 section 16. Othello, from Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare. Three hundred years ago there lived in Venice an ensign named Iago, who hated his general Othello for not making him a lieutenant. Instead of Iago, who was strongly recommended, Othello had chosen Michael Cassio, whose smooth tongue had helped him to win the heart of Desdemona. Iago had a friend called Rodrigo, who supplied him with money and felt he could not be happy unless Desdemona was his wife. Othello was a moor, but of so dark a complexion that his enemies called him a black-a-moor. His life had been hard and exciting. He had been vanquished in battle and sold into slavery, and he had been a great traveller and seen men whose shoulders were higher than their heads. Brave as a lion, he had won great fault. Jealousy. His love was a terrible selfishness. To love a woman meant with him to possess her as absolutely as he possessed something that did not live and think. The story of Othello is a story of jealousy. One night Iago told Rodrigo that Othello had carried off Desdemona without the knowledge of her father, Brabantio. He persuaded Rodrigo to arouse Brabantio, and when that senator appeared Iago told him of Desdemona's elopement in the most unpleasant way. Though he was Othello's officer, he termed him a thief and a barbaric horse. Brabantio accused Othello before the Duke of Venice of using sorcery to fascinate his daughter, but Othello said that the only sorcery he used was his voice, which told Desdemona his adventures and hair-breath escapes. Desdemona was led into the council chamber and she explained how she could love Othello despite his almost black face by saying, I saw Othello's visage in his mind. As Othello had married Desdemona and she was glad to be his wife, there was no more to be said against him, especially as the Duke wished him to go to Cyprus to defend it against the Turks. Othello was quite ready to go and Desdemona, who pleaded to go with him, was permitted to join him at Cyprus. Othello's feelings on landing in this island were intensely joyful. Oh, my sweet, he said to Desdemona, who arrived with Iago, his wife, and Rodrigo before him, I hardly know what I say to you. I am in love with my own happiness. News coming presently that the Turkish fleet was out of action, he proclaimed a festival in Cyprus from five to eleven at night. Casio was on duty in the castle, where Othello ruled Cyprus, so Iago decided to make the lieutenant drink too much. He had some difficulty as Casio knew that wine soon went to his head, but servants brought wine into the room where Casio was and Iago sang a drinking song, and so Casio lifted a glass too often to the health of the general. When Casio was inclined to be quarrelsome, Iago told Rodrigo to say something unpleasant to him. Casio cudgled Rodrigo, who ran into the presence of Montano, the ex-governor. Montano civilly interceded for Rodrigo, but received so rude an answer from Casio that he said, come, come, you're drunk. Casio then wounded him, and Iago sent Rodrigo out to scare the town with a cry of mutiny. The uproar aroused Othello, who, on learning its cause, said, Casio, I love thee, but never more be officer of mine. On Casio and Iago being alone together, the disgraced man moaned about his reputation. Iago said reputation and humbug were the same thing. Oh, God! exclaimed Casio, without heeding him, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains. Iago advised him to beg Desdemona to ask Othello to pardon him. Casio was pleased with the advice, and, next morning, made his request to Desdemona in the garden of the castle. She was kindness itself, and said, be merry, Casio, for I would rather die than forsake your cause. Casio at that moment saw Othello advancing with Iago and retired hurriedly. Iago said, I don't like that. What did you say, asked Othello, who felt that he had meant something unpleasant, but Iago pretended he had said nothing. Was not that Casio, who went for my wife, asked Othello, and Iago, who knew that it was Casio, and why it was Casio, said, I cannot think it was Casio who stole away in that guilty manner. Desdemona told Othello that it was grief and humility which made Casio retreat at his approach. She reminded him how Casio had taken his part when she was still heart-free, and found fault with her Moorish lover. Othello was melted, and said, I will deny thee nothing. But Desdemona told him that what she asked was as much for his good as dining. Desdemona left the garden, and Iago asked if it was really true that Casio had known Desdemona before her marriage. Yes, said Othello. Indeed, said Iago, as though something that had misfied him was now very clear. Is he not honest? demanded Othello, and Iago repeated the adjective inquiringly as though he were afraid to say, no. What do you mean, insisted Othello? To this Iago would only say the flat opposite of what he said to Casio. He told Casio that reputation was humbug. To Othello he said, who steals my purse, steals trash, but he who filters from me my good name ruins me. At this Othello almost leapt into the air, and Iago was so confident of his jealousy that he ventured to warn him against it. Yes, it was no other than Iago who called jealousy the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on. Iago, having given jealousy one blow, proceeded to feed it with the remark that Desdemona deceived her father when she eloped with Othello. If she deceived him, why not you was his meaning? Presently Desdemona re-entered to tell Othello that dinner was ready. She saw that he was ill at ease. He explained it by a pain in his forehead. Desdemona then produced a handkerchief which Othello had given her. A prophetess two hundred years ago had made this handkerchief from the silk of sacred silkworms, dyed it in a liquid prepared from the hearts of maidens, and embroidered it with strawberries. Gentle Desdemona thought of it simply as a cool, soft thing for a throbbing brow. She knew of no spell upon it that would work destruction for her who lost it. Let me tie it round your head, she said to Othello. You will be well in an hour. But Othello petishly said it was too small and let it fall. Desdemona and he then went indoors to dinner, and Emilia picked up the handkerchief which Iago had often asked her to steal. She was looking at it when Iago came in. After a few words about it he snatched it from her and bade her leave him. In the garden he was joined by Othello, who seemed hungry for the worst lies he could offer. He therefore told Othello that he had seen Cassio wipe his mouth with a handkerchief, which, because it was spotted with strawberries, he guessed to be one that Othello had given his wife. The unhappy Moor went mad with fury, and Iago bade the heavens witness that he devoted his hand and heart and brain to Othello's service. I accept your love, said Othello. Within three days let me hear that Cassio is dead. Iago's next step was to leave Desdemona's handkerchief in Cassio's room. Cassio saw it and knew it was not his, but he liked the strawberry pattern on it, and he gave it to his sweetheart Bianca, and asked her to copy it for him. Iago's next move was to induce Othello, who had been bullying Desdemona about the handkerchief, to play the eavesdropper to a conversation between Cassio and himself. His intention was to talk about Cassio's sweetheart, and allow Othello to suppose that the lady spoken of was Desdemona. How are you, Lieutenant? asked Iago when Cassio appeared. The worse for being called what I am not, replied Cassio gloomily. Keep on reminding Desdemona, and you'll soon be restored, said Iago, adding in a tone too low for Othello to hear if Bianca could set the matter right. How quickly it would mend! Alas! poor rogue! said Cassio. I really think she loves me. And like the talkative coxcomb he was, Cassio was led on to boast of Bianca's fondness for him, while Othello imagined, with choked rage, that he prattled of Desdemona, and thought, I see your nose, Cassio, but not the dog I shall throw it to. Othello was still spying when Bianca entered, boiling over with the idea that Cassio, whom she considered her property, had asked her to copy the embroidery on the handkerchief of a new sweetheart. She tossed him the handkerchief with scornful words, and Cassio departed with her. Othello had seen Bianca, who was in station lower, in beauty and speech inferior far, to Desdemona, and he began, in spite of himself, to praise his wife to the villain before him. He praised her skill with the needle, her voice that could sing the savageness out of a bear, her wit, her sweetness, the fairness of her skin. Every time he praised her, Iago said something that made him remember his anger, and utter it foully, and yet he must need to praise her, and say, the pity of it, Iago, oh, Iago, the pity of it, Iago. There was never in all Iago's villainy one moment of wavering. If there had been, he might have wavered then. Strangle her, he said, and good, good, said his miserable dupe. The pair were still talking murder when Desdemona appeared with a relative of Desdemona's father, called Lodovico, who bore a letter for Othello from the Duke of Venice. The letter recalled Othello from Cyprus, and gave the governorship to Cassio. Luckless Desdemona seized this unhappy moment to urge once more the suit of Cassio. Fire and brimstone shouted Othello. It may be the letter agitates him, explained Lodovico to Desdemona, and he told her what it contained. I am glad, said Desdemona. It was the first bitter speech that Othello's unkindness had wrung out of her. I am glad to see you lose your temper, said Othello. Why, sweet Othello? She asked sarcastically, and Othello slapped her face. Now was the time for Desdemona to have saved her life by separation, but she knew not her peril, only that her love was wounded to the core. I have not deserved this, she said, and the tears rolled slowly down her face. Lodovico was shocked and disgusted. My lord, he said, this would not be believed in Venice. Make her a mens. But, like a mad man talking in his nightmare, Othello poured out his foul thought in ugly speech, and roared out of my sight. I will not stay to offend you, said his wife, but she lingered even in going, and only when he shouted, Avante did she leave her husband and his guests. Othello then invited Lodovico to supper, saying, you are welcome, sir, to Cyprus, goats and monkeys. Without waiting for a reply, he left the company. Distinguished visitors detest being obliged to look on at family quarrels, and dislike being called either goats or monkeys, and Lodovico asked Iago for an explanation. True to himself, Iago, in a roundabout way, said that Othello was worse than he seemed, and advised them to study his behavior and save him from the discomfort of answering any more questions. He proceeded to tell Roderigo to murder Cascio. Roderigo was out of tune with his friend. He had given Iago quantities of jewels for Desdemona without effect. Desdemona had seen none of them, for Iago was a thief. Iago smoothed him with a lie, and when Cascio was leaving Bianca's house, Roderigo wounded him, and was wounded in return. Cascio shouted, and Lodovico and a friend came running up. Cascio pointed out Roderigo as his assailant, and Iago, hoping to rid himself of an inconvenient friend, called him villain, and stabbed him, but not to death. At the castle Desdemona was in a sad mood. She told Emilia that she must leave her, her husband wished it. "'Dismiss me,' explained Emilia. "'It was his bidding,' said Desdemona. "'We must not displease him now.' She sang a song which a girl had sung whose lover had been based to her, a song of a maiden crying by that tree whose boughs droop as though it weeps, and she went to bed and slept. She woke with her husband's wild eyes upon her. "'Have you prayed to-night?' he asked. And he told this blameless and sweet woman, to ask God's pardon for any sin she might have on her conscience. "'I would not kill thy soul,' he said. He told her that Cascio had confessed, but she knew Cascio had not to confess that concerned her. She said that Cascio could not say anything that would damage her. Othello said his mouth was stopped. Then Desdemona wept. But with violent words, in spite of all her pleading, Othello pressed upon her throat and mortally hurt her. Then with boating heart came Emilia, and besought entrance at the door, and Othello unlocked it, and a voice came from the bed saying, "'A guiltless death I die.' "'Who did it?' cried Emilia, and the voice said, "'Nobody. I myself.' "'Fair well.' "'Twas I that killed her,' said Othello. He poured out his evidence by that sad bed to the people who came running in, Iago among them. But when he spoke of the handkerchief, Emilia told the truth. And Othello knew. "'Are there no stones in heaven but thunderbolts?' he exclaimed, and ran at Iago, who gave Emilia her death-blow, and fled. But they brought him back, and the death that came to him later on was a relief from torture. They would have taken Othello back to Venice to try him there, but he escaped them on his sword. "'A word or two before you go,' he said to the Venetians in the chamber. "'Speak of me, as I was. No better, no worse. Say I cast away the pearl of pearls, and wept with these hard eyes, and say that when in Aleppo years ago I saw a Turk beating a Venetian, I took him by the throat and smote him thus. With his own hand he stabbed himself to the heart, and ere he died his lips touched the face of Desdemona with despairing love. End of Section 16, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. The Taming of the Shrew There lived in Padua, a gentleman named Baputin. Baptista, who had two fair daughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tempered and unmanorly that no one ever dreamed of marrying her, while her sister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty and pleasant-spoken that more than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But Baptista said the elder daughter must marry first. So Bianca's suitors decided among themselves to try and get someone to marry Katharine, and then the father could at least begot to listen to their suit for Bianca. A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they thought of and half-ingest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine, the disagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was just the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich, he himself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered. Petruchio began by asking Baptista's permission to pay court to his gentle daughter, Katharine, and Baptista was obliged to own that she was anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in, complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head because he told her she was not playing correctly. Never mind, said Petruchio, I love her better than ever, and long to have some chat with her. When Katharine came he said, Good morning, Kate, for that I hear is your name. You've only heard half, said Katharine Rudley. Oh no, said Petruchio, they call you plain Kate and bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the Shrew, and so hearing your mildness praised in every town and your beauty too, I ask you for my wife. Your wife? cried Kate, never. She said some extremely disagreeable things to him, and, I am sorry to say, ended by boxing his ears. If you do that again I'll cuff you, he said quietly and still protested, with many compliments that he would marry none but her. When Baptista came back he asked at once, How speed you with my daughter? How should I speed but well? replied Petruchio. How but well? How now, daughter Katharine, the father went on. I don't think, said Katharine angrily, you are acting a father's part in wishing me to marry this madcap Ruffian. Ah, said Petruchio, you and all the world would talk amiss of her. You should see how kind she is to me when we are alone. In short I will go off to Venice to buy fine things for our wedding. For, kiss me, Kate, we will be married on Sunday. With that Katharine flounced out of the room by one door in a violent temper, and he, laughing, went out by the other. But whether she fell in love with Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to meet a man who was not afraid of her, or whether she was flattered that in spite of her rough words and spiteful usage he still desired her for his wife, she did indeed marry him on Sunday, as he had sworn she should. To vex and humble Katharine's naughty proud spirit, he was late at the wedding, and when he came, came wearing such shabby clothes that she was ashamed to be seen with him. His servant was dressed in the same shabby way, and the horses they rode were a sport of every one they passed. And after the marriage, when should have been the wedding breakfast, Petruchio carried his wife away, not allowing her to eat or drink, saying that she was his now, and he could do as he liked with her. And his manner was so violent, and he behaved all through his wedding in so mad and dreadfully manner that Katharine trembled and went with him. He mounted her on a stumbling, lean old horse, and they journeyed by rough muddy ways to Petruchio's house, he scolding and snarling all the way. She was terribly tired when she reached her new home, but Petruchio was determined that she should neither eat nor sleep that night, for he had made up his mind to teach his bad tempered wife a lesson she would never forget. So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when supper was served he found fault with everything. The meat was burnt, he said, and ill-served, and he loved her far too much to let her eat anything but the best. At last Katharine, tired out with her journey, went supperless to bed. Then her husband, still telling her how he loved her, and how anxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled her bed to pieces, throwing the pillows and bed clothes on the floor so that she could not go to bed at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the servants so that Kate might see how unbeautiful a thing ill-temper was. The next day too Katharine's food was all found fault with, and caught away before she could touch a mouthful, and she was sick and giddy for want of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants, I pray thee, go and get me some repast, I care not what. What say you to a neat's foot? said the servant. Katharine said, yes, eagerly, but the servant, who was in his master's secrets, said he feared it was not good for hasty tempered people. Would she like tripe? Bring it to me, said Katharine. I don't think that is good for hasty tempered people. Said the servant, what do you say to a dish of beef and mustard? I love it, said Kate, but mustard is too hot. Why then the beef, and let the mustard go? cried Katharine, who was getting hungrier and hungrier. No, said the servant, you must have the mustard, or you get no beef from me. Then cried Katharine, losing patience, let it be both or one or anything thou wilt. Why then, said the servant, the mustard without the beef? Then Katharine saw he was making fun of her, and boxed his ears. Just then Petruchio brought her some food, but she had scarcely begun to satisfy her hunger, before he called for the tailor to bring her new clothes, and the table was cleared, leaving her still hungry. Katharine was pleased with the pretty new dress and cap that the tailor had made for her, but Petruchio found fault with everything, flung the cap and gown on the floor, vowing his dear wife should not wear any such foolish things. I will have them, cried Katharine. All gentle women wear such caps as these. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, he answered, and not till then. When he had driven away the tailor with angry words, but privately asking his friend to see him paid, Petruchio said, Come, Kate, let's go to your fathers, shabby as we are, for as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honour pierce in the meanest habit. It is about seven o'clock now, we shall easily get there by dinnertime. It's nearly two, said Kate, but civilly enough, for she had grown to see that she could not bully her husband, as she had done her father and her sister. It's nearly two, and it will be suburb time before we get there. It shall be seven, said Petruchio obstinately, before I start. Why, whatever I say or do, or think you do nothing but contradict. I won't go to din, before I do go, shall be what o'clock I say it is. At last they started for her father's house. Look at the moon, said he. It's the sun, said Catherine, and indeed it was. I say it is the moon, contradicting again. It shall be sun or moon, or whatever I choose, or I won't take you to your fathers. Then Catherine gave in, once and for all. What ye will have it named, she said, it is, and so it shall be so for Catherine. And so it was, for from that moment Catherine felt that she had met her master and never again showed her naughty tempers to him or anyone else. So they journeyed on to Baptista's house, and arriving there they found all folks keeping Bianca's wedding feast, and that of another newly married couple, Hortensio and his wife. They were made welcome and sat down to the feast and all was merry, save that Hortensio's wife, seeing Catherine subdued to her husband, thought she could safely say many disagreeable things, that in the old days when Catherine was free and forward she would not have dared to say. But Catherine answered with such spirit and such moderation that she turned the laugh against the new bride. After dinner, when the ladies had retired, Baptista joined in a laugh against Petruchio, saying, Now in good sadness on Petruchio, I fear you have got the various to shrew of all. You are wrong, said Petruchio, let me prove it to you. Each of us shall send a message to his wife, desiring her to come to him, and the one whose wife comes most readily shall win a wager, which we will agree on. The other said yes readily enough for each thought his own wife the most dutiful, and each thought he was quite sure to win the wager. They proposed a wager of twenty crowns. Twenty crowns, said Petruchio, I'll venture so much in my hawker hound, but twenty times as much upon my wife. A hundred then cried Lucensio, Bianca's husband, content cried the others. Then Lucensio sent a message to the fair Bianca, bidding her to come to him, and Baptista said he was certain his daughter would come. But the servant coming back said, Sir, my mistress is busy, and she cannot come. There's an answer for you, said Petruchio. You may think you're so fortunate if your wife does not send you a worse. I hope better, Petruchio answered. Then Hortensio said, go and entreat my wife to come to me at once. Oh, if you entreat her, said Petruchio. I am afraid, answered Hortensio sharply, do what you can, yours will not be entreated. But now the servant came in and said, she says you are playing some jest, she will not come. Better and better, cried Petruchio, now go to your mistress and say I command her to come to me. They all began to laugh, saying they knew what her answer would be and that she would not come. Then suddenly Baptista cried. Here comes Catherine, and sure enough there she was. What do you wish, sir? she asked her husband. Where are your sister and Hortensio's wife? Talking by the parlor fire. Fetch them here. When she was gone to fetch them, Lucentio said, here is a wonder. I wonder what it means, said Hortensio. It means peace, said Petruchio, and love and quiet life. Well, said Baptista, you have won the wager and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, another dowry for another daughter, for she is as changed as if she were someone else. So Petruchio won his wager and had in Catherine always a loving wife and true, and now he had broken her proud and angry spirit, he loved her well, and there was nothing ever but love between those two, and so they lived happy ever afterwards. End of The Taming of the Shrew Section 18 Measure for Measure From Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare by Edith Nesbitt Measure for Measure More centuries ago than I care to say, the people of Vienna were governed too mildly. The reason was that the reigning Duke Vicencio was excessively good-natured, and disliked to see offenders made unhappy. The consequence was that the number of ill-behaved persons in Vienna was enough to make the Duke shake his head in sorrow when his chief secretary showed him it at the end of a list. He decided therefore that wrongdoers must be punished. But popularity was dear to him. He knew that if he were suddenly strict after being lax, he would cause people to call him a tyrant. For this reason he told his privy council that he must go to Poland on important business of state. I have chosen Angelo to rule in my absence, said he. Now this Angelo, although he appeared to be noble, was really a mean man. He had promised to marry a girl called Marianna, and now would have nothing to say to her, because her dowry had been lost. So poor Marianna lived forlornly, waiting every day for the footstep of her stingy lover, and loving him still. Having appointed Angelo his deputy, the Duke went to a friar called Thomas and asked him for a friar's dress and instruction in the art of giving religious counsel, for he did not intend to go to Poland but to stay at home and see how Angelo governed. Angelo had not been a day in office when he condemned to death a young man named Claudio for an act of rash selfishness which nowadays would only be punished by severe reproof. Claudio had a queer friend called Lucio, and Lucio saw a chance of freedom for Claudio if Claudio's beautiful sister Isabella would plead with Angelo. Isabella was at that time living in a nunnery. Nobody had won her heart, and she thought she would like to become a sister or nun. Meanwhile Claudio did not lack an advocate. An ancient lord, Escalus, was for leniency. Let us cut a little, but not kill, he said. This gentleman had a most noble father. Angelo was unmoved. If twelve men find me guilty, I ask no more mercy than is in the law. Angelo then ordered the provost to see that Claudio was executed at nine the next morning. After the issue of this order, Angelo was told that the sister of the condemned man desired to see him. Admit her, said Angelo. On entering with Lucio, the beautiful girl said, I am a woeful suitor to your honour. Well, said Angelo, she coloured at his chill monosyllable, and the ascending red increased the beauty of her face. I have a brother who is condemned to die, she continued. Condemn the fault, I pray you, and spare my brother. Every fault, said Angelo, is condemned before it is committed. A fault cannot suffer. Justice would be void if the committer of a fault went free. She would have left the court if Lucio had not whispered to her, you were too cold, you could not speak more tamely if you wanted a pin. So Isabella attacked Angelo again, and when he said, I will not pardon him, she was not discouraged, and when he said, he's sentenced, tis too late, she returned to the assault. But all her fighting was with reasons, and with reasons she could not prevail over the deputy. She told him that nothing becomes power like mercy. She told him that humanity receives and requires mercy from heaven, that it was good to have gigantic strength, and bad to use it like a giant. She told him that lightning rives the oak, and spares the myrtle. She bade him look for fault in his own breast, and if he found one, to refrain from making it an argument against her brother's life. Angelo found a fault in his breast at that moment. He loved Isabella's beauty, and was tempted to do for her beauty what he would not do for the love of man. He appeared to relent, for he said, come to me to-morrow, before noon. She had, at any rate, succeeded in prolonging her brother's life for a few hours. In her absence, Angelo's conscience rebuked him for trifling with his judicial duty. When Isabella called on him the second time, he said, your brother cannot live. Isabella was painfully astonished. But all she said was, even so. Heaven keep your honour. But as she turned to go, Angelo felt that his duty and honour were slight in comparison with the loss of her. Give me your love, he said, and Claudio shall be freed. Before I would marry you, he should die if he had twenty heads to lay upon the block, said Isabella, for she saw then that he was not the just man he pretended to be. So she went to her brother in prison to inform him that he must die. At first he was boastful, impromised to hug the darkness of death. But when he clearly understood that his sister could buy his life by marrying Angelo, he felt his life more valuable than her happiness. And he exclaimed, sweet sister, let me live. Oh, faithless coward, oh dishonest wretch, she cried. At this moment the Duke came forward in the habit of a friar to request some speech with Isabella. He called himself Friar Lotowick. The Duke then told her that Angelo was affianced to Mariana, whose love story he related. He then asked her to consider this plan. Let Mariana, in the dress of Isabella, go closely veiled to Angelo and say, in a voice resembling Isabella's, that if Claudio were spared she would marry him. Let her take the ring from Angelo's little finger, that it might be afterwards proved that his visitor was Mariana. Isabella had, of course, a great respect for Friars, who are as nearly like nuns as men can be. She agreed, therefore, to the Duke's plan. They were to meet again at the moted Grange, Mariana's house. In the street the Duke saw Lucio, who, seeing a man dressed like a friar, called out, What news of the Duke, Friar? I have none, said the Duke. Lucio then told the Duke some stories about Angelo. Then he told no one about the Duke. The Duke contradicted him. Lucio was provoked and called the Duke a shallow, ignorant fool, though he pretended to love him. The Duke shall know you better if I live to report you, said the Duke grimly. Then he asked Escalus, whom he saw in the street, what he thought of his Ducal master. Escalus, who imagined he was speaking to a friar, replied, The Duke is a very temperate gentleman who prefers to see another Mary, to being Mary himself. The Duke then proceeded to call on Mariana. Isabella arrived immediately afterwards, and the Duke introduced the two girls to one another, both of whom thought he was a friar. They went into a chamber apart from him to discuss the saving of Claudio, and, while they talked in low and earnest tones, the Duke looked out of the window and saw the broken sheds and flower beds, black with moss, which betrayed Mariana's indifference to her country dwelling. Some women would have beautified their garden, not she. She was for the town. She neglected the joys of the country. He was sure that Angelo would not make her unhappier. We are agreed, Father, said Isabella, as she returned with Mariana. So Angelo was deceived by the girl whom he had dismissed from his love, and put on her finger a ring he wore, in which was set a milky stone which flashed in the light with secret colors. Hearing of her success, the Duke went, next day, to the prison, prepared to learn that an order had arrived for Claudio's release. It had not, however, but a letter was handed to the provost while he waited. His amazement was great when the provost read aloud these words. Whatever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock. Let me have his head sent me by five. But the Duke said to the provost, you must show the deputy another head, and he held out a letter and a signet. Here, he said, are the hand and seal of the Duke. He is to return, I tell you, and Angelo knows it not. Give Angelo another head. The provost thought, this friar speaks with power. I know the Duke's signet, and I know his hand. He said at length, a man died in prison this morning, a pirate of the age of Claudio, with a beard of his color. I will show his head. The pirate's head was duly shown to Angelo, who was deceived by its resemblance to Claudio's. The Duke's return was so popular that the citizens removed the city gates from their hinges to assist his entry into Vienna. Angelo and Escalus duly presented themselves, and were profusely praised for their conduct of affairs in the Duke's absence. It was, therefore, the more unpleasant for Angelo when Isabella, passionately angered by his treachery, knelt before the Duke and cried for justice. When her story was told, the Duke cried to prison with her for a slanderer of our right hand, but stay, who persuaded you to come here? Friar Lodowick, said she. Who knows him? inquired the Duke. I do, my lord, replied Lucille. I beat him because he spoke against your grace. A friar called Peter here said, Friar Lodowick is a holy man. Isabella was removed by an officer, and Mariana came forward. She took off her veil and said to Angelo, This is the face you once swore was worth looking on. Bravely he faced her as she put out her hand and said, This is the hand, which wears the ring you thought to give another. I know the woman, said Angelo, once there was talk of marriage between us, but I found her frivolous. Mariana here burst out that they were afianced by the strongest vows. Angelo replied by asking the Duke to insist on the production of Friar Lodowick. He shall appear, promised the Duke, and Bade Escalus examined the missing witness thoroughly while he was elsewhere. Presently the Duke reappeared in the character of Friar Lodowick, and accompanied by Isabella and the provost. He was not so much examined as abused and threatened by Escalus. Luccio asked him to deny, if he dared, that he called the Duke a fool and a coward, and had had his nose pulled for his impudence. To prison with him, shouted Escalus, but as hands were laid upon him, the Duke pulled off his Friar's hood, and was a Duke before them all. Now, he said to Angelo, if you have any impudence that can yet serve you, work it for all its worth. Immediate sentence and death is all I beg, was the reply. Were you afianced to Mariana, asked the Duke? I was, said Angelo. Then marry her instantly, said his master. Marry them, he said to Friar Peter, and return with them here. Come hither, Isabella, said the Duke in tender tones. Your Friar is now your prince, and grieves he was too late to save your brother. But, well, the roguish Duke knew he had saved him. Oh, pardon me, she cried, that I employed my sovereign in my trouble. You are pardoned, he said gaily. At that moment Angelo and his wife re-entered. And now Angelo, said the Duke gravely, we condemn thee to the block on which Claudio laid his head. Oh, my most gracious lord, cried Mariana, mock me not. You shall buy a better husband, said the Duke. Oh, my dear lord, said she. I craved no better man. Isabella nobly added her prayer to Mariana's. But the Duke feigned inflexibility. Provost, he said, how came it that Claudio was executed at an unusual hour? Afraid to confess the lie he had imposed upon Angelo, the provost said, I had a private message. You are discharged from your office, said the Duke. The provost then departed. Angelo said, I am sorry to have caused such sorrow. I prefer death to mercy. Soon there was a motion in the crowd. The provost reappeared with Claudio. Like a big child, the provost said, I saved this man. He is like Claudio. The Duke was amused and said to Isabella, I pardon him because he is like your brother. He is like my brother, too. If you, dear Isabelle, will be mine. She was his with a smile, and the Duke forgave Angelo and promoted the provost. Lucio, he condemned to marry a stout woman with a bitter tongue. End of Section 18. Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Fall 2007. Two gentlemen of Verona. Of beautiful stories from Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Beautiful stories from Shakespeare by Edith Nespit. Two gentlemen of Verona. Only one of them was really a gentleman, as you will discover later. Their names were Valentine and Proteus. They were friends and lived at Verona, a town in northern Italy. Valentine was happy in his name because it was that of the patron saint of lovers. It is hard for a Valentine to be fickle or mean. Proteus was unhappy in his name because it was that of a famous shape-changer, and therefore it encouraged him to be a lover at one time and a traitor at another. One day Valentine told his friend that he was going to Milan. I am not in love like you, said he, and therefore I don't wish to stay at home. Proteus was in love with a beautiful yellow-haired girl called Julia, who was rich and had no one to order her about. He was, however, sorry to part from Valentine, and he said, If ever you are in danger, tell me, and I will pray for you. Valentine then went to Milan with a servant called Speed, and at Milan he fell in love with the Duke of Milan's daughter, Sylvia. When Proteus and Valentine parted, Julia had not acknowledged that she loved Proteus. Indeed, she had actually torn up one of his letters in the presence of her maid, Lucetta. Lucetta, however, was no simpleton, for when she saw the pieces she set herself, all she wants is to be annoyed by another letter. Indeed, no sooner had Lucetta left her alone than Julia repented of her tearing and placed between her dress and her heart the torn piece of paper on which Proteus had signed his name. So by tearing a letter written by Proteus she discovered that she loved him. Then, like a brave sweet girl, she wrote to Proteus, Be patient, and you shall marry me. Delighted with these words, Proteus walked about flourishing Julia's letter and talking to himself. What have you got there? asked his father, Antonio. A letter from Valentine, fibbed Proteus. Let me read it, said Antonio. There is no news, said deceitful Proteus. He only says that he is very happy, and the Duke of Milan is kind to him, and that he wishes I were with him. This fib had the effect of making Antonio think that his son should go to Milan and enjoy the favors in which Valentine basked. You must go to-morrow, he decreed. Proteus was dismayed. Give me time to get my outfit ready. He was met with a promise. What you need shall be sent after you. It grieved Julia to part from her lover before their engagement was two days old. She gave him a ring and said, Keep this for my sake. And he gave her a ring, and they kissed like two who intend to be true till death. Then Proteus departed for Milan. Meanwhile Valentine was amusing Sylvia, whose gray eyes laughing at him under auburn hair had drowned him in love. One day she told him that she wanted to write a pretty letter to a gentleman whom she thought well of, but had no time. Would he write it? Very much did Valentine dislike writing that letter, but he did write it and gave it to her coldly. Take it back, she said. You did it unwillingly. Madame, he said, it was difficult to write such a letter for you. Take it back, she commanded. You did not write tenderly enough. Valentine was left with a letter and condemned to write another. But his servant's speech saw that, in effect, the Lady Sylvia had allowed Valentine to write for her a love letter to Valentine's own self. The joke, he said, is as invisible as a weather cock on a steeple. He meant that it was very plain, and he went on to say exactly what it was. If Master will write her love letters, he must answer them. On the arrival of Proteus he was introduced by Valentine to Sylvia, and afterwards when they were alone, Valentine asked Proteus how his love for Julia was prospering. Why, said Proteus, you used to get wearied when I spoke of her? I confessed Valentine, but it's different now. I can eat and drink all day with nothing but love on my plate and love in my cup. You idolize Sylvia, said Proteus. She is divine, said Valentine. Come, come, remonstrated Proteus. Well, if she's not divine, said Valentine, she is the queen of all women on earth. Except Julia, said Proteus. Dear boy, said Valentine, Julia is not exempted, but I will grant that she alone is worthy to bear my lady's train. You're bragging astounds me, said Proteus. But he had seen Sylvia, and he felt suddenly that the yellow hair Julia was black in comparison. He became in thought a villain without delay, and said to himself what he had never said before. I, to myself, am dearer than my friend. It would have been convenient for Valentine if Proteus had changed by the power of the God whose name he bore, the shape of his body at the evil moment when he despised Julia in admiring Sylvia. But his body did not change, his smile was still affectionate, and Valentine confided to him the great secret that Sylvia had now promised to run away with him. In the pocket of this cloak, said Valentine, I have a silken rope ladder with hooks which will clasp the window-bar of her room. Proteus knew the reason why Sylvia and her lover were bent on flight. The Duke intended her to wed Sir Thurio, a gentle manly noodle for whom she did not carry straw. Proteus thought that if he could get rid of Valentine he might make Sylvia fond of him, especially if the Duke insisted on her enduring Sir Thurio's tiresome chatter. He therefore went to the Duke and said, Doot he before friendship? It gives me to thwart my friend Valentine, but your grace should know that he intends tonight to elope with your grace's daughter. He begged the Duke not to tell Valentine, the giver of this information, and the Duke assured him that his name would not be divulged. Early that evening the Duke summoned Valentine who came to him wearing a large cloak with a bulging pocket. You know, said the Duke, my desire to marry my daughter to Sir Thurio. I do, replied Valentine. He is virtuous and generous as befits a man so honored in your grace's thoughts. Nevertheless she dislikes him, said the Duke. She is peevish, proud, disobedient girl, and I should be sorry to leave her a penny. I intend therefore to marry again. Valentine bowed. I hardly know how the young people of today make love. Continue the Duke, and I thought that you would be just the man to teach me how to win the lady of my choice. Jewels have been known to plead rather well, said Valentine. I have tried them, said the Duke. The habit of liking the giver may grow if your grace gives her some more. The chief difficulty, pursued the Duke, is this. The lady is promised to a young gentleman, and it is hard to have a word with her. She is, in fact, locked up. Then your grace should propose an elopement, said Valentine. Try a rope ladder. But how should I carry it? asked the Duke. A rope ladder is light, said Valentine. You can carry it in a cloak. Like yours? Yes, your grace. Then yours will do, kindly lend it to me. Valentine had tucked himself into a trap. He could not refuse to lend his cloak, and when the Duke had donned it, his grace drew from the pocket a sealed missive address to Sylvia. He coolly opened it and read these words, Sylvia, you shall be free tonight. Indeed, he said, and here's the rope ladder. Pridely contrived, but not perfectly. I give you, sir, a day to leave my dominions. If you are in Milan by this time, tomorrow you die. Poor Valentine was saddened to the core. Unless I look on Sylvia in the day, he said, there is no day for me to look upon. Before he went he took for well of Proteus, who proved a hypocrite of the first order. Hope is a lover staff, said Valentine's betrayer. Walk hence with that. After living Milan, Valentine and his servant wandered into a forest near Mantua where the great poet Virgil lived. In the forest, however, the poets, if any, were Brigands, who bade the travellers stand. They obeyed and Valentine made so good an impression upon his captors that they offered him his life on condition that he became their captain. I accept, said Valentine, provided you release my servant and are not violent to women or the poor. The reply was worthy of Virgil, and Valentine became a Brigand chief. We return now to Julia, who found Verona too dull to live in since Proteus had gone. She begged her maid Lucetta to devise a way by which she could see him. Better wait for him to return, said Lucetta, and she talked so sensibly that Julia saw it was idle to hope that Lucetta would bear the blame of any rash and interesting adventure. Julia therefore said that she intended to go to Milan and dressed like a page. You must cut off your hair, then, said Lucetta, who thought that at this announcement Julia would immediately abandon her scheme. I shall knot it up! was the disappointing rejoinder. Lucetta then tried to make the scheme seem foolish to Julia, but Julia had made up her mind and was not to be put off by ridicule, and when her toilette was completed she looked as calmly a page as one could wish to see. Julia assumed the male name Sebastian and arrived in Milan in time to hear music being performed outside the Duke's palace. They are serenading the Lady Sylvia, said a man to her. Suddenly she heard a voice lifted in song and she knew that voice. It was the voice of Proteus, but what was he singing? Who is Sylvia? What is she, that all our swains commend her? Holy, fair and wise is she, that heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admire to be. Julia tried not to hear the rest, but these two lines somehow thundered into her mind. Then to Sylvia, let us sing, she excels its mortal thing. Then Proteus thought Sylvia excelled Julia, and since he sang so beautifully for all the world to hear, it seemed that he was not only false to Julia, but had forgotten her. Yet Julia still loved him. She even went to him and asked to be his page, and Proteus engaged her. One day he handed to her the ring which she had given him and said, Sebastian, take that to the Lady Sylvia, and say that I should like the picture of her, she promised me. Sylvia had promised the picture, but she disliked Proteus. She was obliged to talk to him, because he was high in the favour of her father, who thought he pleaded with her on behalf of Sothurio. Sylvia had learned from Valentine that Proteus was pledged to a sweetheart in Verona, and when he said tender things to her, she felt that he was disloyal in friendship as well as love. Julia bore the ring to Sylvia, but Sylvia said, I will not wrong the woman who gave it to him by wearing it. She thanks you, said Julia. You know her, then, said Sylvia, and Julia spoke so tenderly of herself that Sylvia wished that Sebastian would marry Julia. Sylvia gave Julia her portrait for Proteus, who would have received it the worse for extra touches, on the nose and eyes if Julia had not made up her mind that she was as pretty as Sylvia. Soon there was an uproar in the palace. Sylvia had fled. The Duke was certain that her intention was to join the exiled Valentine, and he was not wrong. Without delay he started in pursuit with Sothurio, Proteus and some servants. The members of the pursuing party got separated, and Proteus and Julia, in her page's address, were by themselves when they saw Sylvia, who had been taken prisoner by outlaws and was now being led to their captain. Proteus rescued her and then said, I have saved you from death. Give me one kind look. Oh, misery to be helped by you, cried Sylvia. I would rather be a lion's breakfast. Julia was silent but cheerful. Proteus was so much annoyed with Sylvia that he threatened her and seized her by the waist. Oh, heaven! cried Sylvia. At that instant there was a noise of crackling branches. Valentine came crashing through the Mantuan forest to the rescue of his beloved. Julia feared he would slay Proteus and hurried to help her false lover, but he struck no blow. He only said, Proteus, I am sorry. I must never trust you more. There at Proteus felt his guilt and fell on his knees, saying, forgive me. I grieve. I suffer. Then you are my friend once more, said the generous Valentine. If Sylvia that is lost to me will look on you with favour, I promise that I will stand aside and bless you both. These words were terrible to Julia and she swooned. Valentine revived her and said, What was the matter, boy? I remembered, fibbed Julia, that I was charged to give a ring to the lady Sylvia and that I did not. Well, give it to me, said Proteus. She handed him a ring, but it was the ring that Proteus gave to Julia before he left Verona. Proteus looked at her hand and crimsoned to the roots of his hair. I changed my shape when you changed your mind, said she. But I love you again, said he. Just then outlaws entered, bringing two prizes, the Duke and Sir Thurio. Forbear, cried Valentine sternly. The Duke is sacred. Sir Thurio exclaimed, There, Sylvia, she's mine. Touch her and you die, said Valentine. I should be a fool to risk anything for her, said Sir Thurio. Then you are base, said the Duke. Valentine, you are a brave man. Your banishment is over. I recall you. You may marry Sylvia. You deserve her. I thank your grace, said Valentine, deeply moved, and yet must ask you one more boon. I granted, said the Duke. Pardon these men your grace and give them employment. They are better than their calling. I pardon them and you, said the Duke. Their work henceforth shall be for wages. What think you of this page, your grace? asked Valentine, indicating Julia. The Duke glanced at her and said, I think the boy has grace in him. More grace than boy, say I, laughed Valentine, and the only punishment, which Proteus had to bear for his treacheries against love and friendship, was the recital in his presence of the adventures of Julia Sebastian Averona. End of two gentlemen of Averona. All's well that ends well. Of beautiful stories from Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gem of Life. Beautiful stories from Shakespeare by Edith Mesbit. All's well that ends well. In the year 1300 and something, the countess of Rosalind was unhappy in her palace near the Pyrenees. She had lost her husband and the King of France had summoned her son Bertram to Paris, hundreds of miles away. Bertram was a pretty youth with curling hair, finally arched eyebrows and eyes as keen as a hawk's. He was as proud as ignorance could make him and would lie with a face like truth itself to gain a selfish end. But a pretty youth is a pretty youth, and Helena was in love with him. Helena was the daughter of a great doctor who had died in the service of the count of Rosalind. Her sole fortune consisted in a few of her father's prescriptions. When Bertram had gone, Helena's war-long look was noticed by the countess, who told her that she was exactly the same as her own child. Tears then gathered in Helena's eyes, for she felt that the countess made Bertram seem like a brother whom she could never marry. The countess guessed a secret forthwith, and Helena confessed that Bertram was to her as the son is to the day. She hoped, however, to win this son by earning the gratitude of the King of France, who suffered from a lingering illness which made him lame. The great doctor's attached to the court, disbared of curing him. But Helena had confidence in a prescription which her father had used with success. Taking an affectionate leave of the countess, she went to Paris and was allowed to see the King. He was very polite, but it was plain he thought her a quack. It would not become me, he said, to apply to a simple maiden for the relief which all the learned doctors cannot give me. Heaven uses weak instruments, sometimes, said Helena, and she declared that she would forfeit her life if she failed to make him well. And if you succeed, questioned the King. Then I will ask your Majesty to give me for a husband the man whom I choose, so earnest a young lady could not be resisted forever by a suffering King. Helena therefore became the King's doctor, and in two days the royal gripple could skip. He summoned Escortiers and they made a glittering throng in the throne room of his palace. Well might the country girl have been dazzled, and seen a dozen husbands worth dreaming of among the handsome young noblemen before her. But her eyes only wandered until they found Bertram. Then she went up to him and said, I dare not say I take you, but I am yours. Raising her voice at the King, my dear, she added, this is the man. Bertram said the King, take her. She is your wife. My wife, my liege, said Bertram. I beg your Majesty to permit me to choose a wife. Do you know Bertram what she has done for your King? asked the monarch. Who had treated Bertram like a son? Yes, your Majesty replied Bertram, but why should I marry a girl who owes her breeding to my father's charity? You disdain her for lacking a title? But I can give her a title, said the King, and as he looked at the sulky youth, a thought came to him and he added, strange, that you think so much of blood when you could not distinguish your own from a beggar's if you saw them mixed together in a bowl. I cannot love her, asserted Bertram, and elven as I gently. Urge him not, your Majesty. I am glad to have cured my King for my country's sake. My honour requires the scornful boy's obedience, said the King. Bertram, make up your mind to this. You marry this lady, of whom you are so unworthy, or you learn how a King can aid. Your answer? Bertram bowed low and said, Your Majesty has ennobled the lady by your interest in her. I submit. Take her by the hands of the King and tell her she is yours. Bertram obeyed, and with little delay he was married to Eleanor. Fear of the King, however, could not make him a lover. Ridicule helped to sour him. A base soldier named Barrels told him to his face that now he had a kicky-wicky. His business was not to fight, but to stay at home. Kicky-wicky was only a silly epithet for a wife, but it made Bertram feel he could not bear having a wife and that he must go to the war in Italy, though the King had forbidden him. Eleanor he ordered to take leave of the King and returned to Rousalon, giving her letters for his mother and herself. He then rode off. Bidding her a cold goodbye, she opened the letter addressed to herself and read, When you can get the ring from my finger, you can call me husband. But against that, when I write, never dry-eyed at Eleanor Bean, when she entered the King's presence and said farewell. But he was uneasy on her account and gave her a ring from his own finger, saying, If you send this to me, I shall know you are in trouble and help you. She did not show Bertram's letter to his wife. It would have made him wish to kill the true account. But she went back to Rousalon and handed her mother-in-law the second letter. It was short and bitter. I have run away, it said. If the world be broad enough, I will be always far away from her. Cheer up, said the noble widow to the deserted wife. I wash his name out of my blood, and you alone are my child. The Dowager Countess, however, was still mother enough to Bertram to lay the blame of his conduct on Perils, whom he called a very tainted fellow. Helena did not stay long at Rousalon. She clad herself as a pilgrim, and leaving a letter for her mother-in-law, secretly set out for Florence. On entering that city, she inquired of a woman the way to the pilgrim's house of rest, but the woman begged the holy pilgrim to lodge with her. Helena found that her hostess was a widow, who had a beautiful daughter named Diana. When Diana heard that Helena came from France, she said, A countryman of yours, Count Rousalon, has done worthy service for Florence. But after a time, Diana had something to tell, which was not at all worthy of Helena's husband. Bertram was making love to Diana. He did not hide the fact that he was married, but Diana heard from Perils that his wife was not worth caring for. The widow was anxious for Diana's sake, and Helena decided to inform her that she was the Countess Rousalon. He keeps asking Diana for a lock of her hair, said the widow. Helena smiled mournfully. For her hair was as fine as Diana's and of the same color. Then an idea struck her, and she said, Take this purse of gold for yourself. I will give Diana three thousand crowns if she will help me to carry out this plan. Let her promise to give a lock of her hair to my husband, if he will give her the ring which he wears on his finger. It is an ancestral ring. Five counts of Rousalon have worn it, yet he will yield it up for a lock of your daughter's hair. Let your daughter insist that he shall cut the lock of hair from her in a dark room and a green advance, that she shall not speak a single word. The widow listened attentively with the purse of gold in her lap. She said at last, I consent, if Diana is willing. Diana was willing. Hence strange to say the prospect of cutting off a lock of hair from a silent girl in a dark room was so pleasing to Bertram that he handed Diana his ring and was told when to follow her into the dark room. At the time appointed he came with a sharp knife and felt a sweet face touch his as he cut off the lock of hair, and he left the room satisfied, like a man who is filled with renown, and on his finger was a ring which the girl in the dark room had given him. The war was nearly over, but one of its concluding chapters taught Bertram that the soldier who had been impudent enough to call Helena his kicky-wicky was far less courageous than a wife. Paroles was such a boaster, and so fond of trimmings to his clothes, that the French officers played him a trick to discover what he was made of. He had lost his drum, and had said that he would regain it unless he was killed in the attempt. His attempt was a very poor one, and he was inventing the story of a heroic failure when he was surrounded and disarmed. Pochette Arthurosa, said the French lord. What horrible lingo is this, thought Paroles, who had been blindfolded. He's calling for the tortures, said the Frenchman, affecting to act as interpreter. What will you say without him? As much replied Paroles, as I could possibly say if you pinched me like a pastry. He was as good as his word. He told them how many there were in each regiment of the Florentine army, and he refreshed them with spicy anecdotes of the officers commanding it. Bertram was present, and heard a letter read, in which Paroles told Diana that he was a fool. This is your devoted friend, said a French lord. He is a cat, do me now, said Bertram, who detested our arthrogpets. Paroles was finally let go, but henceforth he felt like a sneak, and was not addicted to boasting. We now return to France, with Helena, who had spread a report of her death, which was conveyed to the Dowager Countess at Rosalind by Le Fou. A lord who wished to marry his daughter Magdalene to Bertram. The king mourned for Helena, but he approved of the marriage proposed for Bertram, and made a visit to Rosalind in order to see it accomplished. His great offence is dead, he said. Let Bertram approach me. Ben Bertram, scarred in the cheek, knelt before his sovereign, and said that if he had not loved Le Fou's daughter before he married Helena, he would have prized his wife, whom he now loved when it was too late. Loved that is later fenced, the great sender, said the king. Forget sweet Helena, and give a ring to Magdalene. Bertram immediately gave a ring to Le Fou, who said indignantly, It's Helena's. It's not, said Bertram. Hereupon the king asked to look at the ring, and said, This is the ring I gave to Helena, and bid her send me if ever she needed help. So you had the cunning to get from her what could help her most. Bertram denied again that the ring was Helena's, but even his mother said it was. You lie, exclaimed the king, seize him, gods, but even while they were seizing him, Bertram wondered how the ring, which he thought Diana had given him, came to be so like Helena's. A gentleman now entered, craving for mission to deliver a petition to the king. It was a petition signed, Diana, cabalette, and it begged that the king would order Bertram to marry her, whom he had deserted after winning her love. I'd sooner buy a son-in-law at a fair than take Bertram now, said Le Fou. Admit the petitioner, said the king. Bertram found himself confronted by Diana and her mother. He denied that Diana had any claim on him, and spoke of her, as though her life was spent in the gutter. But she asked him what sort of gentle woman it was to whom he gave, as to her he gave, the ring of his ancestors now missing from his finger. Bertram was ready to sink into the earth, but fate had one crowning generosity reserved for him. Helena entered. Do I see reality? asked the king. Oh, pardon, pardon! cried Bertram. She held up his ancestral ring. Now that I have this, said she. Will you love me, Bertram? To the end of my life cried he. My eyes smell onion, said Le Fou. Tears for Helena were twinkling in them. The king praised Diana when he was fully informed by that not very shy young lady of the meaning of her conduct. For Helena's sake, she had wished to expose Bertram's meanness, not only to the king, but to himself. His bride was now in shreds, and it is believed that he made a husband of some sort, after all. End of all's well that ends well. Recording by Gemma Blythe. End of beautiful stories from Shakespeare by Edith Nesbitt.