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The Shakespeare Story-Book
Rosalind and Celia
When the rightful Duke was sent into banishment, Frederick, the usurping Duke, allowed his daughter Rosalind to stay on at Court, to be a companion to his own young daughter Celia. The cousins had been brought up together from their cradles, and were so devoted to each other that if Rosalind had been sent into banishment Celia would either have followed her or died of grief at the separation. Celia strove by all the means in her power to cheer her cousin’s sorrow for the loss of her father, and assured her that when Duke Frederick died she would never consent to be his heir, but would immediately restore to Rosalind all that he had wrongfully taken away.
Rosalind’s own nature was too bright and happy to waste time in useless repining, and her deep affection for her cousin made her respond very willingly to Celia’s loving attempts at consolation. The girls’ gay wit and merry chatter never failed, and their leisure moments found additional food for entertainment in the whimsical utterances of the Court fool, or jester, Touchstone. Under his apparent nonsense often lay hidden much quaint philosophy, and Touchstone found his fool’s motley a convenient cloak for levelling many a sharp-edged shaft of truth at his hearers.
On the day appointed for the wrestling match, Rosalind and Celia were among the spectators. Charles had already shown his prowess by speedily overthrowing one after the other three goodly young men. Now they all lay on the ground with broken ribs, and their poor old father made such a doleful lament over his three sons that all the beholders took his part and wept in sympathy.
When Orlando appeared as the next champion, there was a general feeling of dismay and compassion. What chance had this slender lad against the doughty Charles? Duke Frederick, in pity for his youth, would fain have dissuaded him, but he would not be entreated. Rosalind and Celia then tried, but even they were not more successful. Orlando thanked them courteously, but refused to give up the attempt. Since their entreaties were of no avail, the only thing the ladies could do was to bestow on him their best wishes, and this they did most heartily.
The result was a surprise to all. Orlando was the victor, and this time it was the redoubtable Charles who was carried senseless from the field.
Duke Frederick was interested enough in the young wrestler to inquire who he was, but was far from pleased to learn he was a son of Sir Rowland de Boys. Sir Rowland was an honourable gentleman, but he had been no friend to the usurping Duke. Rosalind’s father, on the contrary, had loved Sir Rowland dearly, and by the rest of the world he had been equally esteemed. Celia was hurt by her father’s churlish remarks to Orlando, and tried to make up for them by some kind and gracious words. Rosalind, equally moved, took a chain from her neck and gave it to the young victor.
“Gentleman, wear this for me, one out of suit with fortune, who could give more but that her hand lacks means.”
Orlando would fain have expressed his thanks, but some strange feeling held him speechless. He had overcome the mighty Charles, but he could not master this stronger champion. He was still musing over what had passed, when one of the lords-in-waiting, Le Beau, came to him, and counselled him in friendship to leave the place at once. Duke Frederick had taken a prejudice against him, and was likely to resent everything he did.
“I thank you,” said Orlando. “Pray tell me one thing – which of those two ladies was daughter of the Duke who was here at the wrestling?”
Le Beau answered that it was the smaller of the two ladies. The other was the daughter of the banished Duke, detained by her usurping uncle to keep his own daughter company.
“But I can tell you,” continued Le Beau, “that lately this Duke Frederick has taken a violent displeasure against his gentle niece, for no other reason than that the people love her for her virtues, and pity her for her good father’s sake. I am quite sure his malice against the lady will suddenly break forth.”
Then Le Beau took a courteous farewell, and Orlando went his way, lost in a dream, and murmuring “Heavenly Rosalind!”
For her part, Rosalind had been equally attracted by the gallant young wrestler, and when Celia began to rally her about her pensive looks, she was quite ready to admit the truth.
“In good earnest,” said Celia, “is it possible that you should suddenly take so strong a liking for old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?”
“The Duke, my father, loved his father dearly,” urged Rosalind in self-excuse.
“Does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly?” laughed Celia. “By this sort of reasoning I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly. And yet I do not hate Orlando.”
“No, faith, for my sake do not hate him!” said Rosalind. “Love him because I do.”
The cousins were interrupted by Duke Frederick, who entered hurriedly, his eyes full of anger. What Le Beau foretold had come to pass. The Duke’s displeasure against Rosalind had been growing for some time, for he was jealous at her being so universally beloved, and alarmed for the safety of his own position. Now, in a few curt words, he ordered her to leave the Court, saying that if in ten days’ time she were still found within twenty miles of it, she should be put to death. Rosalind was amazed and indignant, but all appeals were useless. Celia in vain tried to plead for her cousin. Duke Frederick would listen to no reason. He declared that Rosalind was a traitor, subtle enough to steal the affections of the people away from Celia herself, and that once she was gone Celia would shine to far greater advantage. The sentence he pronounced was irrevocable. Rosalind was banished.
“Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege,” said Celia. “I cannot live out of her company.”
“You are a fool!” was the Duke’s contemptuous answer. Then to Rosalind he added: “You, niece, provide yourself; if you stay longer than the time, you die.”
When her father left them, Celia again strove to cheer her cousin. She utterly refused to be parted from her, insisted on sharing her griefs, and declared that, no matter what Rosalind said, she intended to go with her.
“Why, whither, shall we go?” asked Rosalind.
“To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden,” replied Celia.
This was a good suggestion, and in order to avoid the danger of two high-born and beautiful maidens travelling alone, it was further agreed that Celia should stain her face brown, and attire herself in mean apparel, while Rosalind, who was tall of stature, should for better security, disguise herself as a youth, armed with curtle-axe, and with a boar-spear in her hand.
“Let what fear there will, lie hidden in my woman’s heart,” she said gaily, “at least we’ll have a dashing and a martial outside!”
In their new guise Rosalind declared she would take no worse a name than Jove’s own page – Ganymede; while Celia, in reference to her own banished state, thought that Aliena would be a very suitable name for herself.
“Cousin,” said Rosalind, “what if we tried to steal the clownish fool out of your father’s Court? Would he not be a comfort to us in our travels?”
Celia was delighted with the suggestion.
“Touchstone would go with me all over the wide world,” she said. “Leave me alone to manage him. Now let us go and get our money and jewels together, and devise the fittest time and safest way to hide from the pursuit that will be made when my flight is known. Come! We go contentedly – to liberty, and not to banishment!”
In the Forest of Arden
On reaching home after the wrestling match, Orlando was met by the old retainer, Adam, who implored him to fly at once. The fame of his victory had already reached Oliver’s ears, and he was so incensed at the praises lavished on his brother that he was quite resolved to do away with him by some means or other. The faithful old man went on to say he had five hundred crowns, saved during his service with his late master, and he begged Orlando to take this money, and also to let him go with him as his servant. He was old, he said, but still strong and active, and could serve him as well as a younger man.
Orlando was deeply touched by the fidelity and devotion of this old retainer, and willingly agreed to his request, saying that before the money was spent they would doubtless have found some humble means of support. So the outcasts departed: the young man left the home of his father, and the old man the place where he had spent more than sixty years of faithful service.
They started not unhopefully, but matters did not go well with them. Scarcely knowing where to direct their steps, they plunged into the Forest of Arden, and there, in the depths of the greenwood, they lost their way. Worn out with fatigue, almost starving for food, they wandered on, till at last Adam’s strength failed, and he sank to the ground.
“Dear master, I can go no further. Oh, I die for food!” he gasped. “Farewell, kind master!”
With the tenderest words Orlando strove to cheer the poor old man, and, carefully placing him in a more sheltered spot, he dashed off almost desperate in his quest for food.
Not far off in the forest a very different scene was taking place. In the bright days of early summer the days slipped pleasantly past with the banished Duke and his little band of faithful followers. Clad in their foresters’ garb, and living the simple life of outlaws, they hunted, sang, laughed, and feasted under the greenwood tree. The most notable of the band was a certain lord called Jaques, who had been a brilliant and reckless courtier in his early days, but was now a cynic and philosopher, half sad, half satiric, whose moods seemed to vary between biting humour and pensive melancholy. He had a sharp tongue, and took no pains to make himself agreeable, but his quaint moralisings afforded much entertainment to his companions, and especially to the Duke.
On the day when Orlando and Adam were starving in one part of the forest, the Duke and his band were having a merry time in another part. One of the lords, by name Amiens, could sing very pleasingly, and he now led a ditty in praise of their woodland life, while the others joined in the chorus:
“Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
“Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.”
The banquet was spread, and the Duke had taken his place, when Jaques came up, apparently much diverted with something he had just seen.
“A fool! a fool!” he cried. “I met a fool in the forest!”
The cynical lord was amused to find a fellow-philosopher under the motley of a fool, and quoted the mangled scraps of moral wisdom he had let fall, with much enjoyment.
“‘Good-morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘No, sir,’ quoth he, ‘call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’ Then he drew a dial from his pocket, and, looking at it with his dull eyes, said very wisely: ‘It is ten o’clock. Thus we may see how the world wags. An hour ago it was nine o’clock, and in another hour it will be eleven. And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, and so from hour to hour we rot and rot, and thereby hangs a tale.’”
Jaques was greatly diverted at the idea of a fool in motley moralising thus on the time, and declared that henceforth he intended to don a fool’s dress himself, in order that he might have the privilege that fools have, of speaking out his mind freely on all occasions.
“And those that are most hurt with my folly,” he said, “they most must laugh. Dress me in motley, and give me leave to speak my mind, and I will guarantee to cure the world of much evil.”
The Duke would not agree that Jaques’s plan for reforming the world was a good one, and reminded Jaques that he himself was anything but free from faults. Jaques still held to his opinion, and was arguing the matter, when their discussion was interrupted by the startling appearance of a haggard youth with a drawn sword, who demanded food in the most peremptory fashion, and threatened to kill anyone who attempted to eat until his wants were supplied.
“I almost die for food; let me have it!” he cried fiercely.
“Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table,” said the Duke kindly.
When Orlando saw the gentleness of the Duke, and that there was no occasion for such violence on his part, he softened at once, asked their pardon, and explained that he had only put on this stern manner of command because he expected to find everything in the forest rude and savage. He implored them, if ever they had led a gentle, civilised life, and knew what pity was, that they would refrain from eating till he had fetched a poor old man, who was spent with age and hunger. Till he was first satisfied, Orlando said, he would not touch a bit.
The Duke bade Orlando go and fetch Adam, and when they returned he made them sit down and eat before he troubled them with any questions. To give them time to recover, he called for some music, and bade Amiens sing.
“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
“Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.”
While the song was being sung, Orlando was able to tell the Duke, in a low voice, a little of his story, and hearing that he was the son of his dear friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, the Duke gave him a hearty welcome, and carried him off to his own cave to hear the rest of his adventures. Old Adam, too, was made right welcome; and so, for the present, he and his master contentedly stayed on with the outlaws.
The fool whom Jaques had met in the forest was Touchstone. Like Orlando and Adam, the other party of wanderers were very weary before they found a resting-place. Rosalind and Celia, attended by the Court jester, had come in search of Rosalind’s father, but so far they had found no trace of the banished Duke. Celia was tired and Touchstone was cross, but Rosalind did her best to encourage her companions.
“Well, this is the Forest of Arden,” she said cheerfully.
“Ay, now I am in Arden,” grumbled Touchstone. “The more fool I! When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.”
“Ay, be so, good Touchstone,” counselled Rosalind. “Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk.”
The newcomers were two shepherds called Corin and Silvius. The young man, Silvius, soon went away, and then Rosalind appealed to the old shepherd, asking if he could direct them to any place where they could rest themselves and get something to eat.
Corin replied that he would gladly have helped them if he could, but his fortune was very humble; he was only shepherd to another man, and did not own the flocks he looked after. His master was very churlish and inhospitable, and, besides, at this moment his cottage and flocks were on sale, so there was no food at home that he could offer them. However, if they liked to come and rest in the cottage, they were heartily welcome.
Rosalind asked who was going to buy the flock and pasture. Corin replied that it was the young swain who had just left him, and who cared nothing at all about the matter.
“I pray you, if you can do so honestly, buy the cottage, pasture, and flock,” said Rosalind, “and we will give you the money to pay for them.”
“And we will increase your wages,” added Celia. “I like this place, and would willingly spend some time here.”
So Celia and Rosalind, still attended by Touchstone, took up their abode in the shepherd’s cottage; and that was how the cynical lord Jaques happened to meet the fool in the forest.
The Shepherd Youth
Orlando, in his new life, did not forget the lady whom he had seen at the wrestling match, and who had so quickly won his heart. As he had no chance of speaking to Rosalind, the only way in which he could show his love was to carve her name on all the trees, and perpetually to write verses in her praise, which he hung all over the forest.
“Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love,” he would say. “O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books, and I will trace my thoughts in their bark, so that every eye which looks in this forest shall see your praise everywhere.”
Rosalind came across some of these papers, and wondered greatly who the person could be who thus carved and hung her name on all the trees; but Celia, who had also found some of the verses, was able to enlighten her, for she had happened to see the writer. On hearing that it was really Orlando, Rosalind became quite excited, and Celia had no time to answer half the eager questions showered on her before Orlando himself came that way.
Rosalind now for the first time rather regretted her boy’s dress, for, of course, Orlando did not recognise the cousins in their present attire. But, at any rate, in the guise of a saucy youth she determined to have a little fun, and presently a whimsical idea occurred to her nimble brain. Seeing how disconsolate Orlando was, she suggested to him that she should pretend to be really his Rosalind, and that he should address all his affectionate speeches and verses to her exactly in the same way as he would have done to the real person. If he did this, she said, she would soon cure him of his love.
Orlando replied that he did not want to be cured, but, all the same, he was perfectly willing to go every day to the shepherd’s cottage, and talk to this youth as if he were really Rosalind. The plan succeeded admirably.
Since he could not have Rosalind herself, it pleased Orlando to be always talking about her, and he did not notice how much in earnest this half-jesting companionship gradually became.
As time went on, the exiles from Duke Frederick’s court made other acquaintances in the forest. Touchstone had found an object of interest, which served as an excellent butt for displaying his satire. This was a rustic goatherd, called Audrey, a simple, not bad-natured girl, but one of the very stupidest and most ignorant specimens of humanity possible to imagine. Touchstone seemed to be quite fascinated by her extreme silliness, and out of sheer perversity declared he meant to marry her. As for Audrey, she was perfectly unconscious of any ridicule he chose to lavish on her, and followed Touchstone about like a willing little slave.
Rosalind and Celia, also, had come across Jaques, and the latter would willingly have become closer friends with the shepherd youth, but Rosalind’s sunny nature had nothing in sympathy with this cynic.
“They say you are a melancholy fellow,” she said one day, in answer to a suggestion from Jaques that they should become better acquainted.
“I am so; I love it better than laughing,” he replied. “It is good to be sad and say nothing.”
“Why, then, it’s good to be a post,” remarked Rosalind.
There were many different kinds of melancholy, Jaques explained, such as the scholar’s, the musician’s, the courtier’s, the soldier’s, etc.; his, however, was a melancholy of his own, compounded of many different ingredients, but especially due to reflections over his travels.
“Yes, I have gained my experience,” he ended, with mournful satisfaction.
“And your experience makes you sad?” quoth Rosalind. “I would rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad. And to travel for it too!”
But the joyous, free life of the forest was drawing to a close, though much happiness was still in store for those who had wandered there. A day came when Orlando for once failed to keep his tryst. He had left Rosalind, promising to return within an hour, but in his stead there came to the two cousins a stranger bearing a handkerchief stained with blood. Briefly he told his tale. Orlando had been walking through the forest, when he saw a wretched man, ragged and unkempt, sleeping under a tree. Round his neck a green and gilded snake had twined itself, and its head was just poised to strike, when, seeing Orlando, it glided away under a bush. But the peril was not yet over, for under that very bush couched a famished lioness, watching like a cat, to pounce on the sleeping man the moment he should stir. And having seen this, Orlando approached, and found it was his brother – his eldest brother.
Remembering the cruel way in which Oliver had always treated him, his first impulse was to leave him to his fate, but his better nature conquered. Orlando did battle with the lioness, who quickly fell before him.
“And in the noise of the struggle I awakened from my miserable slumber,” said the stranger.
“Are you his brother? Was it you who so often plotted to kill him?” asked Celia.
“It was I, but it is I no longer,” said Oliver.
Orlando’s noble behaviour had completely overcome his malicious nature; all evil thoughts against Orlando were banished, and for the future the two brothers were the best of friends.
Oliver was made welcome by the Duke, and was afterwards talking to Orlando in his own cave, when his brother, calling on the name of Rosalind, suddenly fainted. His arm had been badly torn by the lioness, and had been bleeding all this time. Oliver revived him, bound up the wound, and after a little, Orlando, being brave of heart, begged his brother, stranger as he was, to find his friends at the shepherd’s cottage, and explain to them why he had been unable to keep his promise. He sent the handkerchief dyed in his blood to the shepherd youth whom he had called in sport his Rosalind.
On hearing of the peril through which Orlando had passed, Rosalind was so moved that she almost betrayed herself by fainting. Oliver was somewhat astonished at such weakness on the part of a youth, but Rosalind tried to pretend it was only a counterfeit. Her pale looks, however, showed too plainly that the swoon was no counterfeit, though she persisted in declaring it was, and bade Oliver carry back word to Orlando how well she had pretended to faint.
The sweetness and grace of Celia made so strong an impression on Oliver that he soon fell deeply in love with her, and as she was equally attracted by him, and as he was now quite converted from his former evil nature, it was agreed they should be married without delay. Orlando did all he could to help forward the wedding, though the sight of his brother’s good fortune made him realise only more clearly his own unavailing love for Rosalind.
“They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial,” he said. “But, oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!”
“Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?” asked the real Rosalind.
“I can live no longer by thinking,” said Orlando.
“I will weary you, then, no more with idle talking,” said Rosalind. “Know now that I speak to some purpose. Believe, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three years old, conversed with a magician, deeply skilled in his art. If you love Rosalind as heartily as you appear to do, then, when your brother marries Aliena, you shall marry Rosalind. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven, and it is not impossible to me, if it does not seem inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger.”
“Do you speak in sober earnest?” demanded Orlando, scarcely able to credit what he heard.
“I do, on my life – which I value tenderly, though I am a magician. Therefore put on your best array, invite your friends: for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind if you will.”
The promise, which appeared so amazing to Orlando, was, of course, easily kept, and the following day, when the Duke and all the wedding guests assembled to witness Oliver’s wedding, Rosalind and Celia appeared without their disguise, and in their real attire. The banished Duke found a daughter, and Orlando found his Rosalind.
In the midst of the wedding festivities arrived the second son of Sir Rowland de Boys, bearing the tidings that Duke Frederick had been converted by a religious man, and meant to leave the world and all its pomp. He bequeathed his crown to his banished brother, and restored all their lands to the lords who had been exiled with him.
In the general chorus of pleasure there was only one discordant note. Jaques the cynic – “melancholy Jaques” – refused to join in the harmless mirth. He announced his intention of following Duke Frederick into retirement. He bade the others all follow their different forms of enjoyment, – as for himself, “I am for other than for dancing measures,” he declared.
“Stay, Jaques – stay,” begged the Duke.
“Not to see any pastime,” was the grim response. “If you want anything, I will stay to hear it at your abandoned cave.”
Like King Solomon of old, Jaques had tasted all the pleasures of life, and had delighted in studying his fellow-mortals; but his stores of wit and wisdom brought him no real satisfaction. “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” was all that his worldly philosophy had taught him, and his sharp-eyed cynicism saw only the base and ludicrous side of human nature. So he went his way, rejecting the kindly fellowship that was offered him, and taking a half-exultant pride in his own loneliness and melancholy.
But the Duke ordered the rejoicings to proceed, and the green glades of the Forest of Arden rang with the sound of song and laughter.