dead, and she alone is heir to both of us. Give her the right you should have given her cousin, and so dies my revenge.”
“We will not fail,” said Don Pedro humbly; and Claudio, with tears in his eyes, promised, “Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero.”
The heavy clouds that had lowered over Leonato’s house were lifting. It was morning, and everyone awaited the arrival of Claudio and Don Pedro. They had performed the penance laid upon them to the very letter. They had publicly proclaimed Hero’s innocence, and had knelt, and mourned, and wept at her supposed tomb.
“Did I not tell you she was innocent?” said Friar Francis, with satisfaction.
“So are the Prince and Claudio, who accused her upon the error you heard debated,” said Leonato, anxious to restore the honour of his future son-in-law.
“Well, I am glad that all things sort so well,” said Antonio.
“And so am I,” agreed Benedick, mightily relieved, “being else by faith enforced to call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.”
“Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,” said Leonato, turning to the ladies and bustling them away, “withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, and when I send for you, come hither masked. You know your office, brother,” he reminded Antonio when the ladies had gone: “you must be father to your brother’s daughter, and give her to young Claudio.” He laughed and rubbed his hands together. There had been suffering and remorse enough. Now was the time for forgiveness, even if it was to be concealed under a last comedy of masks.
“Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think,” murmured Benedick.
“To do what, signior?”
“To bind me, or undo me—one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, your niece regards me with an eye of favour.”
Benedick spoke the truth. He had indeed wrenched from Beatrice an admission—albeit a grudging one—that she loved him.
“What’s your will?” asked Leonato.
“My will is your good will may stand with ours,” answered Benedick, “this day to be conjoined in the state of honourable marriage.”
“My heart is with your liking!” responded Leonato, and clasped Benedick warmly by the hand.
“Here comes the Prince and Claudio!” warned Friar Francis. At once, all joyful smiles were wiped away, and every face wore a look of stern solemnity, to greet the humbled Prince and penitent bridegroom as they entered the room.
“Good morrow, Benedick,” greeted Don Pedro, searching in vain for a welcoming look. “Why, what’s the matter that you have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?”
But before there could be an answer, Leonato clapped his hands and the ladies appeared—so many rustling secrets behind their masks. Claudio stared from one to another; and glittering eyes watched his every move. “Which is the lady I must seize upon?” he asked at length.
“This same is she,” said Antonio, taking a mysterious lady by the hand and bringing her forward, “and I do give you her.”
“Why then she’s mine!” cried Claudio, with all the gallantry he could muster in the face of his faceless bride.
Beatrice, watching her cousin anxiously, marvelled that she could still hold up her mask, for she was trembling violently. Poor Hero! Her love for Claudio had never faltered: she loved him in spite of all his faults. Beatrice smiled ruefully. Her own case was very different. She loved Benedick almost because of his faults.
“Sweet, let me see your face,” begged Claudio; and it was as much as Leonato could do to prevent Hero revealing herself too soon.
“No,” he cried, seizing her by the wrist that was about to lower her mask, “that you shall not till you take her hand, before this friar, and swear to marry her!”
So Claudio took her hand, and before Friar Francis, declared, “I am your husband if you like of me.”
Only then did Leonato allow Hero to reveal her radiant face. Claudio fell back, amazed! He stood, with his mouth open, not daring to speak, lest she vanish like a dream.
“And when I lived,” Hero murmured softly, “I was your other wife, and when you loved, you were my other husband.”
At last, Claudio spoke. “Another Hero!” he whispered; and Don Pedro, overcome with thankfulness that he’d killed no one, cried, “The former Hero! Hero that is dead!”
“She died, my lord,” said Leonato, all smiles at last, “but whiles her slander lived.”
Deception on deception; was nothing real? “Which is Beatrice?” demanded Benedick, approaching the masked ladies.
“I answer to that name,” said she, taking off her mask. “What is your will?”
“Do not you love me?” demanded Benedick, without more ado.
“Why, no,” said she, finding the triumph in Benedick’s air too much and too soon, “no more than reason.”
“Why then your uncle and the Prince and Claudio have been deceived. They swore you did.”
“Do not you love me?” countered Beatrice, unable to deny the evidence.
“Troth, no, no more than reason,” said Benedick.
“Why then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula are much deceived, for they did swear you did.”
“They swore that you were almost sick for me.”
“They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.”
“ ’Tis no such matter,” protested Benedick indignantly. “Then you do not love me?”
“No, truly, but in friendly recompense,” said Beatrice; and their bickering was only put a stop to when Hero and Claudio produced letters that each had written to the other but never sent, protesting undying love.
“A miracle!” cried Benedick, “here’s our own hands against our hearts! Come, I will have thee, but by this light, I take thee for pity.”
“I yield upon great persuasion,” said Beatrice, with dignity, “and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”
“Peace,” cried Benedick, “I will stop your mouth,” and he kissed her not unwilling lips.
Now at a sign from Leonato, the musicians struck up a stately measure, and the dancing began. Don Pedro looked on, like a victorious general, at the success of his campaign, as Claudio and Hero, and Beatrice and Benedick joined together in the harmony of the dance. Then he remembered how nearly all had come to grief, through the campaign of his darker self, his black-br
owed, bastard brother, John . . .
“Prince, thou art sad,” called out Benedick, observing him, “get thee a wife, get thee a wife!”
Don Pedro looked up. He smiled, and nodded, and feeling suddenly lonely, looked about him for some lady to join him in the dance.
Julius Caesar
All Rome was wild with joy! The bright morning streamed with flying caps and pennants, and the very stones danced to the applause of ten thousand feet! Julius Caesar had won a glorious victory over the traitor Pompey, and all the carpenters, cobblers, tradesmen and their wives, shut up shop, put on their best attire, and rushed out of doors to welcome him and crown his statues with garlands, as if he was a king!
“Hence! Home, you idle creatures—”
Two officers of state, high up on the steps of a monument, were shouting furiously to make themselves heard as the noisy crowd came flooding into the market-place, like a filthy, stinking tide, wanting only to lap and lick the feet of Caesar.
“Get you home!”
They drew their swords. The crowd faltered—
“You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!”
Filled with anger and contempt for the common people who, not so long before, had welcomed Pompey even as they now welcomed Caesar, they rushed down and drove them from the market-place, like a frightened flock of sheep. Then, hearing a distant shout of trumpets, they hastened away to clear the streets and uncrown all the stone Caesars they could find.
They were men of the republic. Like the stern marble Romans on their lofty pedestals, who stood on every corner and in every public place, clutching their scrolls of hard-won liberty, they wanted no more crownings and no more kings.
But their task was hopeless. No sooner had they gone, than through a hundred different channels and alleys, the crowd came streaming back, as if the world had tilted Caesar’s way. They flowed up steps, they climbed on columns, they clung from windows, as the long brazen trumpets approached, flashing like shooting stars and blasting the air with majesty!
Then came Caesar himself, and suddenly all Rome was one huge adoring eye! Robed in gold and purple, and wearing the laurel wreath of victory, he walked slowly, inclining his head from side to side as he acknowledged the cheering of the people; and the marble Romans on their pedestals seemed to clutch their scrolls more tightly, as if they feared they’d be snatched away.
Following after, like faithful dogs, walked all the great ones of Rome: eager Casca, the noble Brutus with slight Cassius by his side; dry, learned old Cicero, hobbling as if his new sandals pinched, and Mark Antony, stripped and ready to run the course—for it was the Feast of Lupercal when it was the custom for young noblemen to run naked through the streets, striking childless women with leather thongs, to cure them of barrenness.
“Calpurnia!”
The procession halted. The trumpets were stilled. Caesar had spoken. He had summoned his wife. At once she left her place and, almost stumbling over her heavy purple gown in her haste, she came to her husband’s side. He bade her stand in Antony’s path when he ran the magic course. She was childless and Caesar had need of a son. Humbly, she bowed her head and, accompanied by knowing smiles that made her blush with shame, she returned to her place.
“Set on,” commanded Caesar. He raised his hand—
“Caesar!”
He paused, and the trumpets, half-way to lips, stayed motionless. Who had called his name? A silence fell on the market-place. Then there was a stirring among the crowd. An old man shuffled forward, a gaunt old man with wild white hair. He was a soothsayer who, it was said, looked into tomorrow as clearly as if it was yesterday. He spoke again.
“Beware the Ides of March.”
“Set him before me,” ordered Caesar; but the old man needed no assistance. Leaning heavily on his staff, he approached and stood before Caesar, his ragged black gown flapping in the gusty air.
“What sayest thou to me now? Speak once again.”
“Beware the Ides of March,” said the soothsayer, and his words struck a chill into every heart. The Ides of March were close at hand. But Caesar was unmoved. He stared hard into the man’s pale blue eyes that blazed either with madness or the harmless folly of age. He smiled.
“He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.” And, with a shrug of his shoulders, as if the warning had been of no more consequence than a pebble cast against the sun, he set on.
Two remained behind: Brutus and Cassius. Wearied of walking in Caesar’s shadow, they had no wish to watch him presiding over the Festival games. They leaned against a wall and stared after the swirling clouds of dust that had been raised by the multitude that had streamed after Caesar. Although they were friends they were, at that moment, separate islands of thought. Then Cassius, the quicker and more passionate of the two, broke the silence. Shrewdly observing the direction of Brutus’s gaze, he wondered if his friend was troubled with the same thought that was troubling himself and certain other gentlemen of Rome? Was it possible, he went on, choosing his words with care, that the noble Brutus, whose great ancestor had driven out the last of Rome’s bad kings, was growing uneasy over Caesar’s ever-increasing power?
Before Brutus could answer, there came a roar from the distant multitude. “What means this shouting?” he muttered. “I do fear the people choose Caesar for their king!”
“Ay, do you fear it?” asked Cassius quickly. “Then must I think you would not have it so!”
Brutus hesitated; then slowly answered, “I would not . . .” and Cassius’s heart beat rapidly. Thus far Brutus was with him!
A cloud passed across the sun. Shadows invaded the market-place. The pale Romans on their pedestals seemed to tremble and sway, as if their ghostly world had begun to shake. They glared down in stony dismay on the two men who murmured together: the one tall and upright, the other, slighter and fiercely restless, like a darting flame striving to set a mighty tree ablaze.
Cassius hated Caesar. He hated him for the huge and arrogant thing he had become.
“Why, man,” cried Cassius, seizing his friend by the arm, “he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves!”
At the word ‘dishonourable’ Brutus flushed angrily. Honour was dearer to him than life itself, and Cassius knew it. Indeed, he loved and admired his friend for it, but such was his hatred for Caesar that he did not scruple to play upon Brutus’s honour as if it was an instrument, as he led him further and further along the dangerous path that he himself was treading. And Brutus, to the noble tune of honour, followed the skilful piper willingly.
Caesar was returning. Guiltily, the friends drew apart as the procession entered the market-place. They watched curiously. Plainly, something was amiss. The trumpets hung down like broken daffodils and the crowd had drained away to a ragged trickle. Caesar himself looked angry, and those near him were shaken and pale. They halted. Caesar looked about him, as if for someone on whom he might vent his spleen. His eye fell upon Cassius. He beckoned Mark Antony to his side.
“Let me have men about me that are fat,” he said loudly, “sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. Such men are dangerous.”
“Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous,” said Antony with a smile; but Caesar, never taking his eyes from the suddenly white-faced Cassius, slowly shook his head.
“Such men as he be never at heart’s ease whiles they behold a greater than themselves,” he said thoughtfully, “and therefore are they very dangerous.” Then, as if remembering who he was, his hand went to his laurel wreath, which he wore as much to hide his thinning hair as to mark his victory, and settled it more firmly on his head. Others might fear, but never Caesar. “Come to my right hand,” he said to Antony, “for this ear is deaf, and tell me truly what thou thinkst of him,” and, with a last long look at Cassius, he led the way from the market-place.
As the procession passed, Bru
tus plucked Casca by the sleeve. Casca, careful not to be observed, lingered behind. Brutus asked him what had happened. Casca looked about him, and, seeing there was none else by, smiled broadly and related what had taken place.
He was full of lively mockery, sparing neither Caesar, nor his friends, nor the people from the sharpness of his tongue; for Casca, though he bowed low before Caesar, was never afraid to speak his mind—behind Caesar’s back.
The scene had been so comical and ridiculous that it had been as much as he could do to stop himself laughing aloud. Antony had offered Caesar a crown. Caesar had refused it and the rabble had hooted and shouted for joy. Antony offered it a second time. Again Caesar refused, and again the people cheered him for it. But when it was offered for a third time, and for a third time Caesar pushed it aside, the sweaty crowd yelled and shouted so much that Caesar fell down in a fit and foamed at the mouth—as much from the people’s bad breath as from his bitter disappointment that they did not want him to be a king.
“What, did Caesar swoon?” asked Cassius softly.
“ ’Tis very like,” said Brutus; “he hath the falling sickness.”
Cassius shook his head. “No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, and honest Casca, we have the falling sickness.”
Casca looked at him sharply. “I know not what you mean by that,” he said; but Cassius had seen in his eyes the very image of his own dark thoughts.
“Will you sup with me tonight, Casca?”
“No, I am promised forth.”
“Will you dine with me tomorrow?”
“Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating.”
With that, they parted, all three agreeing to meet—tomorrow.
A heap of rags stirred in a dusty corner of the market-place, and, with little groanings and cracklings of the joints, raised itself up to the height of a man. It was the soothsayer. He stared after the three who had just gone; and his pale blue eyes, that looked into tomorrow as clearly as if it was yesterday, widened with dread. Tomorrow was the Ides of March. The sky darkened and a wind sprang up. Frightened rubbish flew across the market-place, and the old man, his gown stretched out like a black flag, stumbled away.
Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Page 31
