Datasets:

pszemraj

/

booksum-short

like 4

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_5_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 3

act 2, scene 3

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-3", "summary": "Lance and Crab enter the stage and Lance makes a big speech to the audience about how he must accompany Proteus to the \"Emperor's\" court in Milan. Lance's entire family is upset that Lance is leaving. His mom's \"weeping,\" his dad's \"wailing,\" his sister's \"crying,\" the maid's \"howling,\" etc. The only member of the family that couldn't care less is Lance's beloved dog, Crab. To demonstrate his dog's indifference, Lance takes off his shoes and then proceeds to use his footwear, a staff , and a hat as props to reenact what went down at his family home when he broke the sad news of his imminent departure. Panthino enters, interrupting Lance's little skit, and orders Lance aboard the ship that's setting sail for Milan. Lance can hardly speak because he's sobbing about his cruel, unloving dog, who isn't even sad to see him go. One dirty joke and some silly banter later, Panthino finally convinces Lance to board the ship to avoid losing his job as Proteus's servant.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE III. Verona. ANTONIO'S house Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO ANTONIO. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? PANTHINO. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. ANTONIO. Why, what of him? PANTHINO. He wond'red that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars, to try their fortune there; Some to discover islands far away; Some to the studious universities. For any, or for all these exercises, He said that Proteus, your son, was meet; And did request me to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age, In having known no travel in his youth. ANTONIO. Nor need'st thou much importune me to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have consider'd well his loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, Not being tried and tutor'd in the world: Experience is by industry achiev'd, And perfected by the swift course of time. Then tell me whither were I best to send him. PANTHINO. I think your lordship is not ignorant How his companion, youthful Valentine, Attends the Emperor in his royal court. ANTONIO. I know it well. PANTHINO. 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither: There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, And be in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. ANTONIO. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advis'd; And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it, The execution of it shall make known: Even with the speediest expedition I will dispatch him to the Emperor's court. PANTHINO. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso With other gentlemen of good esteem Are journeying to salute the Emperor, And to commend their service to his will. ANTONIO. Good company; with them shall Proteus go. Enter PROTEUS And- in good time!- now will we break with him. PROTEUS. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn. O that our fathers would applaud our loves, To seal our happiness with their consents! O heavenly Julia! ANTONIO. How now! What letter are you reading there? PROTEUS. May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine, Deliver'd by a friend that came from him. ANTONIO. Lend me the letter; let me see what news. PROTEUS. There is no news, my lord; but that he writes How happily he lives, how well-belov'd And daily graced by the Emperor; Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. ANTONIO. And how stand you affected to his wish? PROTEUS. As one relying on your lordship's will, And not depending on his friendly wish. ANTONIO. My will is something sorted with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; For what I will, I will, and there an end. I am resolv'd that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus in the Emperor's court; What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. To-morrow be in readiness to go- Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. PROTEUS. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided; Please you, deliberate a day or two. ANTONIO. Look what thou want'st shall be sent after thee. No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go. Come on, Panthino; you shall be employ'd To hasten on his expedition. Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO PROTEUS. Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning, And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd. I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter, Lest he should take exceptions to my love; And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by an by a cloud takes all away! Re-enter PANTHINO PANTHINO. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you; He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. PROTEUS. Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto; And yet a thousand times it answers 'No.' Exeunt

Act 2, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-3

Lance and Crab enter the stage and Lance makes a big speech to the audience about how he must accompany Proteus to the "Emperor's" court in Milan. Lance's entire family is upset that Lance is leaving. His mom's "weeping," his dad's "wailing," his sister's "crying," the maid's "howling," etc. The only member of the family that couldn't care less is Lance's beloved dog, Crab. To demonstrate his dog's indifference, Lance takes off his shoes and then proceeds to use his footwear, a staff , and a hat as props to reenact what went down at his family home when he broke the sad news of his imminent departure. Panthino enters, interrupting Lance's little skit, and orders Lance aboard the ship that's setting sail for Milan. Lance can hardly speak because he's sobbing about his cruel, unloving dog, who isn't even sad to see him go. One dirty joke and some silly banter later, Panthino finally convinces Lance to board the ship to avoid losing his job as Proteus's servant.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_7_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 5

act 2, scene 5

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-5", "summary": "The two servants, Speed and Lance appear on stage with Lance's dog, Crab. Speed invites Lance to an alehouse and then asks how things went when Proteus said goodbye to Julia. Lance says things went fine. Speed wants to know if they're going to get married. As the dialogue continues, Speed can't get a straight answer from Lance, who delivers a series of lines that are loaded with silly puns and dirty jokes. Lance announces that if Speed won't go to the alehouse with him, then Speed is a \"Jew\" and not a Christian. Why? Because a good Christian would never turn down a fellow Christian's invitation to have a drink. We're not sure if this is a jab at Christians for being lushes or at Jews for not going drinking with Christians. Maybe both, though probably the latter, considering the anti-Semitism in The Merchant of Venice.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE V. Milan. A street Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally SPEED. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua. LAUNCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hang'd, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!' SPEED. Come on, you madcap; I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? LAUNCE. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. SPEED. But shall she marry him? LAUNCE. No. SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her? LAUNCE. No, neither. SPEED. What, are they broken? LAUNCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish. SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them? LAUNCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. LAUNCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff understands me. SPEED. What thou say'st? LAUNCE. Ay, and what I do too; look thee, I'll but lean, and my staff understands me. SPEED. It stands under thee, indeed. LAUNCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. SPEED. But tell me true, will't be a match? LAUNCE. Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will. LAUNCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. SPEED. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st thou that my master is become a notable lover? LAUNCE. I never knew him otherwise. SPEED. Than how? LAUNCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me. LAUNCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master. SPEED. I tell thee my master is become a hot lover. LAUNCE. Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. SPEED. Why? LAUNCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? SPEED. At thy service. Exeunt

Act 2, Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-5

The two servants, Speed and Lance appear on stage with Lance's dog, Crab. Speed invites Lance to an alehouse and then asks how things went when Proteus said goodbye to Julia. Lance says things went fine. Speed wants to know if they're going to get married. As the dialogue continues, Speed can't get a straight answer from Lance, who delivers a series of lines that are loaded with silly puns and dirty jokes. Lance announces that if Speed won't go to the alehouse with him, then Speed is a "Jew" and not a Christian. Why? Because a good Christian would never turn down a fellow Christian's invitation to have a drink. We're not sure if this is a jab at Christians for being lushes or at Jews for not going drinking with Christians. Maybe both, though probably the latter, considering the anti-Semitism in The Merchant of Venice.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_8_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 6

act 2, scene 6

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-6", "summary": "Proteus appears alone on stage and delivers a big speech to the audience , which takes up the entire scene. We'll break it down in a second, but the speech boils down to Proteus deciding to do what's best for Proteus. At first, Proteus acknowledges that, if he leaves Julia and wrongs Valentine by loving \"fair Silvia,\" then he's a jerk. But then, he suggests that \"Love\" is the culprit here and love is tempting him to betray his girl and his best pal. Proteus goes on to say, \"At first I did adore a twinkling star,/ But now I worship a celestial sun.\" Translation: Julia is pretty cute, but Silvia is insanely gorgeous. Proteus then rationalizes that the only way he can be true to himself is by betraying Valentine and Julia. Proteus then decides that Valentine will be his \"enemy\" and Julia will be \"dead\" to him. Finally, Proteus resolves to get Valentine in big time trouble with the Duke of Milan. Proteus will tattle to the Duke that Valentine plans to elope with Silvia. The Duke, of course, will be enraged since he's got plans for his daughter to marry Thurio.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE VI. Milan. The DUKE's palace Enter PROTEUS PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; And ev'n that pow'r which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury: Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken; And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths! I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose; If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss: For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend; For love is still most precious in itself; And Silvia- witness heaven, that made her fair!- Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I'll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself Without some treachery us'd to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now presently I'll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight, Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine, For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift. Exit

Act 2, Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-6

Proteus appears alone on stage and delivers a big speech to the audience , which takes up the entire scene. We'll break it down in a second, but the speech boils down to Proteus deciding to do what's best for Proteus. At first, Proteus acknowledges that, if he leaves Julia and wrongs Valentine by loving "fair Silvia," then he's a jerk. But then, he suggests that "Love" is the culprit here and love is tempting him to betray his girl and his best pal. Proteus goes on to say, "At first I did adore a twinkling star,/ But now I worship a celestial sun." Translation: Julia is pretty cute, but Silvia is insanely gorgeous. Proteus then rationalizes that the only way he can be true to himself is by betraying Valentine and Julia. Proteus then decides that Valentine will be his "enemy" and Julia will be "dead" to him. Finally, Proteus resolves to get Valentine in big time trouble with the Duke of Milan. Proteus will tattle to the Duke that Valentine plans to elope with Silvia. The Duke, of course, will be enraged since he's got plans for his daughter to marry Thurio.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_9_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 7

act 2, scene 7

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-7", "summary": "Back in Verona, Julia and Lucetta brainstorm about ways for Julia to travel to Milan without losing her \"honour.\" Lucetta advises Julia to stay home and wait it out - Proteus will be back eventually. Julia's not hearing any of this. She's in love and wants to be with Proteus, pronto. Julia decides to dress up like a boy to \"prevent\" any unwanted encounters with \"lascivious men\" . She'll tie up her hair in fashionable knots to make her appear older and Lucetta will make her a pair of pants. Lucetta advises Julia to also wear a codpiece. Julia worries that travelling alone and cross-dressing will ruin her reputation, but she decides that it's worth it because Proteus is the most faithful and loyal guy in the world. Julia and Lucetta make preparations for the journey.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE VII. Verona. JULIA'S house Enter JULIA and LUCETTA JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long! JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return. JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food? Pity the dearth that I have pined in By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love. Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course. I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil, A blessed soul doth in Elysium. LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along? JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men; Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair. JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots- To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale.' Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta. LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd. LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd. LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. JULIA. Nay, that I will not. LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone. I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal. JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men. JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth; His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him. JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong To bear a hard opinion of his truth; Only deserve my love by loving him. And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently; I am impatient of my tarriance. Exeunt

Act 2, Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-2-scene-7

Back in Verona, Julia and Lucetta brainstorm about ways for Julia to travel to Milan without losing her "honour." Lucetta advises Julia to stay home and wait it out - Proteus will be back eventually. Julia's not hearing any of this. She's in love and wants to be with Proteus, pronto. Julia decides to dress up like a boy to "prevent" any unwanted encounters with "lascivious men" . She'll tie up her hair in fashionable knots to make her appear older and Lucetta will make her a pair of pants. Lucetta advises Julia to also wear a codpiece. Julia worries that travelling alone and cross-dressing will ruin her reputation, but she decides that it's worth it because Proteus is the most faithful and loyal guy in the world. Julia and Lucetta make preparations for the journey.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_12_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-4-scene-1", "summary": "Meanwhile, Valentine and Speed have fled to a forest between Milan and Mantua, where they encounter a group of outlaws. One of the outlaws says \"stick em' up\" and Valentine proceeds to explain that he's got nothing for the roadside robbers to steal. The outlaws are impressed when they hear that Valentine has been banished from Milan. They're even more impressed when Valentine lies about having \"killed a man.\" The outlaws now think of Valentine as a kind of Robin Hood figure and invite him to join their bad boy club. The outlaws take turns bragging about their crimes and then add that Valentine can be head bad boy if he joins up. Um, and that they'll kill him if he refuses. Valentine agrees to join the outlaw club but makes them promise not to hurt any women or defenseless travelers. They agree and set off to live as a band of happy bachelors.", "analysis": ""}

ACT IV. SCENE I. The frontiers of Mantua. A forest Enter certain OUTLAWS FIRST OUTLAW. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. SECOND OUTLAW. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. Enter VALENTINE and SPEED THIRD OUTLAW. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye; If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you. SPEED. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. VALENTINE. My friends- FIRST OUTLAW. That's not so, sir; we are your enemies. SECOND OUTLAW. Peace! we'll hear him. THIRD OUTLAW. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a proper man. VALENTINE. Then know that I have little wealth to lose; A man I am cross'd with adversity; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. SECOND OUTLAW. Whither travel you? VALENTINE. To Verona. FIRST OUTLAW. Whence came you? VALENTINE. From Milan. THIRD OUTLAW. Have you long sojourn'd there? VALENTINE. Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd, If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. FIRST OUTLAW. What, were you banish'd thence? VALENTINE. I was. SECOND OUTLAW. For what offence? VALENTINE. For that which now torments me to rehearse: I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent; But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. FIRST OUTLAW. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. But were you banish'd for so small a fault? VALENTINE. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. SECOND OUTLAW. Have you the tongues? VALENTINE. My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. THIRD OUTLAW. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! FIRST OUTLAW. We'll have him. Sirs, a word. SPEED. Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery. VALENTINE. Peace, villain! SECOND OUTLAW. Tell us this: have you anything to take to? VALENTINE. Nothing but my fortune. THIRD OUTLAW. Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth Thrust from the company of awful men; Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the Duke. SECOND OUTLAW. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart. FIRST OUTLAW. And I for such-like petty crimes as these. But to the purpose- for we cite our faults That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives; And, partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want- SECOND OUTLAW. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. Are you content to be our general- To make a virtue of necessity, And live as we do in this wilderness? THIRD OUTLAW. What say'st thou? Wilt thou be of our consort? Say 'ay' and be the captain of us all. We'll do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. FIRST OUTLAW. But if thou scorn our courtesy thou diest. SECOND OUTLAW. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd. VALENTINE. I take your offer, and will live with you, Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. THIRD OUTLAW. No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us; we'll bring thee to our crews, And show thee all the treasure we have got; Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. Exeunt

Act 4, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-4-scene-1

Meanwhile, Valentine and Speed have fled to a forest between Milan and Mantua, where they encounter a group of outlaws. One of the outlaws says "stick em' up" and Valentine proceeds to explain that he's got nothing for the roadside robbers to steal. The outlaws are impressed when they hear that Valentine has been banished from Milan. They're even more impressed when Valentine lies about having "killed a man." The outlaws now think of Valentine as a kind of Robin Hood figure and invite him to join their bad boy club. The outlaws take turns bragging about their crimes and then add that Valentine can be head bad boy if he joins up. Um, and that they'll kill him if he refuses. Valentine agrees to join the outlaw club but makes them promise not to hurt any women or defenseless travelers. They agree and set off to live as a band of happy bachelors.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_13_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 4.scene 2

act 4, scene 2

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-4-scene-2", "summary": "Proteus stands outside Silvia's window in the moonlight. He tells the audience Silvia has been spurning his advances. She's also been reminding him of his friendship with Valentine and his commitment to Julia. Thurio shows up with a band of musicians and they all serenade Silvia. Julia enters with the Host, who leads her over to Proteus and the musicians. Julia is not happy that Proteus is singing to some other girl. She tells the host she's unhappy with the music because it rings false, but she let's him assume she's talking about the quality of the music or the choice of song--not Proteus's betrayal. Julia also learns from the Host that Proteus is in love with Silvia. And that tomorrow, Proteus is planning to give her Lance's dog, Crab, as a gift. Thurio and the musicians take off. Julia watches Proteus try to seduce Silvia. Silvia tells Proteus to get lost--he's a disloyal snake. Proteus lies and says his girlfriend and Valentine are both dead so there's no reason why they can't be together. Silvia promises to give Proteus a picture of her tomorrow if he'll go away and leave her alone. Julia is devastated. She's also still wearing her disguise. She wakes the Host, who apparently fell asleep, and asks him where Proteus is staying. Uh-oh. Something tells us this isn't going to go well.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. Milan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S window Enter PROTEUS PROTEUS. Already have I been false to Valentine, And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows, She bids me think how I have been forsworn In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd; And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover's hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love The more it grows and fawneth on her still. Enter THURIO and MUSICIANS But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window, And give some evening music to her ear. THURIO. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us? PROTEUS. Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. THURIO. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. PROTEUS. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. THURIO. Who? Silvia? PROTEUS. Ay, Silvia- for your sake. THURIO. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile. Enter at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes HOST. Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly; I pray you, why is it? JULIA. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. HOST. Come, we'll have you merry; I'll bring you where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you ask'd for. JULIA. But shall I hear him speak? HOST. Ay, that you shall. [Music plays] JULIA. That will be music. HOST. Hark, hark! JULIA. Is he among these? HOST. Ay; but peace! let's hear 'em. SONG Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling. 'To her let us garlands bring. HOST. How now, are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? The music likes you not. JULIA. You mistake; the musician likes me not. HOST. Why, my pretty youth? JULIA. He plays false, father. HOST. How, out of tune on the strings? JULIA. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. HOST. You have a quick ear. JULIA. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. HOST. I perceive you delight not in music. JULIA. Not a whit, when it jars so. HOST. Hark, what fine change is in the music! JULIA. Ay, that change is the spite. HOST. You would have them always play but one thing? JULIA. I would always have one play but one thing. But, Host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on, Often resort unto this gentlewoman? HOST. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov'd her out of all nick. JULIA. Where is Launce? HOST. Gone to seek his dog, which to-morrow, by his master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady. JULIA. Peace, stand aside; the company parts. PROTEUS. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead That you shall say my cunning drift excels. THURIO. Where meet we? PROTEUS. At Saint Gregory's well. THURIO. Farewell. Exeunt THURIO and MUSICIANS Enter SILVIA above, at her window PROTEUS. Madam, good ev'n to your ladyship. SILVIA. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake? PROTEUS. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth, You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. SILVIA. Sir Proteus, as I take it. PROTEUS. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. SILVIA. What's your will? PROTEUS. That I may compass yours. SILVIA. You have your wish; my will is even this, That presently you hie you home to bed. Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man, Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows? Return, return, and make thy love amends. For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. PROTEUS. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; But she is dead. JULIA. [Aside] 'Twere false, if I should speak it; For I am sure she is not buried. SILVIA. Say that she be; yet Valentine, thy friend, Survives, to whom, thyself art witness, I am betroth'd; and art thou not asham'd To wrong him with thy importunacy? PROTEUS. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. SILVIA. And so suppose am I; for in his grave Assure thyself my love is buried. PROTEUS. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. SILVIA. Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence; Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. JULIA. [Aside] He heard not that. PROTEUS. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, The picture that is hanging in your chamber; To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep; For, since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; And to your shadow will I make true love. JULIA. [Aside] If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it And make it but a shadow, as I am. SILVIA. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it; And so, good rest. PROTEUS. As wretches have o'ernight That wait for execution in the morn. Exeunt PROTEUS and SILVIA JULIA. Host, will you go? HOST. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. JULIA. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? HOST. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day. JULIA. Not so; but it hath been the longest night That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. Exeunt

Act 4, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-4-scene-2

Proteus stands outside Silvia's window in the moonlight. He tells the audience Silvia has been spurning his advances. She's also been reminding him of his friendship with Valentine and his commitment to Julia. Thurio shows up with a band of musicians and they all serenade Silvia. Julia enters with the Host, who leads her over to Proteus and the musicians. Julia is not happy that Proteus is singing to some other girl. She tells the host she's unhappy with the music because it rings false, but she let's him assume she's talking about the quality of the music or the choice of song--not Proteus's betrayal. Julia also learns from the Host that Proteus is in love with Silvia. And that tomorrow, Proteus is planning to give her Lance's dog, Crab, as a gift. Thurio and the musicians take off. Julia watches Proteus try to seduce Silvia. Silvia tells Proteus to get lost--he's a disloyal snake. Proteus lies and says his girlfriend and Valentine are both dead so there's no reason why they can't be together. Silvia promises to give Proteus a picture of her tomorrow if he'll go away and leave her alone. Julia is devastated. She's also still wearing her disguise. She wakes the Host, who apparently fell asleep, and asks him where Proteus is staying. Uh-oh. Something tells us this isn't going to go well.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_14_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 4.scene 3

act 4, scene 3

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-4-scene-3", "summary": "The next morning, Silvia asks her dear friend, Eglamour, if he'll travel with her to find Valentine. It's too dangerous for Silvia to travel alone. Eglamour knows a thing or two about love and heartbreak so he agrees to help Silvia. They decide to meet up tonight at Friar Patrick's cell .", "analysis": ""}

SCENE III. Under SILVIA'S window Enter EGLAMOUR EGLAMOUR. This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind; There's some great matter she'd employ me in. Madam, madam! Enter SILVIA above, at her window SILVIA. Who calls? EGLAMOUR. Your servant and your friend; One that attends your ladyship's command. SILVIA. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow! EGLAMOUR. As many, worthy lady, to yourself! According to your ladyship's impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. SILVIA. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman- Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not- Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd. Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banish'd Valentine; Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. Thyself hast lov'd; and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died, Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, I do desire thy worthy company, Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady's grief, And on the justice of my flying hence To keep me from a most unholy match, Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues. I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company and go with me; If not, to hide what I have said to thee, That I may venture to depart alone. EGLAMOUR. Madam, I pity much your grievances; Which since I know they virtuously are plac'd, I give consent to go along with you, Recking as little what betideth me As much I wish all good befortune you. When will you go? SILVIA. This evening coming. EGLAMOUR. Where shall I meet you? SILVIA. At Friar Patrick's cell, Where I intend holy confession. EGLAMOUR. I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, gentle lady. SILVIA. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. Exeunt

Act 4, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-4-scene-3

The next morning, Silvia asks her dear friend, Eglamour, if he'll travel with her to find Valentine. It's too dangerous for Silvia to travel alone. Eglamour knows a thing or two about love and heartbreak so he agrees to help Silvia. They decide to meet up tonight at Friar Patrick's cell .

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_16_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-5-scene-1", "summary": "At Friar Patrick's cell, Eglamour patiently waits for Silvia, who has planned to meet him there. Silvia rushes in and says they need to hurry because she's afraid spies have been following her. They run off to the forest between Milan and Mantua.", "analysis": ""}

ACT V. SCENE I. Milan. An abbey Enter EGLAMOUR EGLAMOUR. The sun begins to gild the western sky, And now it is about the very hour That Silvia at Friar Patrick's cell should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours Unless it be to come before their time, So much they spur their expedition. Enter SILVIA See where she comes. Lady, a happy evening! SILVIA. Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey wall; I fear I am attended by some spies. EGLAMOUR. Fear not. The forest is not three leagues off; If we recover that, we are sure enough. Exeunt

Act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-5-scene-1

At Friar Patrick's cell, Eglamour patiently waits for Silvia, who has planned to meet him there. Silvia rushes in and says they need to hurry because she's afraid spies have been following her. They run off to the forest between Milan and Mantua.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_17_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 5.scene 2

act 5, scene 2

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-5-scene-2", "summary": "At the Duke's court in Milan, Thurio asks Proteus to tell him what Silvia thinks of him. Proteus answers him with what sounds like praise, but could be interpreted in less than favorable terms. Which is what Julia, who is standing nearby as Sebastian does. For every compliment Proteus giveThurio, she offers an alternative interpretation. She does it in asides, muttering the insults so that the audience can hear her, but not the characters on stage with her. The Duke storms in and announces that Eglamour and Silvia have run off to find that loser Valentine. Everyone should grab their gear and horses so they can help track down the runaways. Thurio says he'll go along, but more to punish Eglamour than for any love of Silvia. Proteus plans to go for his love of Sylvia, not any anger with Eglamour. And Julia? She's going to mess up Proteus's plans.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. Milan. The DUKE'S palace Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA as SEBASTIAN THURIO. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? PROTEUS. O, sir, I find her milder than she was; And yet she takes exceptions at your person. THURIO. What, that my leg is too long? PROTEUS. No; that it is too little. THURIO. I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder. JULIA. [Aside] But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes. THURIO. What says she to my face? PROTEUS. She says it is a fair one. THURIO. Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black. PROTEUS. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is: Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. JULIA. [Aside] 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes; For I had rather wink than look on them. THURIO. How likes she my discourse? PROTEUS. Ill, when you talk of war. THURIO. But well when I discourse of love and peace? JULIA. [Aside] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. THURIO. What says she to my valour? PROTEUS. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. JULIA. [Aside] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. THURIO. What says she to my birth? PROTEUS. That you are well deriv'd. JULIA. [Aside] True; from a gentleman to a fool. THURIO. Considers she my possessions? PROTEUS. O, ay; and pities them. THURIO. Wherefore? JULIA. [Aside] That such an ass should owe them. PROTEUS. That they are out by lease. JULIA. Here comes the Duke. Enter DUKE DUKE. How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? THURIO. Not I. PROTEUS. Nor I. DUKE. Saw you my daughter? PROTEUS. Neither. DUKE. Why then, She's fled unto that peasant Valentine; And Eglamour is in her company. 'Tis true; for Friar Lawrence met them both As he in penance wander'd through the forest; Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she, But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it; Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not. These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence; Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently, and meet with me Upon the rising of the mountain foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled. Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. Exit THURIO. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl That flies her fortune when it follows her. I'll after, more to be reveng'd on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. Exit PROTEUS. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. Exit JULIA. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. Exit

Act 5, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-5-scene-2

At the Duke's court in Milan, Thurio asks Proteus to tell him what Silvia thinks of him. Proteus answers him with what sounds like praise, but could be interpreted in less than favorable terms. Which is what Julia, who is standing nearby as Sebastian does. For every compliment Proteus giveThurio, she offers an alternative interpretation. She does it in asides, muttering the insults so that the audience can hear her, but not the characters on stage with her. The Duke storms in and announces that Eglamour and Silvia have run off to find that loser Valentine. Everyone should grab their gear and horses so they can help track down the runaways. Thurio says he'll go along, but more to punish Eglamour than for any love of Silvia. Proteus plans to go for his love of Sylvia, not any anger with Eglamour. And Julia? She's going to mess up Proteus's plans.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_18_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 5.scene 3

act 5, scene 3

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-5-scene-3", "summary": "In the forest, the three outlaws have captured Silvia and plan to take her to their leader . The Third Outlaw says something like, \"Don't worry, our leader isn't going to assault you.\" We also learn that when Eglamour saw the outlaws, he hightailed it out of there, leaving Silvia to fend for herself. Silvia rolls her eyes and says she's enduring all of this for Valentine.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE III. The frontiers of Mantua. The forest Enter OUTLAWS with SILVA FIRST OUTLAW. Come, come. Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. SILVIA. A thousand more mischances than this one Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently. SECOND OUTLAW. Come, bring her away. FIRST OUTLAW. Where is the gentleman that was with her? SECOND OUTLAW. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us, But Moyses and Valerius follow him. Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain; we'll follow him that's fled. The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape. FIRST OUTLAW. Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave; Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. SILVIA. O Valentine, this I endure for thee! Exeunt

Act 5, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219163530/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/gentlemen-of-verona/summary/act-5-scene-3

In the forest, the three outlaws have captured Silvia and plan to take her to their leader . The Third Outlaw says something like, "Don't worry, our leader isn't going to assault you." We also learn that when Eglamour saw the outlaws, he hightailed it out of there, leaving Silvia to fend for herself. Silvia rolls her eyes and says she's enduring all of this for Valentine.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_0_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act i.scene i

act i, scene i

{"name": "Act I, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section1/", "summary": "The Two Gentlemen of Verona opens on a street in Verona as Valentine bids an emotional farewell to his dearest friend, Proteus. Valentine explains to Proteus that he must leave Verona for Milan because he believes that young gentlemen remain simple if they do not venture out to see the world. Proteus responds that his passion for Julia keeps him at home in Verona. Valentine chides Proteus for being so consumed with love, and hints that Proteus' devotion to love will ultimately make him a fool. Proteus promises to pray for his friend, and Valentine departs. Proteus muses that Valentine has set out to find honor, and that Valentine honors his friends by becoming more dignified himself. With melancholy in his voice, Proteus notes that he has abandoned his friends, his studies, and his rational thoughts, all for his love of Julia. Proteus' mournful thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of Speed, Valentine's punning page. After a long, silly discussion about whether Speed is a sheep and Valentine a shepherd, Proteus asks Speed if he has delivered Proteus' love letter to Julia. More punning ensues, until Speed finally confesses that while he did indeed deliver the letter, he could discern no particular response from Julia since she simply nodded her head when she received the letter. Speed notes that Julia did not tip him for delivering the letter, from which he infers that Julia will be hard and withholding toward Proteus' as well. Proteus angrily sends Speed after Valentine's ship, worrying himself over Julia's cold reception to his love letter.", "analysis": "Commentary Proteus' musings after Valentine's departure summarize the main issue of The Two Gentlemen of Verona--whether a gentleman should value love or friendship more highly. Valentine, despite the amorous connotations of his name, seems to honor friendship first, whereas Proteus devotes himself to love. This tension between prioritizing either friendship or romantic love persists throughout the play. Many theorists are quick to note the homoerotic tension of Shakespeare's works, and The Two Gentlemen of Verona is certainly subject to such analysis. One can read the emotional farewell of Valentine and Proteus as hinting at a love that exceeds mere friendship; alternatively, one can read their friendship as being so profound as to surpass romantic love, ascending to the level of platonic love so highly-esteemed by the classical Greeks, and by extension, the thinkers of the Renaissance. The opening act of The Two Gentlemen of Verona also introduces the play's chief flaws. Compared to his later comedies, this early work relies on a paltry number of comedic techniques. Rarely do more than two characters speak at a time, rendering the play a sort of endless duet. The structure is relatively uncomplicated, as the play slides into easy dualisms: love versus friendship, Proteus versus Valentine, and later, Julia versus Silvia. Additionally, with the later introduction of Proteus' own servant Launce, it makes little sense for Proteus to rely on Speed to do his bidding. Critics surmise that Launce was a late addition to the cast, and that the unpolished Shakespeare, working on one of his first forays into drama, was not terribly concerned about introducing him logically."}

ACT I. SCENE I. Verona. An open place Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus: Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would, when I to love begin. PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu! Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel. Wish me partaker in thy happiness When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy headsman, Valentine. VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success? PROTEUS. Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee. VALENTINE. That's on some shallow story of deep love: How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. PROTEUS. That's a deep story of a deeper love; For he was more than over shoes in love. VALENTINE. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love, And yet you never swum the Hellespont. PROTEUS. Over the boots! Nay, give me not the boots. VALENTINE. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. PROTEUS. What? VALENTINE. To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights; If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; If lost, why then a grievous labour won; However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished. PROTEUS. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. VALENTINE. So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove. PROTEUS. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love. VALENTINE. Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool, Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise. PROTEUS. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. VALENTINE. And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes. But wherefore waste I time to counsel the That art a votary to fond desire? Once more adieu. My father at the road Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd. PROTEUS. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. VALENTINE. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave. To Milan let me hear from thee by letters Of thy success in love, and what news else Betideth here in absence of thy friend; And I likewise will visit thee with mine. PROTEUS. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan! VALENTINE. As much to you at home; and so farewell! Exit VALENTINE PROTEUS. He after honour hunts, I after love; He leaves his friends to dignify them more: I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphis'd me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought; Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. Enter SPEED SPEED. Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master? PROTEUS. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan. SPEED. Twenty to one then he is shipp'd already, And I have play'd the sheep in losing him. PROTEUS. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be awhile away. SPEED. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and I a sheep? PROTEUS. I do. SPEED. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep. PROTEUS. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. SPEED. This proves me still a sheep. PROTEUS. True; and thy master a shepherd. SPEED. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. PROTEUS. It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another. SPEED. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me; therefore, I am no sheep. PROTEUS. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore, thou art a sheep. SPEED. Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.' PROTEUS. But dost thou hear? Gav'st thou my letter to Julia? SPEED. Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a lac'd mutton; and she, a lac'd mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. PROTEUS. Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons. SPEED. If the ground be overcharg'd, you were best stick her. PROTEUS. Nay, in that you are astray: 'twere best pound you. SPEED. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. PROTEUS. You mistake; I mean the pound- a pinfold. SPEED. From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over, 'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. PROTEUS. But what said she? SPEED. [Nodding] Ay. PROTEUS. Nod- ay. Why, that's 'noddy.' SPEED. You mistook, sir; I say she did nod; and you ask me if she did nod; and I say 'Ay.' PROTEUS. And that set together is 'noddy.' SPEED. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains. PROTEUS. No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter. SPEED. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you. PROTEUS. Why, sir, how do you bear with me? SPEED. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the word 'noddy' for my pains. PROTEUS. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. SPEED. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. PROTEUS. Come, come, open the matter; in brief, what said she? SPEED. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered. PROTEUS. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she? SPEED. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her. PROTEUS. Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her? SPEED. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter; and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she's as hard as steel. PROTEUS. What said she? Nothing? SPEED. No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testern'd me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself; and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master. PROTEUS. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck, Which cannot perish, having thee aboard, Being destin'd to a drier death on shore. Exit SPEED I must go send some better messenger. I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post. Exit

Act I, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section1/

The Two Gentlemen of Verona opens on a street in Verona as Valentine bids an emotional farewell to his dearest friend, Proteus. Valentine explains to Proteus that he must leave Verona for Milan because he believes that young gentlemen remain simple if they do not venture out to see the world. Proteus responds that his passion for Julia keeps him at home in Verona. Valentine chides Proteus for being so consumed with love, and hints that Proteus' devotion to love will ultimately make him a fool. Proteus promises to pray for his friend, and Valentine departs. Proteus muses that Valentine has set out to find honor, and that Valentine honors his friends by becoming more dignified himself. With melancholy in his voice, Proteus notes that he has abandoned his friends, his studies, and his rational thoughts, all for his love of Julia. Proteus' mournful thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of Speed, Valentine's punning page. After a long, silly discussion about whether Speed is a sheep and Valentine a shepherd, Proteus asks Speed if he has delivered Proteus' love letter to Julia. More punning ensues, until Speed finally confesses that while he did indeed deliver the letter, he could discern no particular response from Julia since she simply nodded her head when she received the letter. Speed notes that Julia did not tip him for delivering the letter, from which he infers that Julia will be hard and withholding toward Proteus' as well. Proteus angrily sends Speed after Valentine's ship, worrying himself over Julia's cold reception to his love letter.

Commentary Proteus' musings after Valentine's departure summarize the main issue of The Two Gentlemen of Verona--whether a gentleman should value love or friendship more highly. Valentine, despite the amorous connotations of his name, seems to honor friendship first, whereas Proteus devotes himself to love. This tension between prioritizing either friendship or romantic love persists throughout the play. Many theorists are quick to note the homoerotic tension of Shakespeare's works, and The Two Gentlemen of Verona is certainly subject to such analysis. One can read the emotional farewell of Valentine and Proteus as hinting at a love that exceeds mere friendship; alternatively, one can read their friendship as being so profound as to surpass romantic love, ascending to the level of platonic love so highly-esteemed by the classical Greeks, and by extension, the thinkers of the Renaissance. The opening act of The Two Gentlemen of Verona also introduces the play's chief flaws. Compared to his later comedies, this early work relies on a paltry number of comedic techniques. Rarely do more than two characters speak at a time, rendering the play a sort of endless duet. The structure is relatively uncomplicated, as the play slides into easy dualisms: love versus friendship, Proteus versus Valentine, and later, Julia versus Silvia. Additionally, with the later introduction of Proteus' own servant Launce, it makes little sense for Proteus to rely on Speed to do his bidding. Critics surmise that Launce was a late addition to the cast, and that the unpolished Shakespeare, working on one of his first forays into drama, was not terribly concerned about introducing him logically.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/act_2_chapters_1_to_2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_2_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scenes 1-2

act 2, scenes 1-2

{"name": "Act II, scenes i-ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section3/", "summary": "Speed helps Valentine put on his gloves, only to realize that there is one glove too many. The third glove, we quickly realize, belongs to Silvia, the object of Valentine's affection. Valentine, however, is shocked when Speed refers to Silvia as \"he that your worship loves\" . Valentine interrogates Speed on the source of this knowledge. Speed humorously rattles off a long list of Valentine's lovesick behavior: he adores love songs; sighs; weeps; has no appetite; and crosses his arms discontentedly. Speed says that these love-struck traits are as clear in Valentine as \"water in a urinal\" . Valentine confesses that Silvia has entreated him to write a love letter to an unnamed recipient. Silvia enters, and when Valentine gives her the letter, she coldly replies that it is written in a very scholarly fashion, and insists that he take the letter back. She wished Valentine to write the love letter to her; by misinterpreting her request, he has displeased her. Valentine is disappointed, but Speed chides him for not being overjoyed at receiving a letter from Silvia, even though it is the letter that Valentine originally wrote for Silvia's anonymous \"friend.\" Valentine tries to convince Speed that Silvia is the fairest maid of all, but Speed refuses to be swayed, saying that Valentine's love has blinded his ability to judge rationally. Proteus and Julia bid a tearful goodbye and exchange rings as a pledge of their devotion to one another. Proteus vows that the ring Julia has given him will remind him eternally of her, his true love. Julia departs wordlessly and Panthino arrives to hasten Proteus aboard the ship to Milan.", "analysis": "ii - Commentary Shakespeare was fond of implementing a theatrical aside to establish a miniature play-within-a-play, which served to unite the audience with the actors. Speed's gleeful aside upon Silvia's entrance invites the reader to judge Valentine and his stuffy love letter . The theme of the play-within-a-play recurs throughout Shakespeare's plays, from the foolish Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer Night's Dream to the play in Act III, scene ii of Hamlet, in which Hamlet determines Claudius' guilt by his reaction to the murder on stage. The play-within-a-play illustrates that daily life contains many moments of a dramatic nature. Shakespeare seems to suggest that if one stands back from life with a detached eye, like Speed leaning out into the audience, one comes to see all human interaction as a drama. This forces the reader to consider that the characters in the play may perhaps be mere puppets in a larger plan, whether the plan is divine or Shakespearean . Speed's criticism that love has impeded Valentine's ability to perceive the world rationally introduces an important Shakespearean theme--that of appearances and disguises. Throughout The Two Gentlemen of Verona, characters disguise their appearances and their intentions . The layers of disguise in this comedy are somewhat simple, particularly when compared to Shakespeare's masterful tangle of disguises in Twelfth Night. Yet again, the reader can see The Two Gentlemen of Verona as an incubator for Shakespeare's favorite themes, which he develops more fully and with much greater complexity in his later works. /PARAGRAPH"}

ACT II. SCENE I. Milan. The DUKE'S palace Enter VALENTINE and SPEED SPEED. Sir, your glove. VALENTINE. Not mine: my gloves are on. SPEED. Why, then, this may be yours; for this is but one. VALENTINE. Ha! let me see; ay, give it me, it's mine; Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia! Silvia! SPEED. [Calling] Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! VALENTINE. How now, sirrah? SPEED. She is not within hearing, sir. VALENTINE. Why, sir, who bade you call her? SPEED. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. VALENTINE. Well, you'll still be too forward. SPEED. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. VALENTINE. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know Madam Silvia? SPEED. She that your worship loves? VALENTINE. Why, how know you that I am in love? SPEED. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn'd, like Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walk'd, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you look'd sadly, it was for want of money. And now you are metamorphis'd with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. VALENTINE. Are all these things perceiv'd in me? SPEED. They are all perceiv'd without ye. VALENTINE. Without me? They cannot. SPEED. Without you! Nay, that's certain; for, without you were so simple, none else would; but you are so without these follies that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. VALENTINE. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? SPEED. She that you gaze on so, as she sits at supper? VALENTINE. Hast thou observ'd that? Even she, I mean. SPEED. Why, sir, I know her not. VALENTINE. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know'st her not? SPEED. Is she not hard-favour'd, sir? VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-favour'd. SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough. VALENTINE. What dost thou know? SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favour'd. VALENTINE. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite. SPEED. That's because the one is painted, and the other out of all count. VALENTINE. How painted? and how out of count? SPEED. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. VALENTINE. How esteem'st thou me? I account of her beauty. SPEED. You never saw her since she was deform'd. VALENTINE. How long hath she been deform'd? SPEED. Ever since you lov'd her. VALENTINE. I have lov'd her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful. SPEED. If you love her, you cannot see her. VALENTINE. Why? SPEED. Because Love is blind. O that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungarter'd! VALENTINE. What should I see then? SPEED. Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. VALENTINE. Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. SPEED. True, sir; I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swing'd me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. VALENTINE. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. SPEED. I would you were set, so your affection would cease. VALENTINE. Last night she enjoin'd me to write some lines to one she loves. SPEED. And have you? VALENTINE. I have. SPEED. Are they not lamely writ? VALENTINE. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Enter SILVIA Peace! here she comes. SPEED. [Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her. VALENTINE. Madam and mistress, a thousand good morrows. SPEED. [Aside] O, give ye good ev'n! Here's a million of manners. SILVIA. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. SPEED. [Aside] He should give her interest, and she gives it him. VALENTINE. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in, But for my duty to your ladyship. SILVIA. I thank you, gentle servant. 'Tis very clerkly done. VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully. SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains? VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet- SILVIA. A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel; And yet I will not name it- and yet I care not. And yet take this again- and yet I thank you- Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. SPEED. [Aside] And yet you will; and yet another' yet.' VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it? SILVIA. Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ; But, since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. [Gives hack the letter] VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you. SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request; But I will none of them; they are for you: I would have had them writ more movingly. VALENTINE. Please you, I'll write your ladyship another. SILVIA. And when it's writ, for my sake read it over; And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. VALENTINE. If it please me, madam, what then? SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. And so good morrow, servant. Exit SILVIA SPEED. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple! My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better, That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter? VALENTINE. How now, sir! What are you reasoning with yourself? SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason. VALENTINE. To do what? SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia? VALENTINE. To whom? SPEED. To yourself; why, she woos you by a figure. VALENTINE. What figure? SPEED. By a letter, I should say. VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me. SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? VALENTINE. No, believe me. SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest? VALENTINE. She gave me none except an angry word. SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter. VALENTINE. That's the letter I writ to her friend. SPEED. And that letter hath she deliver'd, and there an end. VALENTINE. I would it were no worse. SPEED. I'll warrant you 'tis as well. 'For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty, Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply; Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.' All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? 'Tis dinner time. VALENTINE. I have din'd. SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourish'd by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved. Exeunt SCENE II. Verona. JULIA'S house Enter PROTEUS and JULIA PROTEUS. Have patience, gentle Julia. JULIA. I must, where is no remedy. PROTEUS. When possibly I can, I will return. JULIA. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. [Giving a ring] PROTEUS. Why, then, we'll make exchange. Here, take you this. JULIA. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. PROTEUS. Here is my hand for my true constancy; And when that hour o'erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love's forgetfulness! My father stays my coming; answer not; The tide is now- nay, not thy tide of tears: That tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewell! Exit JULIA What, gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak; For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. Enter PANTHINO PANTHINO. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for. PROTEUS. Go; I come, I come. Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. Exeunt

Act II, scenes i-ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section3/

Speed helps Valentine put on his gloves, only to realize that there is one glove too many. The third glove, we quickly realize, belongs to Silvia, the object of Valentine's affection. Valentine, however, is shocked when Speed refers to Silvia as "he that your worship loves" . Valentine interrogates Speed on the source of this knowledge. Speed humorously rattles off a long list of Valentine's lovesick behavior: he adores love songs; sighs; weeps; has no appetite; and crosses his arms discontentedly. Speed says that these love-struck traits are as clear in Valentine as "water in a urinal" . Valentine confesses that Silvia has entreated him to write a love letter to an unnamed recipient. Silvia enters, and when Valentine gives her the letter, she coldly replies that it is written in a very scholarly fashion, and insists that he take the letter back. She wished Valentine to write the love letter to her; by misinterpreting her request, he has displeased her. Valentine is disappointed, but Speed chides him for not being overjoyed at receiving a letter from Silvia, even though it is the letter that Valentine originally wrote for Silvia's anonymous "friend." Valentine tries to convince Speed that Silvia is the fairest maid of all, but Speed refuses to be swayed, saying that Valentine's love has blinded his ability to judge rationally. Proteus and Julia bid a tearful goodbye and exchange rings as a pledge of their devotion to one another. Proteus vows that the ring Julia has given him will remind him eternally of her, his true love. Julia departs wordlessly and Panthino arrives to hasten Proteus aboard the ship to Milan.

ii - Commentary Shakespeare was fond of implementing a theatrical aside to establish a miniature play-within-a-play, which served to unite the audience with the actors. Speed's gleeful aside upon Silvia's entrance invites the reader to judge Valentine and his stuffy love letter . The theme of the play-within-a-play recurs throughout Shakespeare's plays, from the foolish Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer Night's Dream to the play in Act III, scene ii of Hamlet, in which Hamlet determines Claudius' guilt by his reaction to the murder on stage. The play-within-a-play illustrates that daily life contains many moments of a dramatic nature. Shakespeare seems to suggest that if one stands back from life with a detached eye, like Speed leaning out into the audience, one comes to see all human interaction as a drama. This forces the reader to consider that the characters in the play may perhaps be mere puppets in a larger plan, whether the plan is divine or Shakespearean . Speed's criticism that love has impeded Valentine's ability to perceive the world rationally introduces an important Shakespearean theme--that of appearances and disguises. Throughout The Two Gentlemen of Verona, characters disguise their appearances and their intentions . The layers of disguise in this comedy are somewhat simple, particularly when compared to Shakespeare's masterful tangle of disguises in Twelfth Night. Yet again, the reader can see The Two Gentlemen of Verona as an incubator for Shakespeare's favorite themes, which he develops more fully and with much greater complexity in his later works. /PARAGRAPH

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/act_2_chapters_5_to_6.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_4_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scenes 5-6

act 2, scenes 5-6

{"name": "Act II, scenes v-vi", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section5/", "summary": "Speed welcomes Launce to Milan. Launce replies that no one can truly feel welcome in a town until someone buys him a shot of liquor at the local tavern. Speed offers to do so, but first inquires after the status of the relationship between Proteus and Julia. Launce confuses Speed, implying through a series of puns that they are simultaneously broken up and engaged. The interchange ends with Launce's traditional dirty joke about how when Proteus is \"stand\" well, Julia is happy too. Speed, who is not so speedy at comprehending Launce's jokes replies, \"What an ass art thou! I understand thee not\" . Launce tells Speed to ask Crab if Julia and Proteus are engaged, saying that if the dog talks or wags his tail, the answer is \"yes.\" Speed boasts that his master Valentine has become a \"notable lover\" . Launce, feigning to have misheard him, replies that he has always known that Valentine was a \"notable lubber\" . Launce finally convinces Speed to buy him a drink, like a good Christian. Proteus debates whether or not to pursue his infatuation with Silvia. He says that to stay true to the impulse of love, which previously compelled him to promise himself to Julia, he must betray both Julia and Valentine, and worship Silvia. Prizing his amorous desires over friendship, Proteus devises a plot to snatch Silvia from Valentine's arms while simultaneously gaining favor with her father. He will notify the Duke of Valentine's plans to elope with Silvia; the Duke will then banish Valentine and encourage Thurio, Silvia's family-appointed betrothed, to continue his courting. Proteus plans, however, to trick Thurio out of his path, leaving Silvia with no choice but to love him. His soliloquy ends with the couplet, \"Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,/As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift\" .", "analysis": "vi - Commentary Proteus's weighing of passionate love against devoted friendship situates him in a literary debate already well-established at the time Shakespeare wrote The Two Gentlemen of Verona. In Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, written at the end of the fourteenth century, the Knight in the \"Knight's Tale\" learns the painful lesson that blind love must always win over rational friendship. Francis Bacon, a contemporary of Shakespeare, wrote essays purporting that friendship was far more important than the dangerous, ever-changing whims of passionate love. Additionally, Shakespeare would certainly have been familiar with John Lyly's 1591 play, Endymion, in which the protagonist chooses friendship over love, and is rewarded with love as well in the end. Proteus emerges as the play's villain because of his inability to understand that friendship and love can exist simultaneously. Shakespeare presents a moral vision that progresses past the moral visions of Chaucer and Lyly at times; just as Launce revels in double-talk, Shakespeare envisions a world of doubles. Friendship and love can coexist and complement each other; they do not need to be confined to the black-and-white realm of arbitrary moral decisions. In the development of Proteus' character, Shakespeare both presents his clear dislike for simple-minded moral decision-making and introduces his own morality to rival the morality of his well-established predecessors."}

SCENE V. Milan. A street Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally SPEED. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua. LAUNCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hang'd, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!' SPEED. Come on, you madcap; I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? LAUNCE. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. SPEED. But shall she marry him? LAUNCE. No. SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her? LAUNCE. No, neither. SPEED. What, are they broken? LAUNCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish. SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them? LAUNCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. LAUNCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff understands me. SPEED. What thou say'st? LAUNCE. Ay, and what I do too; look thee, I'll but lean, and my staff understands me. SPEED. It stands under thee, indeed. LAUNCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. SPEED. But tell me true, will't be a match? LAUNCE. Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will. LAUNCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. SPEED. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st thou that my master is become a notable lover? LAUNCE. I never knew him otherwise. SPEED. Than how? LAUNCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me. LAUNCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master. SPEED. I tell thee my master is become a hot lover. LAUNCE. Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. SPEED. Why? LAUNCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? SPEED. At thy service. Exeunt SCENE VI. Milan. The DUKE's palace Enter PROTEUS PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; And ev'n that pow'r which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury: Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken; And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths! I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose; If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss: For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend; For love is still most precious in itself; And Silvia- witness heaven, that made her fair!- Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I'll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself Without some treachery us'd to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now presently I'll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight, Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine, For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift. Exit

Act II, scenes v-vi

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section5/

Speed welcomes Launce to Milan. Launce replies that no one can truly feel welcome in a town until someone buys him a shot of liquor at the local tavern. Speed offers to do so, but first inquires after the status of the relationship between Proteus and Julia. Launce confuses Speed, implying through a series of puns that they are simultaneously broken up and engaged. The interchange ends with Launce's traditional dirty joke about how when Proteus is "stand" well, Julia is happy too. Speed, who is not so speedy at comprehending Launce's jokes replies, "What an ass art thou! I understand thee not" . Launce tells Speed to ask Crab if Julia and Proteus are engaged, saying that if the dog talks or wags his tail, the answer is "yes." Speed boasts that his master Valentine has become a "notable lover" . Launce, feigning to have misheard him, replies that he has always known that Valentine was a "notable lubber" . Launce finally convinces Speed to buy him a drink, like a good Christian. Proteus debates whether or not to pursue his infatuation with Silvia. He says that to stay true to the impulse of love, which previously compelled him to promise himself to Julia, he must betray both Julia and Valentine, and worship Silvia. Prizing his amorous desires over friendship, Proteus devises a plot to snatch Silvia from Valentine's arms while simultaneously gaining favor with her father. He will notify the Duke of Valentine's plans to elope with Silvia; the Duke will then banish Valentine and encourage Thurio, Silvia's family-appointed betrothed, to continue his courting. Proteus plans, however, to trick Thurio out of his path, leaving Silvia with no choice but to love him. His soliloquy ends with the couplet, "Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,/As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift" .

vi - Commentary Proteus's weighing of passionate love against devoted friendship situates him in a literary debate already well-established at the time Shakespeare wrote The Two Gentlemen of Verona. In Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, written at the end of the fourteenth century, the Knight in the "Knight's Tale" learns the painful lesson that blind love must always win over rational friendship. Francis Bacon, a contemporary of Shakespeare, wrote essays purporting that friendship was far more important than the dangerous, ever-changing whims of passionate love. Additionally, Shakespeare would certainly have been familiar with John Lyly's 1591 play, Endymion, in which the protagonist chooses friendship over love, and is rewarded with love as well in the end. Proteus emerges as the play's villain because of his inability to understand that friendship and love can exist simultaneously. Shakespeare presents a moral vision that progresses past the moral visions of Chaucer and Lyly at times; just as Launce revels in double-talk, Shakespeare envisions a world of doubles. Friendship and love can coexist and complement each other; they do not need to be confined to the black-and-white realm of arbitrary moral decisions. In the development of Proteus' character, Shakespeare both presents his clear dislike for simple-minded moral decision-making and introduces his own morality to rival the morality of his well-established predecessors.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_5_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act ii.scene vii

act ii, scene vii

{"name": "Act II, scene vii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section6/", "summary": "Julia asks Lucetta to help her devise a plan to travel to Milan to visit Proteus. Lucetta warns Julia that it is a long and dangerous journey, counseling her to wait for his return. Julia insists that a \"true-devoted pilgrim is not weary\" . Lucetta responds that she wants only to ensure that Julia's love does not exceed the bounds of rationality. Julia reveals that she plans to disguise herself as a boy for the journey, so as to avoid the unwanted advances of lecherous men. She requests that Lucetta design her a costume befitting a high-class page. Julia fears that her reputation will be tarnished if her unladylike behavior is discovered. She believes, however, that Proteus is so pure, sincere, and immaculate that seeing him is worth any risk. Lucetta is skeptical of Proteus' alleged faultlessness, but Julia chides Lucetta, instructing her to love Proteus just as Julia herself does.", "analysis": "Commentary Lucetta puts forth the idea of rational love as a counter to passionate love. As a servant, she is aware of the practical nature of marriage as social necessity, financial security, and religious sanctification of sexual relations. Because of her low status, she views passionate love as a luxury of characters in romances, and marriage as an arranged business transaction in which the woman's desires are ignored. Her concept of rational love is thus realistic, taking into account, on a grand scale, man's failings, and on a practical scale, the failings inherent in men. Lucetta's understanding of how maleness functions in society positions her as a foil to Julia. When Julia praises Proteus' oaths, tears, and \"instances of infinite... love,\" Lucetta responds that these words and actions are all \"servants to deceitful men,\" implying that Julia has been fooled by the same tactics that all men use to trick their innocent sweethearts . Lucetta's blunt stance on love accentuates Julia's naivete, especially when Julia compares her impending journey to Proteus to a pilgrimage, believing the love she shares with him to be pure and immaculate. Lucetta is far more aware of the practical issues of the masculine world: she is suspicious of Proteus' promises, knowing that he is wont to stray. Her insistence that Julia wear a codpiece with her disguise is a crude but nonetheless practical suggestion for a woman hoping to act as freely as a man. It epitomizes Lucetta's understanding that social freedom derives from maleness, the most recognizable aspect of which is strong sexuality. Cross-dressing permeates Shakespeare's work, in both the writing and the performance. On the most fundamental level, women were not permitted to act on the Elizabethan stage, so all female characters were played by men in women's attire. Cross-dressing becomes an important plot device throughout Shakespeare's plays, with one of the most famous examples being that of Viola donning a man's clothes to travel throughout Illyria, in Twelfth Night. By blurring gender lines, Shakespeare confronts his audience with the fact that much of its judgment of male and female behavior is tied to preconceived notions of how each gender should behave, rather than to each character's individual needs and motives. While this tactic may not be novel to a twenty-first-century audience, it unquestionably challenged the way gender roles were perceived in the Elizabethan era. Throughout Shakespeare's works, the use of disguise offers characters the opportunity to gain access to things normally kept secret from them, such as others' attitudes toward them. Such insight into an unsuspecting individual's mind gives the disguised a power over that individual. Julia, like all of Shakespeare's women, is inherently afforded very little power by Elizabethan society. Pretending to be a man allows Julia access to the male sphere, and enables her to pursue her love in an active, male manner previously unavailable to her."}

SCENE VII. Verona. JULIA'S house Enter JULIA and LUCETTA JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long! JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return. JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food? Pity the dearth that I have pined in By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love. Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course. I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil, A blessed soul doth in Elysium. LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along? JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men; Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair. JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots- To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale.' Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta. LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd. LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd. LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. JULIA. Nay, that I will not. LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone. I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal. JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men. JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth; His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him. JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong To bear a hard opinion of his truth; Only deserve my love by loving him. And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently; I am impatient of my tarriance. Exeunt

Act II, scene vii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section6/

Julia asks Lucetta to help her devise a plan to travel to Milan to visit Proteus. Lucetta warns Julia that it is a long and dangerous journey, counseling her to wait for his return. Julia insists that a "true-devoted pilgrim is not weary" . Lucetta responds that she wants only to ensure that Julia's love does not exceed the bounds of rationality. Julia reveals that she plans to disguise herself as a boy for the journey, so as to avoid the unwanted advances of lecherous men. She requests that Lucetta design her a costume befitting a high-class page. Julia fears that her reputation will be tarnished if her unladylike behavior is discovered. She believes, however, that Proteus is so pure, sincere, and immaculate that seeing him is worth any risk. Lucetta is skeptical of Proteus' alleged faultlessness, but Julia chides Lucetta, instructing her to love Proteus just as Julia herself does.

Commentary Lucetta puts forth the idea of rational love as a counter to passionate love. As a servant, she is aware of the practical nature of marriage as social necessity, financial security, and religious sanctification of sexual relations. Because of her low status, she views passionate love as a luxury of characters in romances, and marriage as an arranged business transaction in which the woman's desires are ignored. Her concept of rational love is thus realistic, taking into account, on a grand scale, man's failings, and on a practical scale, the failings inherent in men. Lucetta's understanding of how maleness functions in society positions her as a foil to Julia. When Julia praises Proteus' oaths, tears, and "instances of infinite... love," Lucetta responds that these words and actions are all "servants to deceitful men," implying that Julia has been fooled by the same tactics that all men use to trick their innocent sweethearts . Lucetta's blunt stance on love accentuates Julia's naivete, especially when Julia compares her impending journey to Proteus to a pilgrimage, believing the love she shares with him to be pure and immaculate. Lucetta is far more aware of the practical issues of the masculine world: she is suspicious of Proteus' promises, knowing that he is wont to stray. Her insistence that Julia wear a codpiece with her disguise is a crude but nonetheless practical suggestion for a woman hoping to act as freely as a man. It epitomizes Lucetta's understanding that social freedom derives from maleness, the most recognizable aspect of which is strong sexuality. Cross-dressing permeates Shakespeare's work, in both the writing and the performance. On the most fundamental level, women were not permitted to act on the Elizabethan stage, so all female characters were played by men in women's attire. Cross-dressing becomes an important plot device throughout Shakespeare's plays, with one of the most famous examples being that of Viola donning a man's clothes to travel throughout Illyria, in Twelfth Night. By blurring gender lines, Shakespeare confronts his audience with the fact that much of its judgment of male and female behavior is tied to preconceived notions of how each gender should behave, rather than to each character's individual needs and motives. While this tactic may not be novel to a twenty-first-century audience, it unquestionably challenged the way gender roles were perceived in the Elizabethan era. Throughout Shakespeare's works, the use of disguise offers characters the opportunity to gain access to things normally kept secret from them, such as others' attitudes toward them. Such insight into an unsuspecting individual's mind gives the disguised a power over that individual. Julia, like all of Shakespeare's women, is inherently afforded very little power by Elizabethan society. Pretending to be a man allows Julia access to the male sphere, and enables her to pursue her love in an active, male manner previously unavailable to her.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/act_4_chapters_3_to_4.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_8_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 4.scenes 3-4

act 4, scenes 3-4

{"name": "Act IV, scenes iii-iv", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section9/", "summary": "Silvia calls upon Sir Eglamour, a friend, to help her escape her \"most unholy match\" to the detested Thurio . She yearns to reunite with Valentine but knows she cannot travel to Mantua alone. Eglamour is a safe chaperone for Silvia, as he has taken a vow of chastity since the death of his beloved wife. Silvia and Eglamour make plans to meet the following day at Friar Patrick's cell. Launce describes his visit to the Duke's dining chamber to deliver Crab as a gift to Silvia. Launce and Crab are in the room not longer than a \"piss-/ing while\" when Crab urinates on the floor . The Duke calls his servants to beat the dog, but because Launce loves the dog so dearly, he claims that he himself urinated on the floor, and takes the beating in place of Crab. Proteus meets Sebastian/Julia and takes an immediate liking to the seeming page. He asks Sebastian to deliver a ring to Silvia--the ring that Julia gave Proteus at his departure. Greatly vexed at Proteus' infidelity, Julia sighs that she \"cannot be true servant to my master/ Unless I prove false traitor to myself\" . Sebastian goes to Silvia's chamber to deliver the ring and collect Silvia's portrait. Silvia expresses her dislike for Proteus, especially when she realizes that the ring originally belonged to Julia. Sebastian thanks Silvia for being sympathetic to Julia's wronged love. Intrigued, Silvia asks Sebastian if he knew Julia. Sebastian replies that he was very close to Julia, and even once wore one of her dresses for a pageant at Pentecost. Silvia departs, and Julia compares herself to the picture of Silvia, believing that her looks are better Silvia's.", "analysis": "iv - Commentary Launce's devotion to his dog, though humorous, provides an important foil to the unfeeling attitudes of Proteus and the Duke. Proteus seeks only to satisfy his own desires, at the expense of others' emotions; likewise, the Duke ignores his daughter's protestations, wanting to marry her off for the greatest financial advantage possible. For Launce, on the other hand, his friendship with Crab entirely outweighs any cares about himself or his social status, enabling him to humiliate himself publicly. Though Launce's diction is neither elegant nor poetic, his speeches represent the most developed use of language in the play. Whereas the other characters' monologues seem stilted, Launce's words flow naturally in the form of bawdy tales and hilarious encounters with his dog. Launce's gleeful speech about Crab's urinating in the dining room instances Shakespeare's ability to contain a cacophony of storytelling voices in one monologue: three servants, the Duke, and Launce all have a voice in Launce's story. The encounter between Silvia and Julia is significant in that it marks the first time that two characters express and share concern about others: both are simultaneously outraged at the philandering Proteus and worried about the abandoned Julia. In discussing such important concepts as friendship and romantic love, the two women are able to relate to each other, despite the fact that Julia views Silvia as her rival. Silvia and Julia trade objects and stories just as Valentine and Proteus will ultimately trade women. The interaction between these two women is far more meaningful than the slapdash rush of the play's ending, in which the play's intended couples are hastily paired up again, allows. A feminist reading of the play would interpret the bond of female friendship as the most important, enduring, and under-developed aspect of the play. Silvia and Julia are both resourceful women who take risks in order to be reunited with the men they love. Neither betrays her man , and each remains true to the other woman as well: Silvia in her sympathy for Julia, and Julia, as Sebastian, in her unwillingness to drag Silvia into Proteus' web of treachery and betrayal."}

SCENE III. Under SILVIA'S window Enter EGLAMOUR EGLAMOUR. This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind; There's some great matter she'd employ me in. Madam, madam! Enter SILVIA above, at her window SILVIA. Who calls? EGLAMOUR. Your servant and your friend; One that attends your ladyship's command. SILVIA. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow! EGLAMOUR. As many, worthy lady, to yourself! According to your ladyship's impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. SILVIA. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman- Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not- Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd. Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banish'd Valentine; Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. Thyself hast lov'd; and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died, Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, I do desire thy worthy company, Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady's grief, And on the justice of my flying hence To keep me from a most unholy match, Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues. I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company and go with me; If not, to hide what I have said to thee, That I may venture to depart alone. EGLAMOUR. Madam, I pity much your grievances; Which since I know they virtuously are plac'd, I give consent to go along with you, Recking as little what betideth me As much I wish all good befortune you. When will you go? SILVIA. This evening coming. EGLAMOUR. Where shall I meet you? SILVIA. At Friar Patrick's cell, Where I intend holy confession. EGLAMOUR. I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, gentle lady. SILVIA. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. Exeunt SCENE IV. Under SILVIA'S Window Enter LAUNCE with his dog LAUNCE. When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard- one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I sav'd from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely 'Thus I would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon's leg. O, 'tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hang'd for't; sure as I live, he had suffer'd for't. You shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the Duke's table; he had not been there, bless the mark, a pissing while but all the chamber smelt him. 'Out with the dog' says one; 'What cur is that?' says another; 'Whip him out' says the third; 'Hang him up' says the Duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs. 'Friend,' quoth I 'you mean to whip the dog.' 'Ay, marry do I' quoth he. 'You do him the more wrong,' quoth I; "twas I did the thing you wot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stock for puddings he hath stol'n, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath kill'd, otherwise he had suffer'd for't. Thou think'st not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you serv'd me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia. Did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick? Enter PROTEUS, and JULIA in boy's clothes PROTEUS. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well, And will employ thee in some service presently. JULIA. In what you please; I'll do what I can. PROTEUS..I hope thou wilt. [To LAUNCE] How now, you whoreson peasant! Where have you been these two days loitering? LAUNCE. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me. PROTEUS. And what says she to my little jewel? LAUNCE. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a present. PROTEUS. But she receiv'd my dog? LAUNCE. No, indeed, did she not; here have I brought him back again. PROTEUS. What, didst thou offer her this from me? LAUNCE. Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stol'n from me by the hangman's boys in the market-place; and then I offer'd her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. PROTEUS. Go, get thee hence and find my dog again, Or ne'er return again into my sight. Away, I say. Stayest thou to vex me here? Exit LAUNCE A slave that still an end turns me to shame! Sebastian, I have entertained thee Partly that I have need of such a youth That can with some discretion do my business, For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout, But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, Which, if my augury deceive me not, Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth; Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently, and take this ring with thee, Deliver it to Madam Silvia- She lov'd me well deliver'd it to me. JULIA. It seems you lov'd not her, to leave her token. She is dead, belike? PROTEUS. Not so; I think she lives. JULIA. Alas! PROTEUS. Why dost thou cry 'Alas'? JULIA. I cannot choose But pity her. PROTEUS. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? JULIA. Because methinks that she lov'd you as well As you do love your lady Silvia. She dreams on him that has forgot her love: You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking on it makes me cry 'Alas!' PROTEUS. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal This letter. That's her chamber. Tell my lady I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary. Exit PROTEUS JULIA. How many women would do such a message? Alas, poor Proteus, thou hast entertain'd A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. Alas, poor fool, why do I pity him That with his very heart despiseth me? Because he loves her, he despiseth me; Because I love him, I must pity him. This ring I gave him, when he parted from me, To bind him to remember my good will; And now am I, unhappy messenger, To plead for that which I would not obtain, To carry that which I would have refus'd, To praise his faith, which I would have disprais'd. I am my master's true confirmed love, But cannot be true servant to my master Unless I prove false traitor to myself. Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. Enter SILVIA, attended Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you be my mean To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. SILVIA. What would you with her, if that I be she? JULIA. If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on. SILVIA. From whom? JULIA. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. SILVIA. O, he sends you for a picture? JULIA. Ay, madam. SILVIA. Ursula, bring my picture there. Go, give your master this. Tell him from me, One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. JULIA. Madam, please you peruse this letter. Pardon me, madam; I have unadvis'd Deliver'd you a paper that I should not. This is the letter to your ladyship. SILVIA. I pray thee let me look on that again. JULIA. It may not be; good madam, pardon me. SILVIA. There, hold! I will not look upon your master's lines. I know they are stuff'd with protestations, And full of new-found oaths, which he wul break As easily as I do tear his paper. JULIA. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. SILVIA. The more shame for him that he sends it me; For I have heard him say a thousand times His Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profan'd the ring, Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. JULIA. She thanks you. SILVIA. What say'st thou? JULIA. I thank you, madam, that you tender her. Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much. SILVIA. Dost thou know her? JULIA. Almost as well as I do know myself. To think upon her woes, I do protest That I have wept a hundred several times. SILVIA. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her. JULIA. I think she doth, and that's her cause of sorrow. SILVIA. Is she not passing fair? JULIA. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is. When she did think my master lov'd her well, She, in my judgment, was as fair as you; But since she did neglect her looking-glass And threw her sun-expelling mask away, The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face, That now she is become as black as I. SILVIA. How tall was she? JULIA. About my stature; for at Pentecost, When all our pageants of delight were play'd, Our youth got me to play the woman's part, And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown; Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments, As if the garment had been made for me; Therefore I know she is about my height. And at that time I made her weep a good, For I did play a lamentable part. Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight; Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead If I in thought felt not her very sorrow. SILVIA. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! I weep myself, to think upon thy words. Here, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st her. Farewell. Exit SILVIA with ATTENDANTS JULIA. And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her. A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! I hope my master's suit will be but cold, Since she respects my mistress' love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with itself! Here is her picture; let me see. I think, If I had such a tire, this face of mine Were full as lovely as is this of hers; And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow; If that be all the difference in his love, I'll get me such a colour'd periwig. Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine; Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high. What should it be that he respects in her But I can make respective in myself, If this fond Love were not a blinded god? Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, lov'd, and ador'd! And were there sense in his idolatry My substance should be statue in thy stead. I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake, That us'd me so; or else, by Jove I vow, I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes, To make my master out of love with thee. Exit

Act IV, scenes iii-iv

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section9/

Silvia calls upon Sir Eglamour, a friend, to help her escape her "most unholy match" to the detested Thurio . She yearns to reunite with Valentine but knows she cannot travel to Mantua alone. Eglamour is a safe chaperone for Silvia, as he has taken a vow of chastity since the death of his beloved wife. Silvia and Eglamour make plans to meet the following day at Friar Patrick's cell. Launce describes his visit to the Duke's dining chamber to deliver Crab as a gift to Silvia. Launce and Crab are in the room not longer than a "piss-/ing while" when Crab urinates on the floor . The Duke calls his servants to beat the dog, but because Launce loves the dog so dearly, he claims that he himself urinated on the floor, and takes the beating in place of Crab. Proteus meets Sebastian/Julia and takes an immediate liking to the seeming page. He asks Sebastian to deliver a ring to Silvia--the ring that Julia gave Proteus at his departure. Greatly vexed at Proteus' infidelity, Julia sighs that she "cannot be true servant to my master/ Unless I prove false traitor to myself" . Sebastian goes to Silvia's chamber to deliver the ring and collect Silvia's portrait. Silvia expresses her dislike for Proteus, especially when she realizes that the ring originally belonged to Julia. Sebastian thanks Silvia for being sympathetic to Julia's wronged love. Intrigued, Silvia asks Sebastian if he knew Julia. Sebastian replies that he was very close to Julia, and even once wore one of her dresses for a pageant at Pentecost. Silvia departs, and Julia compares herself to the picture of Silvia, believing that her looks are better Silvia's.

iv - Commentary Launce's devotion to his dog, though humorous, provides an important foil to the unfeeling attitudes of Proteus and the Duke. Proteus seeks only to satisfy his own desires, at the expense of others' emotions; likewise, the Duke ignores his daughter's protestations, wanting to marry her off for the greatest financial advantage possible. For Launce, on the other hand, his friendship with Crab entirely outweighs any cares about himself or his social status, enabling him to humiliate himself publicly. Though Launce's diction is neither elegant nor poetic, his speeches represent the most developed use of language in the play. Whereas the other characters' monologues seem stilted, Launce's words flow naturally in the form of bawdy tales and hilarious encounters with his dog. Launce's gleeful speech about Crab's urinating in the dining room instances Shakespeare's ability to contain a cacophony of storytelling voices in one monologue: three servants, the Duke, and Launce all have a voice in Launce's story. The encounter between Silvia and Julia is significant in that it marks the first time that two characters express and share concern about others: both are simultaneously outraged at the philandering Proteus and worried about the abandoned Julia. In discussing such important concepts as friendship and romantic love, the two women are able to relate to each other, despite the fact that Julia views Silvia as her rival. Silvia and Julia trade objects and stories just as Valentine and Proteus will ultimately trade women. The interaction between these two women is far more meaningful than the slapdash rush of the play's ending, in which the play's intended couples are hastily paired up again, allows. A feminist reading of the play would interpret the bond of female friendship as the most important, enduring, and under-developed aspect of the play. Silvia and Julia are both resourceful women who take risks in order to be reunited with the men they love. Neither betrays her man , and each remains true to the other woman as well: Silvia in her sympathy for Julia, and Julia, as Sebastian, in her unwillingness to drag Silvia into Proteus' web of treachery and betrayal.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1108-chapters/act_5_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_9_part_0.txt

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 5.scenes 1-3

act 5, scenes 1-3

{"name": "Act V, scenes i-iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section10/", "summary": "Eglamour and Silvia rendezvous at Friar Patrick's cell. Proteus is interrogating Sebastian about his interaction with Silvia when the Duke interrupts them, announcing Silvia's disappearance. Proteus, Sebastian, and the Duke form a search party with Thurio and ride off to find Silvia. Meanwhile, Silvia is captured by the outlaws as she rides through the forest. Her chaperone, Eglamour, flees, too fearful for his own safety to protect the young maiden. As the outlaws bring Silvia to their captain, she wails, \"O Valentine! This I endure for thee\" .", "analysis": "iii - Commentary Eglamour's flight is another example of the failure of men to treat women with respect. Initially, Eglamour shows himself a kind and trustworthy character. The instant the bandits appear, however, he abandons Silvia to the outlaws' clutches. In using the French word for love in the noble's name, Shakespeare casts another barb in the direction of idealized love: a love that changes so quickly in the face of adversity is no real love at all. Additionally, Shakespeare again creates a disconnect between a character's social status and his actions: supposedly a gentleman and the embodiment of a superior, spiritual, chaste love, Eglamour proves quite a ninny. The Duke tells the assembled search party that Silvia has gone to \"Friar Laurence\" . Shakespeare most likely intended to write \"Friar Patrick,\" who is mentioned in the preceding scene, yet this mistake is interesting because it casts the friar in The Two Gentlemen of Verona as the predecessor to Friar Laurence in Romeo and Juliet."}

ACT V. SCENE I. Milan. An abbey Enter EGLAMOUR EGLAMOUR. The sun begins to gild the western sky, And now it is about the very hour That Silvia at Friar Patrick's cell should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours Unless it be to come before their time, So much they spur their expedition. Enter SILVIA See where she comes. Lady, a happy evening! SILVIA. Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey wall; I fear I am attended by some spies. EGLAMOUR. Fear not. The forest is not three leagues off; If we recover that, we are sure enough. Exeunt SCENE II. Milan. The DUKE'S palace Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA as SEBASTIAN THURIO. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? PROTEUS. O, sir, I find her milder than she was; And yet she takes exceptions at your person. THURIO. What, that my leg is too long? PROTEUS. No; that it is too little. THURIO. I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder. JULIA. [Aside] But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes. THURIO. What says she to my face? PROTEUS. She says it is a fair one. THURIO. Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black. PROTEUS. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is: Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. JULIA. [Aside] 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes; For I had rather wink than look on them. THURIO. How likes she my discourse? PROTEUS. Ill, when you talk of war. THURIO. But well when I discourse of love and peace? JULIA. [Aside] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. THURIO. What says she to my valour? PROTEUS. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. JULIA. [Aside] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. THURIO. What says she to my birth? PROTEUS. That you are well deriv'd. JULIA. [Aside] True; from a gentleman to a fool. THURIO. Considers she my possessions? PROTEUS. O, ay; and pities them. THURIO. Wherefore? JULIA. [Aside] That such an ass should owe them. PROTEUS. That they are out by lease. JULIA. Here comes the Duke. Enter DUKE DUKE. How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? THURIO. Not I. PROTEUS. Nor I. DUKE. Saw you my daughter? PROTEUS. Neither. DUKE. Why then, She's fled unto that peasant Valentine; And Eglamour is in her company. 'Tis true; for Friar Lawrence met them both As he in penance wander'd through the forest; Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she, But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it; Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not. These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence; Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently, and meet with me Upon the rising of the mountain foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled. Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. Exit THURIO. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl That flies her fortune when it follows her. I'll after, more to be reveng'd on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. Exit PROTEUS. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. Exit JULIA. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. Exit SCENE III. The frontiers of Mantua. The forest Enter OUTLAWS with SILVA FIRST OUTLAW. Come, come. Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. SILVIA. A thousand more mischances than this one Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently. SECOND OUTLAW. Come, bring her away. FIRST OUTLAW. Where is the gentleman that was with her? SECOND OUTLAW. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us, But Moyses and Valerius follow him. Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain; we'll follow him that's fled. The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape. FIRST OUTLAW. Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave; Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. SILVIA. O Valentine, this I endure for thee! Exeunt

Act V, scenes i-iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116174316/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twogentlemen/section10/

Eglamour and Silvia rendezvous at Friar Patrick's cell. Proteus is interrogating Sebastian about his interaction with Silvia when the Duke interrupts them, announcing Silvia's disappearance. Proteus, Sebastian, and the Duke form a search party with Thurio and ride off to find Silvia. Meanwhile, Silvia is captured by the outlaws as she rides through the forest. Her chaperone, Eglamour, flees, too fearful for his own safety to protect the young maiden. As the outlaws bring Silvia to their captain, she wails, "O Valentine! This I endure for thee" .

iii - Commentary Eglamour's flight is another example of the failure of men to treat women with respect. Initially, Eglamour shows himself a kind and trustworthy character. The instant the bandits appear, however, he abandons Silvia to the outlaws' clutches. In using the French word for love in the noble's name, Shakespeare casts another barb in the direction of idealized love: a love that changes so quickly in the face of adversity is no real love at all. Additionally, Shakespeare again creates a disconnect between a character's social status and his actions: supposedly a gentleman and the embodiment of a superior, spiritual, chaste love, Eglamour proves quite a ninny. The Duke tells the assembled search party that Silvia has gone to "Friar Laurence" . Shakespeare most likely intended to write "Friar Patrick," who is mentioned in the preceding scene, yet this mistake is interesting because it casts the friar in The Two Gentlemen of Verona as the predecessor to Friar Laurence in Romeo and Juliet.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/7370-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Second Treatise of Government/section_0_part_0.txt

Second Treatise of Government.chapter i

chapter i

{"name": "Chapter I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004624/https://www.gradesaver.com/second-treatise-of-government/study-guide/summary-chapter-i", "summary": "Locke opens the Second Treatise by referring to the First Treatise, in which he refuted Sir Robert Filmer's arguments upholding the political theory of patriarchalism, or, the divine right of kings. Filmer claimed that God gave Adam authority and dominion over the world, but Locke disagreed. He noted that it was impossible to find the actual heirs of Adam who had, according to Filmer, this right of succession to the throne. The lines of descendants from Adam cannot be determined because this information has been lost in history. All of the families and households and nations in the world have an equal claim to this power and inheritance; no one individual or family can actually prove that they are entitled to authority because they are Adam's legitimate heirs. Locke's First Treatise and its manifold rebuttals of Filmer's propositions being thus clear, he reaffirms that Adam's \"private dominion and paternal jurisdiction\" are not the basis of political power. Filmer's theory may lead some to view government as merely derived from violence and force, and believe human beings dwell in a state no better than that of the animals with a perpetual threat of descent into chaos and conflict. Since he cannot accurately explain the rise of government and who is and who should be the authority, Locke will spend the rest of the Second Treatise addressing these questions. Locke takes care to distinguish political power from that of the power of a father over his child, a master over his servant, a husband over his wife, and a lord over his slave. Even though one man may exercise multiple or even all of these powers at a time, it is important to understand the distinctions between them. Locke's definition of political power is thus: the power to make laws and to define the punishments for greater and lesser crimes, regulate and secure property, carry out the laws, defend the commonwealth from foreign threats, and exercise the aforementioned powers only for the public good.", "analysis": "While it is not impossible to read and understand the Second Treatise without reading the First, it is necessary to be at least familiar with its contents. Sir Robert Filmer was an English political theorist whose Patriarcha, or the Natural Rights of Kings was probably written in the 1640s and published posthumously in 1680. Its main argument was that God gave Adam dominion over all things, including all other human beings. This dominion was also found within the family structure, thus the absolute rule of a monarch over his people was mirrored in the father's absolute rule over his family. A divinely ordained absolute monarchy was the legitimate source of political power. Locke's preface to the First Treatise clearly presents his negative opinion of Filmer's work, averring \"there was never so much glib nonsense put together in well sounding English\" and \" mistakes, inconsistencies...and want of Scripture proofs.\" First, there was a problem with the fatherhood component of the theory, which suggested that Adam's heirs received their authority from him as their father; it was God, not Adam, who was truly creating life and therefore this aspect of Filmer's work was invalid. Furthermore, a father ruled over his family jointly with the mother and did not have complete and unmitigated power. Secondly, Adam was only given dominion over the beasts of the land, not his fellow human beings, and the world is actually held in common among all men. Thirdly, even if one believed that Adam's heirs should rule, it is impossible in the present age to trace who exactly these heirs might be. History has lost this genealogical basis for political power. Locke's first chapter thus reminds the reader that patriarchalism as a theory for political power is unsound and he will set out his explanation for the rise of government. Several major themes are presented right away- the distinction between the relationship of a sovereign and his people and other relationships that feature a putative superior and inferior, the components of political power, and what the end of political power should be. Locke's rejection of patriarchalism meant that there is no Scriptural basis for, per example, a father's absolute rule over his wife or child or servant. The Second Treatise's sixth chapter, \"Of Parental Power\" explicitly states this view and has even come to the attention of contemporary feminist theorists for its views on women and power dynamics within the family and society at large. The components of political power are few, according to Locke- making laws and carrying them out, devising punishments for transgressions serious and minor, protecting property, and defending the commonwealth from foreign threats. Clearly, an absolute monarch exercises power far beyond this scope and thus is violating the rights of his subjects. This definition of political power ends with a succinct explanation of what political power's ultimate goal is- the public good. Absolute monarchs tend to exercise their power capriciously and in regards to their own self-interest. This violates the natural rights of men and is therefore an invalid system of government. While brief, Locke's first chapter to the Second Treatise is significant for its clear and straightforward introduction to some of the major themes and concerns he will take up in the rest of the text."}

CHAPTER. I. AN ESSAY CONCERNING THE TRUE ORIGINAL, EXTENT AND END OF CIVIL GOVERNMENT Sect. 1. It having been shewn in the foregoing discourse, (<i>1</i>). That Adam had not, either by natural right of fatherhood, or by positive donation from God, any such authority over his children, or dominion over the world, as is pretended: (<i>2</i>). That if he had, his heirs, yet, had no right to it: (<i>3</i>). That if his heirs had, there being no law of nature nor positive law of God that determines which is the right heir in all cases that may arise, the right of succession, and consequently of bearing rule, could not have been certainly determined: (<i>4</i>). That if even that had been determined, yet the knowledge of which is the eldest line of Adam's posterity, being so long since utterly lost, that in the races of mankind and families of the world, there remains not to one above another, the least pretence to be the eldest house, and to have the right of inheritance: All these premises having, as I think, been clearly made out, it is impossible that the rulers now on earth should make any benefit, or derive any the least shadow of authority from that, which is held to be the fountain of all power, Adam's private dominion and paternal jurisdiction; so that he that will not give just occasion to think that all government in the world is the product only of force and violence, and that men live together by no other rules but that of beasts, where the strongest carries it, and so lay a foundation for perpetual disorder and mischief, tumult, sedition and rebellion, (things that the followers of that hypothesis so loudly cry out against) must of necessity find out another rise of government, another original of political power, and another way of designing and knowing the persons that have it, than what Sir Robert Filmer hath taught us. Sect. 2. To this purpose, I think it may not be amiss, to set down what I take to be political power; that the power of a MAGISTRATE over a subject may be distinguished from that of a FATHER over his children, a MASTER over his servant, a HUSBAND over his wife, and a LORD over his slave. All which distinct powers happening sometimes together in the same man, if he be considered under these different relations, it may help us to distinguish these powers one from wealth, a father of a family, and a captain of a galley. Sect. 3. POLITICAL POWER, then, I take to be a RIGHT of making laws with penalties of death, and consequently all less penalties, for the regulating and preserving of property, and of employing the force of the community, in the execution of such laws, and in the defence of the commonwealth from foreign injury; and all this only for the public good.

Chapter I

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004624/https://www.gradesaver.com/second-treatise-of-government/study-guide/summary-chapter-i

Locke opens the Second Treatise by referring to the First Treatise, in which he refuted Sir Robert Filmer's arguments upholding the political theory of patriarchalism, or, the divine right of kings. Filmer claimed that God gave Adam authority and dominion over the world, but Locke disagreed. He noted that it was impossible to find the actual heirs of Adam who had, according to Filmer, this right of succession to the throne. The lines of descendants from Adam cannot be determined because this information has been lost in history. All of the families and households and nations in the world have an equal claim to this power and inheritance; no one individual or family can actually prove that they are entitled to authority because they are Adam's legitimate heirs. Locke's First Treatise and its manifold rebuttals of Filmer's propositions being thus clear, he reaffirms that Adam's "private dominion and paternal jurisdiction" are not the basis of political power. Filmer's theory may lead some to view government as merely derived from violence and force, and believe human beings dwell in a state no better than that of the animals with a perpetual threat of descent into chaos and conflict. Since he cannot accurately explain the rise of government and who is and who should be the authority, Locke will spend the rest of the Second Treatise addressing these questions. Locke takes care to distinguish political power from that of the power of a father over his child, a master over his servant, a husband over his wife, and a lord over his slave. Even though one man may exercise multiple or even all of these powers at a time, it is important to understand the distinctions between them. Locke's definition of political power is thus: the power to make laws and to define the punishments for greater and lesser crimes, regulate and secure property, carry out the laws, defend the commonwealth from foreign threats, and exercise the aforementioned powers only for the public good.

While it is not impossible to read and understand the Second Treatise without reading the First, it is necessary to be at least familiar with its contents. Sir Robert Filmer was an English political theorist whose Patriarcha, or the Natural Rights of Kings was probably written in the 1640s and published posthumously in 1680. Its main argument was that God gave Adam dominion over all things, including all other human beings. This dominion was also found within the family structure, thus the absolute rule of a monarch over his people was mirrored in the father's absolute rule over his family. A divinely ordained absolute monarchy was the legitimate source of political power. Locke's preface to the First Treatise clearly presents his negative opinion of Filmer's work, averring "there was never so much glib nonsense put together in well sounding English" and " mistakes, inconsistencies...and want of Scripture proofs." First, there was a problem with the fatherhood component of the theory, which suggested that Adam's heirs received their authority from him as their father; it was God, not Adam, who was truly creating life and therefore this aspect of Filmer's work was invalid. Furthermore, a father ruled over his family jointly with the mother and did not have complete and unmitigated power. Secondly, Adam was only given dominion over the beasts of the land, not his fellow human beings, and the world is actually held in common among all men. Thirdly, even if one believed that Adam's heirs should rule, it is impossible in the present age to trace who exactly these heirs might be. History has lost this genealogical basis for political power. Locke's first chapter thus reminds the reader that patriarchalism as a theory for political power is unsound and he will set out his explanation for the rise of government. Several major themes are presented right away- the distinction between the relationship of a sovereign and his people and other relationships that feature a putative superior and inferior, the components of political power, and what the end of political power should be. Locke's rejection of patriarchalism meant that there is no Scriptural basis for, per example, a father's absolute rule over his wife or child or servant. The Second Treatise's sixth chapter, "Of Parental Power" explicitly states this view and has even come to the attention of contemporary feminist theorists for its views on women and power dynamics within the family and society at large. The components of political power are few, according to Locke- making laws and carrying them out, devising punishments for transgressions serious and minor, protecting property, and defending the commonwealth from foreign threats. Clearly, an absolute monarch exercises power far beyond this scope and thus is violating the rights of his subjects. This definition of political power ends with a succinct explanation of what political power's ultimate goal is- the public good. Absolute monarchs tend to exercise their power capriciously and in regards to their own self-interest. This violates the natural rights of men and is therefore an invalid system of government. While brief, Locke's first chapter to the Second Treatise is significant for its clear and straightforward introduction to some of the major themes and concerns he will take up in the rest of the text.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/7370-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Second Treatise of Government/section_3_part_0.txt

Second Treatise of Government.chapter iv

chapter iv: of slavery

{"name": "Chapter IV: Of Slavery", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004624/https://www.gradesaver.com/second-treatise-of-government/study-guide/summary-chapter-iv-of-slavery", "summary": "Locke judges that the natural state of man is to be free from the dominion of other men and their laws. If a man is under the power of the law, it should only be through his own consent. When he does consent to be governed, the laws cannot go beyond what the trust placed within the government warrants. Locke disputes Filmer's definition of freedom, which states that all men can do what they want and not be subject to any laws. Under a government, freedom is actually characterized by a common law that all men are subject to; men retain their autonomy and free will as long as they do not violate the accepted law, and the authority should not act arbitrarily, erratically, or imprecisely. When a man cannot be free from absolute and arbitrary power, his own life is threatened. When he has no control over his life, he cannot enter a compact, enslave himself to anyone, or more generally, place himself under the absolute control of anyone. A man cannot give more power than he has himself; this extends to his own life, which he cannot give to any other man. If he committed a crime that deserves death, his life is now owed to the man to whom he wronged by his crime. This man may delay taking the criminal's life and place him under his service as long as he does not harm him. If the criminal finds that his enslavement is more onerous than that of life itself, he can break his compact and commit suicide. Slavery is no more than a state of war between a conqueror with absolute power and the conquered. The conqueror and the conquered can agree to form a compact where the conqueror accedes to limited rule and the conquered promises obedience; in this case, the state of war and slavery are over. Locke notes that the ancient Jews did sell themselves, but not as pure slaves under an absolute rule; the master could not kill or even maim the slave, and he was free to depart at any time. This is different from the state of war Locke previously detailed.", "analysis": "In this chapter, Locke is interested in differentiating between legitimate and illegitimate forms of slavery. The only way slavery can be legitimate is for an unjust aggressor to be defeated in war and his victor to place him under his absolute rule. This is allowable because the aggressor violated the laws of nature by committing some transgression and did not emerge victorious when the wronged party sought restitution through force. The cause for enslavement is just and can end when the conqueror and the conquered negotiate new terms of obedience and leniency for their relationship. By contrast, illegitimate slavery is when an absolute and despotic ruler exercises complete control over someone without any just cause. This is conspicuous in an absolute monarchy because there is no cogent reason for the individual to hold total power over every man. Slavery can never occur with a contract and is completely illegitimate if it is accomplished using bare force and conquest. Some scholars believed this chapter on slavery validated the Afro-American slave trade of the 17th century. The slave trade had existed since the mid-15th century when the Portuguese negotiated with the rulers of several West African kingdoms to sell Africans in exchange for money and goods. The first slaves sent to America landed at Jamestown in 1619; current estimates suggest that 11 million Africans were sent to the New World. Adherents to the theory that Locke supported the slave system point to biographical information; Locke was the secretary of the Proprietors of Carolina from 1669 to 1670, the secretary and treasurer to the English Council for Trade and Foreign Plantations from October 1673 to December 1674, and secretary to the Board of Trade from 1696 to 1700. He is also the attributed author of the Fundamental Constitutions of the Carolinas , which provided for serfs and slaves in the colonies . Surely with knowledge of the inner workings of the New World colonies and their commerce with England, Locke developed a sympathetic view of the Afro-American slave trade and observed how it was economically beneficial. However, Locke's Second Treatise seems to support the slave system only superficially. A closer analysis of his distinction between legitimate and illegitimate forms of slavery negates the theory that he condoned the slave trade. Africans taken from their homeland were not legitimate slaves because they did not violate any laws of nature and did not deserve to be enslaved. Furthermore, in the chapter \"Of Conquest\" Locke details the limits on powers of a conqueror. The definition of what legitimately constitutes enslavement and the fact that there are limitations on a just conqueror do not suggest that Locke condoned the slave trade. Locke's work is fascinating in that it seems to allude to a specific time period, England and the crisis with King Charles II, King James II, the Glorious Revolution, and the installation of William and Mary to the throne, but is incredibly relevant on a more universal scale. Thus, if the writings on slavery in the Second Treatise were not written to offer support for the Afro-American slave trade, it may be that they, in conjunction with the sections on the state of war and conquest, were written to allude to King James's enslavement of his own people. Alternatively, they may have been written simply to illustrate the problems with absolute monarchies as a whole. Many of Locke's intentions in writing the Second Treatise are unknown, but that does not diminish its consequence and influence."}

CHAPTER. IV. OF SLAVERY. Sect. 22. THE natural liberty of man is to be free from any superior power on earth, and not to be under the will or legislative authority of man, but to have only the law of nature for his rule. The liberty of man, in society, is to be under no other legislative power, but that established, by consent, in the commonwealth; nor under the dominion of any will, or restraint of any law, but what that legislative shall enact, according to the trust put in it. Freedom then is not what Sir Robert Filmer tells us, Observations, A. 55. a liberty for every one to do what he lists, to live as he pleases, and not to be tied by any laws: but freedom of men under government is, to have a standing rule to live by, common to every one of that society, and made by the legislative power erected in it; a liberty to follow my own will in all things, where the rule prescribes not; and not to be subject to the inconstant, uncertain, unknown, arbitrary will of another man: as freedom of nature is, to be under no other restraint but the law of nature. Sect. 23. This freedom from absolute, arbitrary power, is so necessary to, and closely joined with a man's preservation, that he cannot part with it, but by what forfeits his preservation and life together: for a man, not having the power of his own life, cannot, by compact, or his own consent, enslave himself to any one, nor put himself under the absolute, arbitrary power of another, to take away his life, when he pleases. No body can give more power than he has himself; and he that cannot take away his own life, cannot give another power over it. Indeed, having by his fault forfeited his own life, by some act that deserves death; he, to whom he has forfeited it, may (when he has him in his power) delay to take it, and make use of him to his own service, and he does him no injury by it: for, whenever he finds the hardship of his slavery outweigh the value of his life, it is in his power, by resisting the will of his master, to draw on himself the death he desires. Sect. 24. This is the perfect condition of slavery, which is nothing else, but the state of war continued, between a lawful conqueror and a captive: for, if once compact enter between them, and make an agreement for a limited power on the one side, and obedience on the other, the state of war and slavery ceases, as long as the compact endures: for, as has been said, no man can, by agreement, pass over to another that which he hath not in himself, a power over his own life. I confess, we find among the Jews, as well as other nations, that men did sell themselves; but, it is plain, this was only to drudgery, not to slavery: for, it is evident, the person sold was not under an absolute, arbitrary, despotical power: for the master could not have power to kill him, at any time, whom, at a certain time, he was obliged to let go free out of his service; and the master of such a servant was so far from having an arbitrary power over his life, that he could not, at pleasure, so much as maim him, but the loss of an eye, or tooth, set him free, Exod. xxi.

Chapter IV: Of Slavery

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004624/https://www.gradesaver.com/second-treatise-of-government/study-guide/summary-chapter-iv-of-slavery

Locke judges that the natural state of man is to be free from the dominion of other men and their laws. If a man is under the power of the law, it should only be through his own consent. When he does consent to be governed, the laws cannot go beyond what the trust placed within the government warrants. Locke disputes Filmer's definition of freedom, which states that all men can do what they want and not be subject to any laws. Under a government, freedom is actually characterized by a common law that all men are subject to; men retain their autonomy and free will as long as they do not violate the accepted law, and the authority should not act arbitrarily, erratically, or imprecisely. When a man cannot be free from absolute and arbitrary power, his own life is threatened. When he has no control over his life, he cannot enter a compact, enslave himself to anyone, or more generally, place himself under the absolute control of anyone. A man cannot give more power than he has himself; this extends to his own life, which he cannot give to any other man. If he committed a crime that deserves death, his life is now owed to the man to whom he wronged by his crime. This man may delay taking the criminal's life and place him under his service as long as he does not harm him. If the criminal finds that his enslavement is more onerous than that of life itself, he can break his compact and commit suicide. Slavery is no more than a state of war between a conqueror with absolute power and the conquered. The conqueror and the conquered can agree to form a compact where the conqueror accedes to limited rule and the conquered promises obedience; in this case, the state of war and slavery are over. Locke notes that the ancient Jews did sell themselves, but not as pure slaves under an absolute rule; the master could not kill or even maim the slave, and he was free to depart at any time. This is different from the state of war Locke previously detailed.

In this chapter, Locke is interested in differentiating between legitimate and illegitimate forms of slavery. The only way slavery can be legitimate is for an unjust aggressor to be defeated in war and his victor to place him under his absolute rule. This is allowable because the aggressor violated the laws of nature by committing some transgression and did not emerge victorious when the wronged party sought restitution through force. The cause for enslavement is just and can end when the conqueror and the conquered negotiate new terms of obedience and leniency for their relationship. By contrast, illegitimate slavery is when an absolute and despotic ruler exercises complete control over someone without any just cause. This is conspicuous in an absolute monarchy because there is no cogent reason for the individual to hold total power over every man. Slavery can never occur with a contract and is completely illegitimate if it is accomplished using bare force and conquest. Some scholars believed this chapter on slavery validated the Afro-American slave trade of the 17th century. The slave trade had existed since the mid-15th century when the Portuguese negotiated with the rulers of several West African kingdoms to sell Africans in exchange for money and goods. The first slaves sent to America landed at Jamestown in 1619; current estimates suggest that 11 million Africans were sent to the New World. Adherents to the theory that Locke supported the slave system point to biographical information; Locke was the secretary of the Proprietors of Carolina from 1669 to 1670, the secretary and treasurer to the English Council for Trade and Foreign Plantations from October 1673 to December 1674, and secretary to the Board of Trade from 1696 to 1700. He is also the attributed author of the Fundamental Constitutions of the Carolinas , which provided for serfs and slaves in the colonies . Surely with knowledge of the inner workings of the New World colonies and their commerce with England, Locke developed a sympathetic view of the Afro-American slave trade and observed how it was economically beneficial. However, Locke's Second Treatise seems to support the slave system only superficially. A closer analysis of his distinction between legitimate and illegitimate forms of slavery negates the theory that he condoned the slave trade. Africans taken from their homeland were not legitimate slaves because they did not violate any laws of nature and did not deserve to be enslaved. Furthermore, in the chapter "Of Conquest" Locke details the limits on powers of a conqueror. The definition of what legitimately constitutes enslavement and the fact that there are limitations on a just conqueror do not suggest that Locke condoned the slave trade. Locke's work is fascinating in that it seems to allude to a specific time period, England and the crisis with King Charles II, King James II, the Glorious Revolution, and the installation of William and Mary to the throne, but is incredibly relevant on a more universal scale. Thus, if the writings on slavery in the Second Treatise were not written to offer support for the Afro-American slave trade, it may be that they, in conjunction with the sections on the state of war and conquest, were written to allude to King James's enslavement of his own people. Alternatively, they may have been written simply to illustrate the problems with absolute monarchies as a whole. Many of Locke's intentions in writing the Second Treatise are unknown, but that does not diminish its consequence and influence.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_0_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-1", "summary": "Meet Dorothy, an all-American gal who lives with her Uncle Henry and Aunt Em in Middle-of-Nowhere, Kansas. They live on a rickety farm that sounds like it would get terrible reviews on Airbnb. Farm tour: it won't take long, because there's only one room. Well, two, if you count the cyclone cellar, which we have a feeling is about to be put to good use. Prairie tour: literally everything is gray, including the land, the farm, Aunt Em, and Uncle Henry. Kansas sounds like a total bummer so far. Oh, here's Toto! He is Dorothy's dog, and he's clearly the life of this party. His interests include playing and more playing. Uncle Henry looks up at the sky and realizes a big storm's a-coming. The cyclone comes on fast. Everyone's flying down into the cyclone cellar except for Toto, the idiot, who's under the bed. Before Dorothy and Toto make it into the cellar, the house itself gets swept up into the cyclone. Looks like Dorothy's about to go on an unexpected vacation. The house is in the center of the cyclone. Dorothy's pretty chill about it, all things considered, but Toto is freaking out--so much so that he almost flies out of the trapdoor. Dorothy saves him, though. They've been in the cyclone so long now that Dorothy decides to go to bed. Night, Dorothy.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter I. The Cyclone. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cooking stove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a small hole, dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap-door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else. [Illustration: "_She caught Toto by the ear._"] When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled, now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke. It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long, silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly. [Illustration] To-day, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the door-step and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes. From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the grass coming from that direction also. Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up. "There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife; "I'll go look after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and horses were kept. Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of the danger close at hand. "Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed; "run for the cellar!" Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and the girl started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap-door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last, and started to follow her aunt. When she was half way across the room there came a great shriek from the wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat down suddenly upon the floor. A strange thing then happened. The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon. The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles away as easily as you could carry a feather. It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle. Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there, barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to see what would happen. Once Toto got too near the open trap-door, and fell in; and at first the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air was keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole, caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again; afterward closing the trap-door so that no more accidents could happen. Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright; but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved to wait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and Toto followed and lay down beside her. In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. [Illustration]

Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-1

Meet Dorothy, an all-American gal who lives with her Uncle Henry and Aunt Em in Middle-of-Nowhere, Kansas. They live on a rickety farm that sounds like it would get terrible reviews on Airbnb. Farm tour: it won't take long, because there's only one room. Well, two, if you count the cyclone cellar, which we have a feeling is about to be put to good use. Prairie tour: literally everything is gray, including the land, the farm, Aunt Em, and Uncle Henry. Kansas sounds like a total bummer so far. Oh, here's Toto! He is Dorothy's dog, and he's clearly the life of this party. His interests include playing and more playing. Uncle Henry looks up at the sky and realizes a big storm's a-coming. The cyclone comes on fast. Everyone's flying down into the cyclone cellar except for Toto, the idiot, who's under the bed. Before Dorothy and Toto make it into the cellar, the house itself gets swept up into the cyclone. Looks like Dorothy's about to go on an unexpected vacation. The house is in the center of the cyclone. Dorothy's pretty chill about it, all things considered, but Toto is freaking out--so much so that he almost flies out of the trapdoor. Dorothy saves him, though. They've been in the cyclone so long now that Dorothy decides to go to bed. Night, Dorothy.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_2_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-3", "summary": "Dorothy's hungry so she and Toto grab a snack and get ready for their road trip to the Emerald City. She notices her shoes are looking a bit shabby, so she decides to try on the dead witch's silver shoes. They fit perfectly. And they're off...down the yellow brick road, of course. Dorothy's feeling strangely cheerful. As she and Toto walk, they pass a lot of nice farms. Along the road, all the Munchkins bow to Dorothy. Evidently they heard about her killing the witch. It's getting late and Dorothy's wondering about where to sleep when she comes across a house. The people there are having a party and they invite her to stay for the evening. Boq, the guy who's hosting, asks Dorothy about her shoes. He thinks she must be super powerful to be wearing them. Dorothy remains unconvinced. Dorothy goes to sleep, wakes up, and passes a pleasant morning at the house. As she and Toto prepare to take off, she asks Boq how far the Emerald City is. He has no idea. He mentions that Oz has sort of a weird reputation. People tend to keep their distance. Dorothy knows this isn't good news, but she has no choice but to go anyway. Soon after she and Toto set off, Dorothy encounters a scarecrow in a field. Correction: not a scarecrow. The Scarecrow. Dorothy's a little taken aback when the Scarecrow starts talking to her, but she quickly recovers. They have a nice conversation. Dorothy helps the Scarecrow down from the pole he's attached to. As they chat, she tells him about her plan to go see Oz. The Scarecrow wants to go with her. He doesn't have any brains and he thinks Oz can help. The party of three sets off.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III How Dorothy saved the Scarecrow. [Illustration] When Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went to the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter. She gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the shelf she carried it down to the little brook and filled it with clear, sparkling water. Toto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the birds sitting there. Dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious fruit hanging from the branches that she gathered some of it, finding it just what she wanted to help out her breakfast. Then she went back to the house, and having helped herself and Toto to a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready for the journey to the City of Emeralds. Dorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and was hanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham, with checks of white and blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with many washings, it was still a pretty frock. The girl washed herself carefully, dressed herself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink sunbonnet on her head. She took a little basket and filled it with bread from the cupboard, laying a white cloth over the top. Then she looked down at her feet and noticed how old and worn her shoes were. "They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto," she said. And Toto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged his tail to show he knew what she meant. At that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that had belonged to the Witch of the East. "I wonder if they will fit me," she said to Toto. "They would be just the thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out." She took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones, which fitted her as well as if they had been made for her. Finally she picked up her basket. "Come along, Toto," she said, "we will go to the Emerald City and ask the great Oz how to get back to Kansas again." She closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the pocket of her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly behind her, she started on her journey. There were several roads near by, but it did not take her long to find the one paved with yellow brick. Within a short time she was walking briskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes tinkling merrily on the hard, yellow roadbed. The sun shone bright and the birds sang sweet and Dorothy did not feel nearly as bad as you might think a little girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her own country and set down in the midst of a strange land. [Illustration] She was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country was about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the road, painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and vegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were good farmers and able to raise large crops. Once in a while she would pass a house, and the people came out to look at her and bow low as she went by; for everyone knew she had been the means of destroying the wicked witch and setting them free from bondage. The houses of the Munchkins were odd looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big dome for a roof. All were painted blue, for in this country of the East blue was the favorite color. Towards evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and began to wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather larger than the rest. On the green lawn before it many men and women were dancing. Five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible and the people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was loaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other good things to eat. The people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to pass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest Munchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to celebrate their freedom from the bondage of the wicked witch. Dorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich Munchkin himself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat down upon a settee and watched the people dance. When Boq saw her silver shoes he said, "You must be a great sorceress." "Why?" asked the girl. "Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the wicked witch. Besides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses wear white." [Illustration: "_You must be a great sorceress._"] "My dress is blue and white checked," said Dorothy, smoothing out the wrinkles in it. "It is kind of you to wear that," said Boq. "Blue is the color of the Munchkins, and white is the witch color; so we know you are a friendly witch." Dorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed to think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary little girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange land. When she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into the house, where he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it. The sheets were made of blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in them till morning, with Toto curled up on the blue rug beside her. She ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby, who played with Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way that greatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to all the people, for they had never seen a dog before. "How far is it to the Emerald City?" the girl asked. [Illustration] "I do not know," answered Boq, gravely, "for I have never been there. It is better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they have business with him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City, and it will take you many days. The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of your journey." This worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the great Oz could help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to turn back. She bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of yellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road and sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not far away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds from the ripe corn. Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes, nose and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on this head, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded, which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck up its back. [Illustration: "_Dorothy gazed thoughtfully at the Scarecrow._"] While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her. She thought she must have been mistaken, at first, for none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked. "Good day," said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice. "Did you speak?" asked the girl, in wonder. "Certainly," answered the Scarecrow; "how do you do?" "I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Dorothy, politely; "how do you do?" "I'm not feeling well," said the Scarecrow, with a smile, "for it is very tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows." "Can't you get down?" asked Dorothy. "No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away the pole I shall be greatly obliged to you." Dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole; for, being stuffed with straw, it was quite light. "Thank you very much," said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down on the ground. "I feel like a new man." Dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her. "Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow, when he had stretched himself and yawned, "and where are you going?" "My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the Emerald City, to ask the great Oz to send me back to Kansas." "Where is the Emerald City?" he enquired; "and who is Oz?" "Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise. "No, indeed; I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have no brains at all," he answered, sadly. [Illustration] "Oh," said Dorothy; "I'm awfully sorry for you." "Do you think," he asked, "If I go to the Emerald City with you, that the great Oz would give me some brains?" "I cannot tell," she returned; "but you may come with me, if you like. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you are now." "That is true," said the Scarecrow. "You see," he continued, confidentially, "I don't mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed, because I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin into me, it doesn't matter, for I cant feel it. But I do not want people to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw instead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything?" "I understand how you feel," said the little girl, who was truly sorry for him. "If you will come with me I'll ask Oz to do all he can for you." "Thank you," he answered, gratefully. They walked back to the road, Dorothy helped him over the fence, and they started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City. Toto did not like this addition to the party, at first. He smelled around the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of rats in the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the Scarecrow. "Don't mind Toto," said Dorothy, to her new friend; "he never bites." "Oh, I'm not afraid," replied the Scarecrow, "he can't hurt the straw. Do let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind it, for I can't get tired. I'll tell you a secret," he continued, as he walked along; "there is only one thing in the world I am afraid of." "What is that?" asked Dorothy; "the Munchkin farmer who made you?" "No," answered the Scarecrow; "it's a lighted match."

Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-3

Dorothy's hungry so she and Toto grab a snack and get ready for their road trip to the Emerald City. She notices her shoes are looking a bit shabby, so she decides to try on the dead witch's silver shoes. They fit perfectly. And they're off...down the yellow brick road, of course. Dorothy's feeling strangely cheerful. As she and Toto walk, they pass a lot of nice farms. Along the road, all the Munchkins bow to Dorothy. Evidently they heard about her killing the witch. It's getting late and Dorothy's wondering about where to sleep when she comes across a house. The people there are having a party and they invite her to stay for the evening. Boq, the guy who's hosting, asks Dorothy about her shoes. He thinks she must be super powerful to be wearing them. Dorothy remains unconvinced. Dorothy goes to sleep, wakes up, and passes a pleasant morning at the house. As she and Toto prepare to take off, she asks Boq how far the Emerald City is. He has no idea. He mentions that Oz has sort of a weird reputation. People tend to keep their distance. Dorothy knows this isn't good news, but she has no choice but to go anyway. Soon after she and Toto set off, Dorothy encounters a scarecrow in a field. Correction: not a scarecrow. The Scarecrow. Dorothy's a little taken aback when the Scarecrow starts talking to her, but she quickly recovers. They have a nice conversation. Dorothy helps the Scarecrow down from the pole he's attached to. As they chat, she tells him about her plan to go see Oz. The Scarecrow wants to go with her. He doesn't have any brains and he thinks Oz can help. The party of three sets off.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_3_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "As the three walk, they notice the road is beginning to get rough. The farms are fewer and further between. When they stop for lunch, Dorothy's relieved to find out that the Scarecrow doesn't eat. Good thing, because she didn't pack much food. Over the meal, Dorothy tells her new friend about Kansas. He thinks it sounds like a giant bummer and can't understand why she would want to go back there. Dorothy says Kansas is her home and she loves it. Dorothy asks the Scarecrow to tell her a story, but he says he's too new to the world. He was literally made two days ago. He settles on telling her the story of how he was made. Basically a farmer painted on his eyes, ears, etc., and then stuck him on the pole. The Scarecrow wasn't overly fond of the pole. He hated standing alone in the field. And he hated it even more when the crows came along and started bugging him. They set off walking again, and soon enough they come to a forest. It's dark, and not being able to see is making Dorothy nervous. The Scarecrow finds a cottage and they decide to stay there for the night.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IV. The Road through the Forest. [Illustration] After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow brick, which were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed, they were broken or missing altogether, leaving holes that Toto jumped across and Dorothy walked around. As for the Scarecrow, having no brains he walked straight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length on the hard bricks. It never hurt him, however, and Dorothy would pick him up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing merrily at his own mishap. [Illustration] The farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther back. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became. At noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and Dorothy opened her basket and got out some bread. She offered a piece to the Scarecrow, but he refused. "I am never hungry," he said; "and it is a lucky thing I am not. For my mouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so I could eat, the straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the shape of my head." Dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on eating her bread. "Tell me something about yourself, and the country you came from," said the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him all about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone had carried her to this queer land of Oz. The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "I cannot understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry, gray place you call Kansas." [Illustration: "_'I was only made yesterday,' said the Scarecrow._"] "That is because you have no brains," answered the girl. "No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home." The Scarecrow sighed. "Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is fortunate for Kansas that you have brains." "Won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?" asked the child. The Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered, "My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that time is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer made my head, one of the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that I heard what was going on. There was another Munchkin with him, and the first thing I heard was the farmer saying, "'How do you like those ears?' "'They aren't straight,' answered the other. "'Never mind,' said the farmer; 'they are ears just the same,' which was true enough. "'Now I'll make the eyes,' said the farmer. So he painted my right eye, and as soon as it was finished I found myself looking at him and at everything around me with a great deal of curiosity, for this was my first glimpse of the world. "'That's a rather pretty eye,' remarked the Munchkin who was watching the farmer; 'blue paint is just the color for eyes.' "'I think I'll make the other a little bigger,' said the farmer; and when the second eye was done I could see much better than before. Then he made my nose and my mouth; but I did not speak, because at that time I didn't know what a mouth was for. I had the fun of watching them make my body and my arms and legs; and when they fastened on my head, at last, I felt very proud, for I thought I was just as good a man as anyone. "'This fellow will scare the crows fast enough,' said the farmer; 'he looks just like a man.' "'Why, he is a man,' said the other, and I quite agreed with him. The farmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up on a tall stick, where you found me. He and his friend soon after walked away and left me alone. "I did not like to be deserted this way; so I tried to walk after them, but my feet would not touch the ground, and I was forced to stay on that pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I had nothing to think of, having been made such a little while before. Many crows and other birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew away again, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this pleased me and made me feel that I was quite an important person. By and by an old crow flew near me, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder and said, [Illustration] "'I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner. Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.' Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too, so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me." "I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying: 'If you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.' "After the crows had gone I thought this over, and decided I would try hard to get some brains. By good luck, you came along and pulled me off the stake, and from what you say I am sure the great Oz will give me brains as soon as we get to the Emerald City." "I hope so," said Dorothy, earnestly, "since you seem anxious to have them." "Oh yes; I am anxious," returned the Scarecrow. "It is such an uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool." [Illustration] "Well," said the girl, "let us go." And she handed the basket to the Scarecrow. There were no fences at all by the road side now, and the land was rough and untilled. Towards evening they came to a great forest, where the trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the road of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the branches shut out the daylight; but the travellers did not stop, and went on into the forest. "If this road goes in, it must come out," said the Scarecrow, "and as the Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever it leads us." "Anyone would know that," said Dorothy. "Certainly; that is why I know it," returned the Scarecrow. "If it required brains to figure it out, I never should have said it." After an hour or so the light faded away, and they found themselves stumbling along in the darkness. Dorothy could not see at all, but Toto could, for some dogs see very well in the dark; and the Scarecrow declared he could see as well as by day. So she took hold of his arm, and managed to get along fairly well. "If you see any house, or any place where we can pass the night," she said, "you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable walking in the dark." Soon after the Scarecrow stopped. "I see a little cottage at the right of us," he said, "built of logs and branches. Shall we go there?" "Yes, indeed;" answered the child. "I am all tired out." So the Scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached the cottage, and Dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves in one corner. She lay down at once, and with Toto beside her soon fell into a sound sleep. The Scarecrow, who was never tired, stood up in another corner and waited patiently until morning came. [Illustration]

Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-4

As the three walk, they notice the road is beginning to get rough. The farms are fewer and further between. When they stop for lunch, Dorothy's relieved to find out that the Scarecrow doesn't eat. Good thing, because she didn't pack much food. Over the meal, Dorothy tells her new friend about Kansas. He thinks it sounds like a giant bummer and can't understand why she would want to go back there. Dorothy says Kansas is her home and she loves it. Dorothy asks the Scarecrow to tell her a story, but he says he's too new to the world. He was literally made two days ago. He settles on telling her the story of how he was made. Basically a farmer painted on his eyes, ears, etc., and then stuck him on the pole. The Scarecrow wasn't overly fond of the pole. He hated standing alone in the field. And he hated it even more when the crows came along and started bugging him. They set off walking again, and soon enough they come to a forest. It's dark, and not being able to see is making Dorothy nervous. The Scarecrow finds a cottage and they decide to stay there for the night.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_8_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 9

chapter 9

{"name": "Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-9", "summary": "Wait. What's that sound? It's the growl of a wildcat chasing a mouse. The Tin Woodman, who think it's wrong for the cat to kill the mouse, kills the cat with his axe. Whoa, he's hardcore. The mouse, having avoided death, is super grateful. And as luck would have it, she's a queen. She orders her followers to do whatever the tin man wants. Uh-oh, Toto's up from his nap. And guess what? Little dogs love chasing mice. At least, this little dog does. The mice are afraid, but the tin man grabs Toto and assures them they will come to no harm. The mice wonder if there's anything they can do for their savior the tin man. He says nah, but the Scarecrow has an idea: they can help save the Lion! As per usual, the Scarecrow's plan involves the tin man making something. This time it's a truck. Here's how it will work: thousands of mouse helpers will each attach a single string to the truck. Then they'll drag it like an insane chariot to retrieve the Lion. The plan works, and the Lion is saved. Everyone's really grateful to the mouse queen. In parting, she tells them that they can call for her whenever they need help. Everyone sits around and chills while they wait for the Lion to wake up.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IX. The Queen of the Field Mice. [Illustration] [Illustration] "We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now," remarked the Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, "for we have come nearly as far as the river carried us away." The Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange beast come bounding over the grass towards them. It was, indeed, a great, yellow wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be chasing something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman saw that running before the beast was a little gray field-mouse, and although he had no heart he knew it was wrong for the wildcat to try to kill such a pretty, harmless creature. So the Woodman raised his axe, and as the wildcat ran by he gave it a quick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body, and it rolled over at his feet in two pieces. The field-mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short; and coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice, "Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life." "Don't speak of it, I beg of you," replied the Woodman. "I have no heart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse." "Only a mouse!" cried the little animal, indignantly; "why, I am a Queen--the Queen of all the field-mice!" "Oh, indeed," said the Woodman, making a bow. "Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in saving my life," added the Queen. At that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their little legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they exclaimed, [Illustration: "_Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen._"] "Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage to escape the great Wildcat?" and they all bowed so low to the little Queen that they almost stood upon their heads. "This funny tin man," she answered, "killed the Wildcat and saved my life. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest wish." "We will!" cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they scampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase mice when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it. But the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight, while he called to the mice: "Come back! come back! Toto shall not hurt you." At this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from a clump of grass and asked, in a timid voice, "Are you sure he will not bite us?" "I will not let him," said the Woodman; "so do not be afraid." [Illustration] One by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again, although he tried to get out of the Woodman's arms, and would have bitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one of the biggest mice spoke. "Is there anything we can do," it asked, "to repay you for saving the life of our Queen?" "Nothing that I know of," answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow, who had been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed with straw, said, quickly, "Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the Cowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed." "A Lion!" cried the little Queen; "why, he would eat us all up." "Oh, no;" declared the Scarecrow; "this Lion is a coward." "Really?" asked the Mouse. "He says so himself," answered the Scarecrow, "and he would never hurt anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I promise that he shall treat you all with kindness." "Very well," said the Queen, "we will trust you. But what shall we do?" "Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to obey you?" "Oh, yes; there are thousands," she replied. "Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each one bring a long piece of string." The Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at once and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they ran away in every direction as fast as possible. "Now," said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, "you must go to those trees by the river-side and make a truck that will carry the Lion." So the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all the leaves and branches. He fastened it together with wooden pegs and made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree-trunk. So fast and so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the truck was all ready for them. They came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a piece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke from her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished to find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing around and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about everything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said, "Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen." Dorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a courtesy, after which she became quite friendly with the little girl. The Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the truck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck. Of course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed they were able to pull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to the place where the Lion lay asleep. [Illustration] After a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed to get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies too long they also would fall asleep. [Illustration] At first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir the heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed from behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out of the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet, fresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers. Dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving her companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big Lion she was glad he had been rescued. Then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away through the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last to leave. "If ever you need us again," she said, "come out into the field and call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good bye!" "Good bye!" they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy held Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her. After this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and the Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she ate for her dinner. [Illustration]

Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-9

Wait. What's that sound? It's the growl of a wildcat chasing a mouse. The Tin Woodman, who think it's wrong for the cat to kill the mouse, kills the cat with his axe. Whoa, he's hardcore. The mouse, having avoided death, is super grateful. And as luck would have it, she's a queen. She orders her followers to do whatever the tin man wants. Uh-oh, Toto's up from his nap. And guess what? Little dogs love chasing mice. At least, this little dog does. The mice are afraid, but the tin man grabs Toto and assures them they will come to no harm. The mice wonder if there's anything they can do for their savior the tin man. He says nah, but the Scarecrow has an idea: they can help save the Lion! As per usual, the Scarecrow's plan involves the tin man making something. This time it's a truck. Here's how it will work: thousands of mouse helpers will each attach a single string to the truck. Then they'll drag it like an insane chariot to retrieve the Lion. The plan works, and the Lion is saved. Everyone's really grateful to the mouse queen. In parting, she tells them that they can call for her whenever they need help. Everyone sits around and chills while they wait for the Lion to wake up.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_9_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "Chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-10", "summary": "After a time, the Lion wakes up. The gang tells him about the crazy mouse chariot that pulled him out of the poppies. Renewed, they set off on their journey to Oz. Soon enough they find the yellow brick road. Back on track! The area around the road is starting to show signs of life again. There are farms and fences and people. They're all wearing green, which suggests the Emerald City isn't too far off. Hungry, Dorothy decides to stop at a farm. They're invited in for a nice supper and a good sleep. During their stay, the man of the house drops a few more hints about Oz's reputation. He's very reclusive, apparently. Also, he's a shape-shifter. Still, the man seems confident that the wizard will be able to help the travelers with all their needs. The next morning, on the road, the gang starts to notice a green glow. They know they're nearing their destination. They arrive before a fancy emerald gate. We're talking major bling. Dorothy rings the bell. A small man clothed in green answers the door. Dorothy explains they want to see the wizard. The man seems really surprised at this request. No one ever wants to see Oz. But...okay. First everyone has to put on protective glasses. Otherwise the brightness of the city will blind them. They set off into the city.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter X. The Guardian of the Gate. [Illustration] [Illustration] It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance; but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad to find himself still alive. "I ran as fast as I could," he said, sitting down and yawning; "but the flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?" Then they told him of the field-mice, and how they had generously saved him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said, "I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such small things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as mice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what shall we do now?" "We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again," said Dorothy; "and then we can keep on to the Emerald City." So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again, they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where the great Oz dwelt. [Illustration] The road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was beautiful; so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades. Once more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were painted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer evidently lived, that also was painted green. They passed by several of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the doors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no one came near them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of which they were much afraid. The people were all dressed in clothing of a lovely emerald green color and wore peaked hats like those of the Munchkins. [Illustration] "This must be the Land of Oz," said Dorothy, "and we are surely getting near the Emerald City." "Yes," answered the Scarecrow; "everything is green here, while in the country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the people do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins and I'm afraid we shall be unable to find a place to pass the night." "I should like something to eat besides fruit," said the girl, "and I'm sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and talk to the people." So, when they came to a good sized farm house, Dorothy walked boldly up to the door and knocked. A woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said, "What do you want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?" "We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us," answered Dorothy; "and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you for the world." "Is he tame?" asked the woman, opening the door a little wider. "Oh, yes;" said the girl, "and he is a great coward, too; so that he will be more afraid of you than you are of him." "Well," said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep at the Lion, "if that is the case you may come in, and I will give you some supper and a place to sleep." So they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the couch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a company, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked, "Where are you all going?" "To the Emerald City," said Dorothy, "to see the Great Oz." "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the man. "Are you sure that Oz will see you?" "Why not?" she replied. "Why, it is said that he never lets any one come into his presence. I have been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and wonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz, nor do I know of any living person who has seen him." "Does he never go out?" asked the Scarecrow. "Never. He sits day after day in the great throne room of his palace, and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face." "What is he like?" asked the girl. "That is hard to tell," said the man, thoughtfully. "You see, Oz is a great Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say he looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a brownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real Oz is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell." "That is very strange," said Dorothy; "but we must try, in some way, to see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing." [Illustration] "Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?" asked the man. "I want him to give me some brains," said the Scarecrow, eagerly. "Oh, Oz could do that easily enough," declared the man. "He has more brains than he needs." "And I want him to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman. "That will not trouble him," continued the man, "for Oz has a large collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes." "And I want him to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion. "Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his throne room," said the man, "which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running over. He will be glad to give you some." "And I want him to send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy. "Where is Kansas?" asked the man, in surprise. "I don't know," replied Dorothy, sorrowfully; "but it is my home, and I'm sure it's somewhere." "Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find Kansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be a hard task; for the great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and he usually has his own way. But what do you want?" he continued, speaking to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not speak. [Illustration: "_The Lion ate some of the porridge._"] The woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered around the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal. The Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it was made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of everything, and was glad to get a good supper again. The woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside her, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be disturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and kept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep. The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way, and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them. "That must be the Emerald City," said Dorothy. As they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the City. It was high, and thick, and of a bright green color. In front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even the painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy. There was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and heard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly open, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds. Before them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins. He was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his skin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box. When he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked, "What do you wish in the Emerald City?" "We came here to see the Great Oz," said Dorothy. The man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it over. "It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz," he said, shaking his head in perplexity. "He is powerful and terrible, and if you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of the Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant." [Illustration] "But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one," replied the Scarecrow; "it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good Wizard." "So he is," said the green man; "and he rules the Emerald City wisely and well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see the Great Oz I must take you to his palace. But first you must put on the spectacles." "Why?" asked Dorothy. "Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City must wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz so ordered it when the City was first built, and I have the only key that will unlock them." [Illustration] He opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with spectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses in them. The Guardian of the gates found a pair that would just fit Dorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands fastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they were locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the Guardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy could not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not want to be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing. Then the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked fast with the key. Then the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them he was ready to show them to the palace. Taking a big golden key from a peg on the wall he opened another gate, and they all followed him through the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.

Chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-10

After a time, the Lion wakes up. The gang tells him about the crazy mouse chariot that pulled him out of the poppies. Renewed, they set off on their journey to Oz. Soon enough they find the yellow brick road. Back on track! The area around the road is starting to show signs of life again. There are farms and fences and people. They're all wearing green, which suggests the Emerald City isn't too far off. Hungry, Dorothy decides to stop at a farm. They're invited in for a nice supper and a good sleep. During their stay, the man of the house drops a few more hints about Oz's reputation. He's very reclusive, apparently. Also, he's a shape-shifter. Still, the man seems confident that the wizard will be able to help the travelers with all their needs. The next morning, on the road, the gang starts to notice a green glow. They know they're nearing their destination. They arrive before a fancy emerald gate. We're talking major bling. Dorothy rings the bell. A small man clothed in green answers the door. Dorothy explains they want to see the wizard. The man seems really surprised at this request. No one ever wants to see Oz. But...okay. First everyone has to put on protective glasses. Otherwise the brightness of the city will blind them. They set off into the city.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_12_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-13", "summary": "The Lion is psyched to hear the witch is dead. Dorothy sets him free, then she frees the Winkies. The Winkies are even more psyched. They've been enslaved for a long time. The Lion wishes that the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman could be there. Dorothy wonders if they can be rescued. They ask the Winkies to help. The Winkies are more than happy to oblige because they're so grateful to Dorothy. A special team of Winkies heads into the forest to retrieve the Tin Woodman. He's pretty banged up. Luckily the Winkies have a whole team of tinsmiths that sets to work to restore the tin man. Soon enough he's good as new. The tin man is so happy to have come back to life that he cries. Dorothy wipes away his tears so he won't rust. Now the Winkies and the tin man set off to find the Scarecrow. They re-stuff him with new straw and he's all set. The gang hangs out in the castle for a few days before they prepare to leave for Oz. They say a tender goodbye to the Winkies, who tell the Tin Woodman they want to make him their king. On their way out the door, Dorothy sees the witch's Golden Cap and, on a whim, tries it on. It fits perfectly. Our band of travelers is off to see the Wizard once more.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XIII. The Rescue [Illustration] [Illustration] The Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked Witch had been melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once unlocked the gate of his prison and set him free. They went in together to the castle, where Dorothy's first act was to call all the Winkies together and tell them that they were no longer slaves. There was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they had been made to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch, who had always treated them with great cruelty. They kept this day as a holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and dancing. "If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only with us," said the Lion, "I should be quite happy." "Don't you suppose we could rescue them?" asked the girl, anxiously. "We can try," answered the Lion. So they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would help to rescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would be delighted to do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them free from bondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked as if they knew the most, and they all started away. They travelled that day and part of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the Tin Woodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him, but the blade was rusted and the handle broken off short. The Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to the yellow castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the sad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking sober and sorry. When they reached the castle Dorothy said to the Winkies, "Are any of your people tinsmiths?" "Oh, yes; some of us are very good tinsmiths," they told her. "Then bring them to me," she said. And when the tinsmiths came, bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she enquired, [Illustration: "_The Tinsmiths worked for three days and four nights._"] "Can you straighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him back into shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?" The tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then answered that they thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever. So they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and worked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and bending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body and head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he was straightened out into his old form, and his joints worked as well as ever. To be sure, there were several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as the Woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all. When, at last, he walked into Dorothy's room and thanked her for rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and Dorothy had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his joints would not be rusted. At the same time her own tears fell thick and fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears did not need to be wiped away. As for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so often with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was obliged to go out into the court-yard and hold it in the sun till it dried. "If we only had the Scarecrow with us again," said the Tin Woodman, when Dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened, "I should be quite happy." "We must try to find him," said the girl. So she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of which the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow's clothes. It was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could climb it; but the Woodman said at once, "I'll chop it down, and then we can get the Scarecrow's clothes." Now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman himself, another of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of solid gold and fitted it to the Woodman's axe, instead of the old broken handle. Others polished the blade until all the rust was removed and it glistened like burnished silver. As soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a short time the tree fell over with a crash, when the Scarecrow's clothes fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground. Dorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to the castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and, behold! here was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over again for saving him. Now they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a few happy days at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything they needed to make them comfortable. But one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said, "We must go back to Oz, and claim his promise." "Yes," said the Woodman, "at last I shall get my heart." "And I shall get my brains," added the Scarecrow, joyfully. "And I shall get my courage," said the Lion, thoughtfully. "And I shall get back to Kansas," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. "Oh, let us start for the Emerald City to-morrow!" [Illustration] This they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies together and bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have them go, and they had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they begged him to stay and rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West. Finding they were determined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion each a golden collar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet, studded with diamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick, to keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they offered a silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels. Every one of the travellers made the Winkies a pretty speech in return, and all shook hands with them until their arms ached. Dorothy went to the Witch's cupboard to fill her basket with food for the journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried it on her own head and found that it fitted her exactly. She did not know anything about the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so she made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket. Then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the Emerald City; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to carry with them.

Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-13

The Lion is psyched to hear the witch is dead. Dorothy sets him free, then she frees the Winkies. The Winkies are even more psyched. They've been enslaved for a long time. The Lion wishes that the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman could be there. Dorothy wonders if they can be rescued. They ask the Winkies to help. The Winkies are more than happy to oblige because they're so grateful to Dorothy. A special team of Winkies heads into the forest to retrieve the Tin Woodman. He's pretty banged up. Luckily the Winkies have a whole team of tinsmiths that sets to work to restore the tin man. Soon enough he's good as new. The tin man is so happy to have come back to life that he cries. Dorothy wipes away his tears so he won't rust. Now the Winkies and the tin man set off to find the Scarecrow. They re-stuff him with new straw and he's all set. The gang hangs out in the castle for a few days before they prepare to leave for Oz. They say a tender goodbye to the Winkies, who tell the Tin Woodman they want to make him their king. On their way out the door, Dorothy sees the witch's Golden Cap and, on a whim, tries it on. It fits perfectly. Our band of travelers is off to see the Wizard once more.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_13_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-14", "summary": "The gang is having quite the time finding their way back to Oz. There's no road, so they don't have a good sense of direction. Everyone's starting to feel a little discouraged. They want to get back to Oz and get on with it! Toto is too depressed to chase butterflies. That's how you know it's bad. Dorothy has an idea: she's going to use a special whistle to call their old friends the field mice. They're hoping the mice can help them with directions. Here come the mice. The Queen asks how she can help, and Dorothy tells her their plight. The Queen tells them they've been walking in the wrong direction. Then she tells Dorothy she should use the Golden Cap to call the Winged Monkeys to carry them to the city. The mice peace out because they're not overly fond of the monkeys. Dorothy calls the monkeys, who agree to carry her and her friends. And they're off! Dorothy's riding with the King Monkey, so she asks him what's up with the Golden Cap. He tells her the story of the Golden Cap. Evidently his grandfather played a prank on some sorceress' betrothed. The sorceress got super mad, and the monkeys' punishment was they had to do whatever the owner of the Golden Cap asked, up to three times per owner. Eventually, the cap fell into the wicked witch's hands. She used it to enslave the Winkies, drive Oz out of the West, and attack Dorothy and her friends. Now Dorothy has the cap, which means she can call on the Winged Monkeys two more times. The story's over and so is the ride. The monkeys drop off the travelers at Emerald City and head off into the sky.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XIV. The Winged Monkeys [Illustration] [Illustration] You will remember there was no road--not even a pathway--between the castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four travellers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow daisies than it was being carried. They knew, of course, they must go straight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right way. But at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know which was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were lost in the great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night the moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the sweet smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning--all but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman. The next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if they were quite sure which way they were going. "If we walk far enough," said Dorothy, "we shall sometime come to some place, I am sure." But day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but the yellow fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit. "We have surely lost our way," he said, "and unless we find it again in time to reach the Emerald City I shall never get my brains." "Nor I my heart," declared the Tin Woodman. "It seems to me I can scarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a very long journey." "You see," said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper, "I haven't the courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all." [Illustration] Then Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked at her companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto found that for the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly that flew past his head; so he put out his tongue and panted and looked at Dorothy as if to ask what they should do next. "Suppose we call the Field Mice," she suggested. "They could probably tell us the way to the Emerald City." "To be sure they could," cried the Scarecrow; "why didn't we think of that before?" Dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck since the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a few minutes they heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small grey mice came running up to her. Among them was the Queen herself, who asked, in her squeaky little voice, "What can I do for my friends?" "We have lost our way," said Dorothy. "Can you tell us where the Emerald City is?" [Illustration] "Certainly," answered the Queen; "but it is a great way off, for you have had it at your backs all this time." Then she noticed Dorothy's Golden Cap, and said, "Why don't you use the charm of the Cap, and call the Winged Monkeys to you? They will carry you to the City of Oz in less than an hour." "I didn't know there was a charm," answered Dorothy, in surprise. "What is it?" "It is written inside the Golden Cap," replied the Queen of the Mice; "but if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we must run away, for they are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us." "Won't they hurt me?" asked the girl, anxiously. "Oh, no; they must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!" And she scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her. Dorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written upon the lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the directions carefully and put the Cap upon her head. "Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" she said, standing on her left foot. "What did you say?" asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what she was doing. "Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Dorothy went on, standing this time on her right foot. "Hello!" replied the Tin Woodman, calmly. [Illustration: "_The Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her._"] "Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!" said Dorothy, who was now standing on both feet. This ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering and flapping of wings, as the band of Winged Monkeys flew up to them. The King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked, "What is your command?" "We wish to go to the Emerald City," said the child, "and we have lost our way." "We will carry you," replied the King, and no sooner had he spoken than two of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her. Others took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and the Lion, and one little Monkey seized Toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to bite him. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at first, for they remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had treated them before; but they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air quite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and woods far below them. Dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest Monkeys, one of them the King himself. They had made a chair of their hands and were careful not to hurt her. "Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?" she asked. "That is a long story," answered the King, with a laugh; "but as we have a long journey before us I will pass the time by telling you about it, if you wish." "I shall be glad to hear it," she replied. "Once," began the leader, "we were a free people, living happily in the great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps some of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing nuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were careless and happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day. This was many years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule over this land. "There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess, who was also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help the people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good. Her name was Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great blocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that she could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise. At last, however, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his years. Gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she would make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used all her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any woman could wish. When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called, was said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly beauty was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to make everything ready for the wedding. "My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys which lived in the forest near Gayalette's palace, and the old fellow loved a joke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding, my grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking beside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could do. At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in their arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then dropped him into the water. "'Swim out, my fine fellow,'" cried my grandfather, "'and see if the water has spotted your clothes.'" Quelala was much too wise not to swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune. He laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore. But when Gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and velvet all ruined by the river. [Illustration] "The princess was very angry, and she knew, of course, who did it. She had all the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that their wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had treated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my grandfather pleaded hard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in the river with their wings tied, and Quelala said a kind word for them also; so that Gayelette finally spared them, on condition that the Winged Monkeys should ever after do three times the bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This Cap had been made for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to have cost the princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and all the other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how it happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the Golden Cap, whomsoever he may be." "And what became of them?" asked Dorothy, who had been greatly interested in the story. "Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap," replied the Monkey, "he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his bride could not bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he had married her and ordered us to always keep where she could never again set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we were glad to do, for we were all afraid of her. "This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into the hands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the Winkies, and afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the West. Now the Golden Cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your wishes upon us." As the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down and saw the green, shining walls of the Emerald City before them. She wondered at the rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the journey was over. The strange creatures set the travellers down carefully before the gate of the City, the King bowed low to Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away, followed by all his band. "That was a good ride," said the little girl. "Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles." replied the Lion. "How lucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap!" [Illustration]

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-14

The gang is having quite the time finding their way back to Oz. There's no road, so they don't have a good sense of direction. Everyone's starting to feel a little discouraged. They want to get back to Oz and get on with it! Toto is too depressed to chase butterflies. That's how you know it's bad. Dorothy has an idea: she's going to use a special whistle to call their old friends the field mice. They're hoping the mice can help them with directions. Here come the mice. The Queen asks how she can help, and Dorothy tells her their plight. The Queen tells them they've been walking in the wrong direction. Then she tells Dorothy she should use the Golden Cap to call the Winged Monkeys to carry them to the city. The mice peace out because they're not overly fond of the monkeys. Dorothy calls the monkeys, who agree to carry her and her friends. And they're off! Dorothy's riding with the King Monkey, so she asks him what's up with the Golden Cap. He tells her the story of the Golden Cap. Evidently his grandfather played a prank on some sorceress' betrothed. The sorceress got super mad, and the monkeys' punishment was they had to do whatever the owner of the Golden Cap asked, up to three times per owner. Eventually, the cap fell into the wicked witch's hands. She used it to enslave the Winkies, drive Oz out of the West, and attack Dorothy and her friends. Now Dorothy has the cap, which means she can call on the Winged Monkeys two more times. The story's over and so is the ride. The monkeys drop off the travelers at Emerald City and head off into the sky.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_15_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-16", "summary": "It's morning and the Scarecrow is beside himself as he waits to go collect his new brain. Finally, it's time. Oz removes his head and stuffs it with bran, pins, and needles. Sounds like a breakfast cereal for robots, but guess what? Instant intelligence. The Scarecrow is thrilled. Time for the tin man to collect his heart. Oz cuts a whole in his chest and puts in a silk heart that's stuffed with sawdust. Next is the Lion. Oz gives him a dish filled with \"courage\" to drink. The Lion instantly feels very brave. After everyone has left the throne room, Oz wonders how on earth he's going to help Dorothy. He didn't do anything to actually help the rest of the gang; they just thought he did. Their belief was enough to make the trick work.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XVI. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug. [Illustration] [Illustration] Next morning the Scarecrow said to his friends: "Congratulate me. I am going to Oz to get my brains at last. When I return I shall be as other men are." "I have always liked you as you were," said Dorothy, simply. "It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow," he replied. "But surely you will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain is going to turn out." Then he said good-bye to them all in a cheerful voice and went to the Throne Room, where he rapped upon the door. "Come in," said Oz. The Scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by the window, engaged in deep thought. "I have come for my brains," remarked the Scarecrow, a little uneasily. "Oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please," replied Oz. "You must excuse me for taking your head off, but I shall have to do it in order to put your brains in their proper place." "That's all right," said the Scarecrow. "You are quite welcome to take my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on again." So the Wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw. Then he entered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which he mixed with a great many pins and needles. Having shaken them together thoroughly, he filled the top of the Scarecrow's head with the mixture and stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold it in place. When he had fastened the Scarecrow's head on his body again he said to him, "Hereafter you will be a great man, for I have given you a lot of bran-new brains." The Scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his greatest wish, and having thanked Oz warmly he went back to his friends. Dorothy looked at him curiously. His head was quite bulging out at the top with brains. "How do you feel?" she asked. [Illustration: "_'I feel wise, indeed,' said the Scarecrow._"] "I feel wise, indeed," he answered, earnestly. "When I get used to my brains I shall know everything." "Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?" asked the Tin Woodman. "That is proof that he is sharp," remarked the Lion. "Well, I must go to Oz and get my heart," said the Woodman. So he walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door. "Come in," called Oz, and the Woodman entered and said, "I have come for my heart." "Very well," answered the little man. "But I shall have to cut a hole in your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place. I hope it won't hurt you." "Oh, no;" answered the Woodman. "I shall not feel it at all." [Illustration] So Oz brought a pair of tinners' shears and cut a small, square hole in the left side of the Tin Woodman's breast. Then, going to a chest of drawers, he took out a pretty heart, made entirely of silk and stuffed with sawdust. "Isn't it a beauty?" he asked. "It is, indeed!" replied the Woodman, who was greatly pleased. "But is it a kind heart?" "Oh, very!" answered Oz. He put the heart in the Woodman's breast and then replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly together where it had been cut. "There," said he; "now you have a heart that any man might be proud of. I'm sorry I had to put a patch on your breast, but it really couldn't be helped." "Never mind the patch," exclaimed the happy Woodman. "I am very grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness." [Illustration] "Don't speak of it," replied Oz. Then the Tin Woodman went back to his friends, who wished him every joy on account of his good fortune. The Lion now walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door. "Come in," said Oz. "I have come for my courage," announced the Lion, entering the room. "Very well," answered the little man; "I will get it for you." He went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took down a square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a green-gold dish, beautifully carved. Placing this before the Cowardly Lion, who sniffed at it as if he did not like it, the Wizard said, "Drink." "What is it?" asked the Lion. "Well," answered Oz, "if it were inside of you, it would be courage. You know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore I advise you to drink it as soon as possible." The Lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty. "How do you feel now?" asked Oz. "Full of courage," replied the Lion, who went joyfully back to his friends to tell them of his good fortune. Oz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion exactly what they thought they wanted. "How can I help being a humbug," he said, "when all these people make me do things that everybody knows can't be done? It was easy to make the Scarecrow and the Lion and the Woodman happy, because they imagined I could do anything. But it will take more than imagination to carry Dorothy back to Kansas, and I'm sure I don't know how it can be done."

Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-16

It's morning and the Scarecrow is beside himself as he waits to go collect his new brain. Finally, it's time. Oz removes his head and stuffs it with bran, pins, and needles. Sounds like a breakfast cereal for robots, but guess what? Instant intelligence. The Scarecrow is thrilled. Time for the tin man to collect his heart. Oz cuts a whole in his chest and puts in a silk heart that's stuffed with sawdust. Next is the Lion. Oz gives him a dish filled with "courage" to drink. The Lion instantly feels very brave. After everyone has left the throne room, Oz wonders how on earth he's going to help Dorothy. He didn't do anything to actually help the rest of the gang; they just thought he did. Their belief was enough to make the trick work.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_16_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 17

chapter 17

{"name": "Chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-17", "summary": "Dorothy doesn't hear anything for three days and she's getting discouraged. Hang in there, girl. Meanwhile, her friends are enjoying their new treasures. It's Day Four, and Oz finally sends for her. He tells her the plan: he's going to make a hot-air balloon, and they'll fly into the unknown, hoping to light upon the U.S. eventually. Dorothy's okay with the plan, so they set about making the balloon. Oz tells his kingdom that he's going to visit his brother, who lives in the clouds. They think that sounds legit. Also, he leaves the Scarecrow in charge. The balloon is about to leave, but Dorothy can't find Toto. He's off chasing a kitten in the crowd. Dorothy finds him and heads back, but she doesn't make it. The balloon takes off without her! The people are devastated because their leader is gone, and Dorothy is devastated because she missed her ride. Basically, everyone's bummed.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XVII. How the Balloon was Launched. [Illustration] For three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad days for the little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and contented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in his head; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one could understand them but himself. When the Tin Woodman walked about he felt his heart rattling around in his breast; and he told Dorothy he had discovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the one he had owned when he was made of flesh. The Lion declared he was afraid of nothing on earth, and would gladly face an army of men or a dozen of the fierce Kalidahs. Thus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy, who longed more than ever to get back to Kansas. On the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when she entered the Throne Room he said, pleasantly: "Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you out of this country." "And back to Kansas?" she asked, eagerly. "Well, I'm not sure about Kansas," said Oz; "for I haven't the faintest notion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to cross the desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home." "How can I cross the desert?" she enquired. "Well, I'll tell you what I think," said the little man. "You see, when I came to this country it was in a balloon. You also came through the air, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe the best way to get across the desert will be through the air. Now, it is quite beyond my powers to make a cyclone; but I've been thinking the matter over, and I believe I can make a balloon." "How?" asked Dorothy. "A balloon," said Oz, "is made of silk, which is coated with glue to keep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace, so it will be no trouble for us to make the balloon. But in all this country there is no gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float." "If it won't float," remarked Dorothy, "it will be of no use to us." "True," answered Oz. "But there is another way to make it float, which is to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn't as good as gas, for if the air should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert, and we should be lost." "We!" exclaimed the girl; "are you going with me?" "Yes, of course," replied Oz. "I am tired of being such a humbug. If I should go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a Wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them. So I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome. I'd much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again." [Illustration] "I shall be glad to have your company," said Dorothy. "Thank you," he answered. "Now, if you will help me sew the silk together, we will begin to work on our balloon." So Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the strips of silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together. First there was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and then a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon in different shades of the color about them. It took three days to sew all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of green silk more than twenty feet long. Then Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it air-tight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready. "But we must have a basket to ride in," he said. So he sent the soldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he fastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon. When it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was going to make a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds. The news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the wonderful sight. Oz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace, and the people gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman had chopped a big pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and Oz held the bottom of the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from it would be caught in the silken bag. Gradually the balloon swelled out and rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the ground. Then Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice: "I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the Scarecrow will rule over you. I command you to obey him as you would me." The balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to the ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much lighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise into the sky. "Come, Dorothy!" cried the Wizard; "hurry up, or the balloon will fly away." "I can't find Toto anywhere," replied Dorothy, who did not wish to leave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd to bark at a kitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked him up and ran toward the balloon. [Illustration] She was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his hands to help her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes, and the balloon rose into the air without her. [Illustration] "Come back!" she screamed; "I want to go, too!" "I can't come back, my dear," called Oz from the basket. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to where the Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment farther and farther into the sky. And that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard, though he may have reached Omaha safely, and be there now, for all we know. But the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another, "Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this beautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise Scarecrow to rule over us." Still, for many days they grieved over the loss of the Wonderful Wizard, and would not be comforted.

Chapter 17

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-17

Dorothy doesn't hear anything for three days and she's getting discouraged. Hang in there, girl. Meanwhile, her friends are enjoying their new treasures. It's Day Four, and Oz finally sends for her. He tells her the plan: he's going to make a hot-air balloon, and they'll fly into the unknown, hoping to light upon the U.S. eventually. Dorothy's okay with the plan, so they set about making the balloon. Oz tells his kingdom that he's going to visit his brother, who lives in the clouds. They think that sounds legit. Also, he leaves the Scarecrow in charge. The balloon is about to leave, but Dorothy can't find Toto. He's off chasing a kitten in the crowd. Dorothy finds him and heads back, but she doesn't make it. The balloon takes off without her! The people are devastated because their leader is gone, and Dorothy is devastated because she missed her ride. Basically, everyone's bummed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_17_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 18

chapter 18

{"name": "Chapter 18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-18", "summary": "Dorothy is crying bitter tears about the whole balloon thing. She feels like that was her last ticket to Kansas. Then again, on reflection, she thinks that maybe the balloon wasn't such a great plan. The Tin Woodman is crying for Oz like he's dead. He asks Dorothy to wipe his tears so he doesn't rust. The Scarecrow is in charge now. People like him fine, but they miss the wizard. The gang is having a meeting in the throne room to plan their next steps. Everyone's in a great mood except for Dorothy, who's still fixated on getting back to Kansas. The Scarecrow has a long think. Finally he suggests that Dorothy should call the Winged Monkeys and ask them to fly her home. Dorothy calls them and the Monkey King is like, sorry, no can do. Now Dorothy's even more bummed because she's wasted a wish. The gang calls a soldier in for a consultation. The soldier suggests that Dorothy should seek out Glinda, the Good Witch of the South. She has a great reputation for helping people. The soldier gives them directions to head south. He warns Dorothy she may encounter some dangerous creatures along the way. The Lion says he's going to travel with Dorothy so he can protect her. The Woodman says he's going, too. So does the Scarecrow. It's road trip: the sequel! Dorothy declares that they'll leave in the morning. The group disbands to get ready.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XVIII. Away to the South. [Illustration] [Illustration] Dorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home to Kansas again; but when she thought it all over she was glad she had not gone up in a balloon. And she also felt sorry at losing Oz, and so did her companions. The Tin Woodman came to her and said, "Truly I should be ungrateful if I failed to mourn for the man who gave me my lovely heart. I should like to cry a little because Oz is gone, if you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that I shall not rust." [Illustration] "With pleasure," she answered, and brought a towel at once. Then the Tin Woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the tears carefully and wiped them away with the towel. When he had finished he thanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with his jewelled oil-can, to guard against mishap. The Scarecrow was now the ruler of the Emerald City, and although he was not a Wizard the people were proud of him. "For," they said, "there is not another city in all the world that is ruled by a stuffed man." And, so far as they knew, they were quite right. The morning after the balloon had gone up with Oz the four travellers met in the Throne Room and talked matters over. The Scarecrow sat in the big throne and the others stood respectfully before him. "We are not so unlucky," said the new ruler; "for this Palace and the Emerald City belong to us, and we can do just as we please. When I remember that a short time ago I was up on a pole in a farmer's cornfield, and that I am now the ruler of this beautiful City, I am quite satisfied with my lot." "I also," said the Tin Woodman, "am well pleased with my new heart; and, really, that was the only thing I wished in all the world." "For my part, I am content in knowing I am as brave as any beast that ever lived, if not braver," said the Lion, modestly, [Illustration: "_The Scarecrow sat on the big throne._"] "If Dorothy would only be contented to live in the Emerald City," continued the Scarecrow, "we might all be happy together." "But I don't want to live here," cried Dorothy. "I want to go to Kansas, and live with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry." "Well, then, what can be done?" enquired the Woodman. The Scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the pins and needles began to stick out of his brains. Finally he said: "Why not call the Winged Monkeys, and asked them to carry you over the desert?" "I never thought of that!" said Dorothy, joyfully. "It's just the thing. I'll go at once for the Golden Cap." When she brought it into the Throne Room she spoke the magic words, and soon the band of Winged Monkeys flew in through an open window and stood beside her. "This is the second time you have called us," said the Monkey King, bowing before the little girl. "What do you wish?" "I want you to fly with me to Kansas," said Dorothy. But the Monkey King shook his head. "That cannot be done," he said. "We belong to this country alone, and cannot leave it. There has never been a Winged Monkey in Kansas yet, and I suppose there never will be, for they don't belong there. We shall be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross the desert. Good-bye." And with another bow the Monkey King spread his wings and flew away through the window, followed by all his band. Dorothy was almost ready to cry with disappointment. "I have wasted the charm of the Golden Cap to no purpose," she said, "for the Winged Monkeys cannot help me." "It is certainly too bad!" said the tender hearted Woodman. The Scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so horribly that Dorothy feared it would burst. "Let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers," he said, "and ask his advice." [Illustration] So the soldier was summoned and entered the Throne Room timidly, for while Oz was alive he never was allowed to come further than the door. "This little girl," said the Scarecrow to the soldier, "wishes to cross the desert. How can she do so?" "I cannot tell," answered the soldier; "for nobody has ever crossed the desert, unless it is Oz himself." "Is there no one who can help me?" asked Dorothy, earnestly. "Glinda might," he suggested. "Who is Glinda?" enquired the Scarecrow. "The Witch of the South. She is the most powerful of all the Witches, and rules over the Quadlings. Besides, her castle stands on the edge of the desert, so she may know a way to cross it." "Glinda is a good Witch, isn't she?" asked the child. "The Quadlings think she is good," said the soldier, "and she is kind to everyone. I have heard that Glinda is a beautiful woman, who knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived." "How can I get to her castle?" asked Dorothy. "The road is straight to the South," he answered, "but it is said to be full of dangers to travellers. There are wild beasts in the woods, and a race of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country. For this reason none of the Quadlings ever come to the Emerald City." The soldier then left them and the Scarecrow said, "It seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing Dorothy can do is to travel to the Land of the South and ask Glinda to help her. For, of course, if Dorothy stays here she will never get back to Kansas." "You must have been thinking again," remarked the Tin Woodman. "I have," said the Scarecrow. "I shall go with Dorothy," declared the Lion, "for I am tired of your city and long for the woods and the country again. I am really a wild beast, you know. Besides, Dorothy will need someone to protect her." "That is true," agreed the Woodman. "My axe may be of service to her; so I, also, will go with her to the Land of the South." "When shall we start?" asked the Scarecrow. "Are you going?" they asked, in surprise. "Certainly. If it wasn't for Dorothy I should never have had brains. She lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the Emerald City. So my good luck is all due to her, and I shall never leave her until she starts back to Kansas for good and all." "Thank you," said Dorothy, gratefully. "You are all very kind to me. But I should like to start as soon as possible." "We shall go to-morrow morning," returned the Scarecrow. "So now let us all get ready, for it will be a long journey." [Illustration]

Chapter 18

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-18

Dorothy is crying bitter tears about the whole balloon thing. She feels like that was her last ticket to Kansas. Then again, on reflection, she thinks that maybe the balloon wasn't such a great plan. The Tin Woodman is crying for Oz like he's dead. He asks Dorothy to wipe his tears so he doesn't rust. The Scarecrow is in charge now. People like him fine, but they miss the wizard. The gang is having a meeting in the throne room to plan their next steps. Everyone's in a great mood except for Dorothy, who's still fixated on getting back to Kansas. The Scarecrow has a long think. Finally he suggests that Dorothy should call the Winged Monkeys and ask them to fly her home. Dorothy calls them and the Monkey King is like, sorry, no can do. Now Dorothy's even more bummed because she's wasted a wish. The gang calls a soldier in for a consultation. The soldier suggests that Dorothy should seek out Glinda, the Good Witch of the South. She has a great reputation for helping people. The soldier gives them directions to head south. He warns Dorothy she may encounter some dangerous creatures along the way. The Lion says he's going to travel with Dorothy so he can protect her. The Woodman says he's going, too. So does the Scarecrow. It's road trip: the sequel! Dorothy declares that they'll leave in the morning. The group disbands to get ready.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_18_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 19

chapter 19

{"name": "Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-19", "summary": "The gang leaves the Emerald City. On their way out, the Guardian of the Gates tells the Scarecrow that he needs to return ASAP to rule the land. Everyone's in a great mood. Toto's back to chasing butterflies, so you know all's well. They talk about Oz. Dorothy has come to the conclusion that he really was a good man. He was a terrible wizard, though. Day One goes really well. Day Two they come to a dense forest. The Scarecrow tries to enter under the branches of a big tree, but the tree wallops him good. Even so, the Scarecrow's fine. He tries to pass under another tree and gets tossed again. Dang, these trees are violent! The Tin Woodman goes back to the first tree that assaulted the Scarecrow and gives it a good hack with his axe. Everyone's able to pass into the forest without further ado. It was just that first line of trees that was the problem. When they emerge from the woods, they come to a tall, smooth wall. The tin man says he'll build a ladder. Give that man a raise!", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XIX. Attacked by the Fighting Trees. [Illustration] [Illustration] The next morning Dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye, and they all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers, who had walked with them as far as the gate. When the Guardian of the Gate saw them again he wondered greatly that they could leave the beautiful City to get into new trouble. But he at once unlocked their spectacles, which he put back into the green box, and gave them many good wishes to carry with them. "You are now our ruler," he said to the Scarecrow; "so you must come back to us as soon as possible." "I certainly shall if I am able," the Scarecrow replied; "but I must help Dorothy to get home, first." As Dorothy bade the good-natured Guardian a last farewell she said, "I have been very kindly treated in your lovely City, and everyone has been good to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am." "Don't try, my dear," he answered. "We should like to keep you with us, but if it is your wish to return to Kansas I hope you will find a way." He then opened the gate of the outer wall and they walked forth and started upon their journey. The sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces toward the Land of the South. They were all in the best of spirits, and laughed and chatted together. Dorothy was once more filled with the hope of getting home, and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were glad to be of use to her. As for the Lion, he sniffed the fresh air with delight and whisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at being in the country again, while Toto ran around them and chased the moths and butterflies, barking merrily all the time. "City life does not agree with me at all," remarked the Lion, as they walked along at a brisk pace. "I have lost much flesh since I lived there, and now I am anxious for a chance to show the other beasts how courageous I have grown." [Illustration: "_The branches bent down and twined around him._"] They now turned and took a last look at the Emerald City. All they could see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the green walls, and high up above everything the spires and dome of the Palace of Oz. "Oz was not such a bad Wizard, after all," said the Tin Woodman, as he felt his heart rattling around in his breast. "He knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too," said the Scarecrow. "If Oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me," added the Lion, "he would have been a brave man." Dorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he had done his best, so she forgave him. As he said, he was a good man, even if he was a bad Wizard. The first day's journey was through the green fields and bright flowers that stretched about the Emerald City on every side. They slept that night on the grass, with nothing but the stars over them; and they rested very well indeed. In the morning they travelled on until they came to a thick wood. There was no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the right and left as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not dare change the direction of their journey for fear of getting lost. So they looked for the place where it would be easiest to get into the forest. The Scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big tree with such wide spreading-branches that there was room for the party to pass underneath. So he walked forward to the tree, but just as he came under the first branches they bent down and twined around him, and the next minute he was raised from the ground and flung headlong among his fellow travellers. This did not hurt the Scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he looked rather dizzy when Dorothy picked him up. "Here is another space between the trees," called the Lion. [Illustration] "Let me try it first," said the Scarecrow, "for it doesn't hurt me to get thrown about." He walked up to another tree, as he spoke, but its branches immediately seized him and tossed him back again. "This is strange," exclaimed Dorothy; "what shall we do?" "The trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us, and stop our journey," remarked the Lion. "I believe I will try it myself," said the Woodman, and shouldering his axe he marched up to the first tree that had handled the Scarecrow so roughly. When a big branch bent down to seize him the Woodman chopped at it so fiercely that he cut it in two. At once the tree began shaking all its branches as if in pain, and the Tin Woodman passed safely under it. "Come on!" he shouted to the others; "be quick!" They all ran forward and passed under the tree without injury, except Toto, who was caught by a small branch and shaken until he howled. But the Woodman promptly chopped off the branch and set the little dog free. The other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back, so they made up their minds that only the first row of trees could bend down their branches, and that probably these were the policemen of the forest, and given this wonderful power in order to keep strangers out of it. The four travellers walked with ease through the trees until they came to the further edge of the wood. Then, to their surprise, they found before them a high wall, which seemed to be made of white china. It was smooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads. "What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy. "I will make a ladder," said the Tin Woodman, "for we certainly must climb over the wall."

Chapter 19

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-19

The gang leaves the Emerald City. On their way out, the Guardian of the Gates tells the Scarecrow that he needs to return ASAP to rule the land. Everyone's in a great mood. Toto's back to chasing butterflies, so you know all's well. They talk about Oz. Dorothy has come to the conclusion that he really was a good man. He was a terrible wizard, though. Day One goes really well. Day Two they come to a dense forest. The Scarecrow tries to enter under the branches of a big tree, but the tree wallops him good. Even so, the Scarecrow's fine. He tries to pass under another tree and gets tossed again. Dang, these trees are violent! The Tin Woodman goes back to the first tree that assaulted the Scarecrow and gives it a good hack with his axe. Everyone's able to pass into the forest without further ado. It was just that first line of trees that was the problem. When they emerge from the woods, they come to a tall, smooth wall. The tin man says he'll build a ladder. Give that man a raise!

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_19_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-20", "summary": "While the tin man is building the ladder, the Scarecrow wonders what lies beyond the wall. The tin man says there's no sense in worrying about it. Whatever is there is there. The ladder's finished and the Scarecrow is the first to go up. Dorothy's right behind him. Everyone's astonished by what's beyond the wall: a strange country made of china. You know, like the kind that fancy dishes are made of. The houses, the people, the animals--everything is made of china. And it's all in miniature, like figurines. The gang can't quite figure out how to get the ladder over the wall, so the Scarecrow jumps down and everyone jumps on top of him to cushion their landing. As they're walking through the strange country, they startle a cow, who kicks a bucket and breaks her leg. The china lady who was milking the cow is really angry. Now she's going to have to take her cow to the mender's to be fixed. The cow limps off. The Tin Woodman tells everyone they're going to have to be very careful walking through this country. These pretty little people are fragile. Two seconds later, Dorothy chases a china Princess who runs away from the group. The Princess asks her to stop. She's afraid she's going to fall and break. Dorothy gets it and stops chasing her. The Princess introduces them to another china figure, a clown named Mr. Joker. He's clearly been broken and mended lots of times. Dorothy tells the Princess that she wants to take her home and place her on the shelf. The Princess is like, nah. That sounds awful. Dorothy doesn't want to make the Princess unhappy, so she gives up and the gang goes on their way. Eventually they come to another china wall, but it's not as high so they're able to cross it without the ladder. On the way out the Lion accidentally breaks a church with his tail. Dorothy's just grateful that they didn't break more stuff than they did.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XX. The Dainty China Country. [Illustration] [Illustration] While the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the forest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk. The Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay beside him. The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him: "I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of." "Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the Woodman; "when we have climbed over it we shall know what is on the other side." After a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but the Tin Woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose. The Scarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that the ladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he was so awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him from falling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the Scarecrow said, "Oh, my!" "Go on," exclaimed Dorothy. So the Scarecrow climbed further up and sat down on the top of the wall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried, "Oh, my!" just as the Scarecrow had done. Then Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy made him be still. The Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came last; but both of them cried, "Oh, my!" as soon as they looked over the wall. When they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall they looked down and saw a strange sight. [Illustration: "_These people were all made of china._"] Before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and shining and white as the bottom of a big platter. Scattered around were many houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest colours. These houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching only as high as Dorothy's waist. There were also pretty little barns, with china fences around them, and many cows and sheep and horses and pigs and chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups. But the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer country. There were milk-maids and shepherdesses, with bright-colored bodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in knee-breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and golden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jewelled crowns upon their heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns in ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall, pointed caps. And, strangest of all, these people were all made of china, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of them was no higher than Dorothy's knee. No one did so much as look at the travellers at first, except one little purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again. "How shall we get down?" asked Dorothy. They found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the Scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that the hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they took pains not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet. When all were safely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body was quite flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again. "We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side," said Dorothy; "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except due South." They began walking through the country of the china people, and the first thing they came to was a china milk-maid milking a china cow. As they drew near the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool, the pail, and even the milk-maid herself, all falling on the china ground with a great clatter. Dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg short off, and that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor milk-maid had a nick in her left elbow. "There!" cried the milk-maid, angrily; "see what you have done! My cow has broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender's shop and have it glued on again. What do you mean by coming here and frightening my cow?" "I'm very sorry," returned Dorothy; "please forgive us." But the pretty milk-maid was much too vexed to make any answer. She picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping on three legs. As she left them the milk-maid cast many reproachful glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked elbow close to her side. [Illustration] Dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap. "We must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted Woodman, "or we may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it." A little farther on Dorothy met a most beautiful dressed young princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run away. Dorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her; but the china girl cried out, "Don't chase me! don't chase me!" She had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped and said, "Why not?" "Because," answered the princess, also stopping, a safe distance away, "if I run I may fall down and break myself." "But couldn't you be mended?" asked the girl. "Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know," replied the princess. "I suppose not," said Dorothy. "Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns," continued the china lady, "who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has broken himself so often that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn't look at all pretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for yourself." Indeed, a jolly little Clown now came walking toward them, and Dorothy could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and green he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way and showing plainly that he had been mended in many places. The Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily he said, "My lady fair, Why do you stare At poor old Mr. Joker? You're quite as stiff And prim as if You'd eaten up a poker!" "Be quiet, sir!" said the princess; "can't you see these are strangers, and should be treated with respect?" "Well, that's respect, I expect," declared the Clown, and immediately stood upon his head. "Don't mind Mr. Joker," said the princess to Dorothy; "he is considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish." [Illustration] "Oh, I don't mind him a bit," said Dorothy. "But you are so beautiful," she continued, "that I am sure I could love you dearly. Won't you let me carry you back to Kansas and stand you on Aunt Em's mantle-shelf? I could carry you in my basket." "That would make me very unhappy," answered the china princess. "You see, here in our own country we live contentedly, and can talk and move around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our joints at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty. Of course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantle-shelves and cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter here in our own country." "I would not make you unhappy for all the world!" exclaimed Dorothy; "so I'll just say good-bye." "Good-bye," replied the princess. They walked carefully through the china country. The little animals and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers would break them, and after an hour or so the travellers reached the other side of the country and came to another china wall. It was not as high as the first, however, and by standing upon the Lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the Lion gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he jumped he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to pieces. "That was too bad," said Dorothy, "but really I think we were lucky in not doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow's leg and a church. They are all so brittle!" "They are, indeed," said the Scarecrow, "and I am thankful I am made of straw and cannot be easily damaged. There are worse things in the world than being a Scarecrow."

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-20

While the tin man is building the ladder, the Scarecrow wonders what lies beyond the wall. The tin man says there's no sense in worrying about it. Whatever is there is there. The ladder's finished and the Scarecrow is the first to go up. Dorothy's right behind him. Everyone's astonished by what's beyond the wall: a strange country made of china. You know, like the kind that fancy dishes are made of. The houses, the people, the animals--everything is made of china. And it's all in miniature, like figurines. The gang can't quite figure out how to get the ladder over the wall, so the Scarecrow jumps down and everyone jumps on top of him to cushion their landing. As they're walking through the strange country, they startle a cow, who kicks a bucket and breaks her leg. The china lady who was milking the cow is really angry. Now she's going to have to take her cow to the mender's to be fixed. The cow limps off. The Tin Woodman tells everyone they're going to have to be very careful walking through this country. These pretty little people are fragile. Two seconds later, Dorothy chases a china Princess who runs away from the group. The Princess asks her to stop. She's afraid she's going to fall and break. Dorothy gets it and stops chasing her. The Princess introduces them to another china figure, a clown named Mr. Joker. He's clearly been broken and mended lots of times. Dorothy tells the Princess that she wants to take her home and place her on the shelf. The Princess is like, nah. That sounds awful. Dorothy doesn't want to make the Princess unhappy, so she gives up and the gang goes on their way. Eventually they come to another china wall, but it's not as high so they're able to cross it without the ladder. On the way out the Lion accidentally breaks a church with his tail. Dorothy's just grateful that they didn't break more stuff than they did.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_20_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 21

chapter 21

{"name": "Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-21", "summary": "The travelers are over the wall and in a nasty country filled with wetlands. Soon enough, they enter a forest. The Lion's pretty excited about being in the forest. The other travelers, not so much. They make camp for the evening. The next day, the group comes upon a group of animals that are clearly having some sort of meeting. The animals see the Lion and explain what's up: there's a giant evil spider terrorizing the forest. The Lion's like, I'll kill it. No biggie. But afterwards, I want to be king. The animals agree and the Lion goes off in search of the spider. Fortunately, when he finds the beast, it is asleep, and the Lion lops off its head. Ewwww. All the animals of the forest bow down to the Lion. Long live the king.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXI. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts. [Illustration] [Illustration] After climbing down from the china wall the travellers found themselves in a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and covered with tall, rank grass. It was difficult to walk far without falling into muddy holes, for the grass was so thick that it hid them from sight. However, by carefully picking their way, they got safely along until they reached solid ground. But here the country seemed wilder than ever, and after a long and tiresome walk through the underbrush they entered another forest, where the trees were bigger and older than any they had ever seen. "This forest is perfectly delightful," declared the Lion, looking around him with joy; "never have I seen a more beautiful place." "It seems gloomy," said the Scarecrow. "Not a bit of it," answered the Lion; "I should like to live here all my life. See how soft the dried leaves are under your feet and how rich and green the moss is that clings to these old trees. Surely no wild beast could wish a pleasanter home." "Perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now," said Dorothy. "I suppose there are," returned the Lion; "but I do not see any of them about." They walked through the forest until it became too dark to go any farther. Dorothy and Toto and the Lion lay down to sleep, while the Woodman and the Scarecrow kept watch over them as usual. When morning came they started again. Before they had gone far they heard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals. Toto whimpered a little but none of the others was frightened and they kept along the well-trodden path until they came to an opening in the wood, in which were gathered hundreds of beasts of every variety. There were tigers and elephants and bears and wolves and foxes and all the others in the natural history, and for a moment Dorothy was afraid. But the Lion explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he judged by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble. As he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at once the great assemblage hushed as if by magic. The biggest of the tigers came up to the Lion and bowed, saying, [Illustration] "Welcome, O King of Beasts! You have come in good time to fight our enemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest once more." "What is your trouble?" asked the Lion, quietly. "We are all threatened," answered the tiger, "by a fierce enemy which has lately come into this forest. It is a most tremendous monster, like a great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and legs as long as a tree trunk. It has eight of these long legs, and as the monster crawls through the forest he seizes an animal with a leg and drags it to his mouth, where he eats it as a spider does a fly. Not one of us is safe while this fierce creature is alive, and we had called a meeting to decide how to take care of ourselves when you came among us." The Lion thought for a moment. "Are there any other lions in this forest?" he asked. "No; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all. And, besides, they were none of them nearly so large and brave as you." "If I put an end to your enemy will you bow down to me and obey me as King of the Forest?" enquired the Lion. "We will do that gladly," returned the tiger; and all the other beasts roared with a mighty roar: "We will!" "Where is this great spider of yours now?" asked the Lion. "Yonder, among the oak trees," said the tiger, pointing with his fore-foot. "Take good care of these friends of mine," said the Lion, "and I will go at once to fight the monster." He bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do battle with the enemy. The great spider was lying asleep when the Lion found him, and it looked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust. Its legs were quite as long as the tiger had said, and it's body covered with coarse black hair. It had a great mouth, with a row of sharp teeth a foot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy body by a neck as slender as a wasp's waist. This gave the Lion a hint of the best way to attack the creature, and as he knew it was easier to fight it asleep than awake, he gave a great spring and landed directly upon the monster's back. Then, with one blow of his heavy paw, all armed with sharp claws, he knocked the spider's head from its body. Jumping down, he watched it until the long legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was quite dead. The Lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the forest were waiting for him and said, proudly, "You need fear your enemy no longer." Then the beasts bowed down to the Lion as their King, and he promised to come back and rule over them as soon as Dorothy was safely on her way to Kansas.

Chapter 21

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-21

The travelers are over the wall and in a nasty country filled with wetlands. Soon enough, they enter a forest. The Lion's pretty excited about being in the forest. The other travelers, not so much. They make camp for the evening. The next day, the group comes upon a group of animals that are clearly having some sort of meeting. The animals see the Lion and explain what's up: there's a giant evil spider terrorizing the forest. The Lion's like, I'll kill it. No biggie. But afterwards, I want to be king. The animals agree and the Lion goes off in search of the spider. Fortunately, when he finds the beast, it is asleep, and the Lion lops off its head. Ewwww. All the animals of the forest bow down to the Lion. Long live the king.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_21_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 22

chapter 22

{"name": "Chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-22", "summary": "Having emerged from the forest, our travelers encounter a steep hill. After they climb it, a strange man with no arms approaches and tells them they shall not pass. The Scarecrow's like, sorry, this is happening. And then the harmless man's head shoots out from his body and knocks the Scarecrow down the hill. Oh dear. There are hundreds of these armless guys. The tin man tells Dorothy to call the Winged Monkeys. The King agrees to carry Dorothy and her friends past the armless dudes. Then he bids her goodbye, reminding her that she has used the Golden Cap three times, so they won't meet again. The travelers are in the country of the Quadlings now, and fortunately the Quadlings are really friendly. Things are looking up. A nice family serves Dorothy and company dinner, followed by seven different kinds of dessert. They deserve it. A woman gives them directions to Glinda's place. They walk for a while, eventually happening upon a castle. Dorothy tells the guards that they want to see Glinda. They're admitted into the castle.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXII. The Country of the Quadlings [Illustration] [Illustration: "_The Head shot forward and struck the Scarecrow._"] [Illustration] The four travellers passed through the rest of the forest in safety, and when they came out from its gloom saw before them a steep hill, covered from top to bottom with great pieces of rock. "That will be a hard climb," said the Scarecrow, "but we must get over the hill, nevertheless." So he led the way and the others followed. They had nearly reached the first rock when they heard a rough voice cry out, "Keep back!" "Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow. Then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said, "This hill belongs to us, and we don't allow anyone to cross it." "But we must cross it," said the Scarecrow. "We're going to the country of the Quadlings." "But you shall not!" replied the voice, and there stepped from behind the rock the strangest man the travellers had ever seen. He was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was flat at the top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. But he had no arms at all, and, seeing this, the Scarecrow did not fear that so helpless a creature could prevent them from climbing the hill. So he said, "I'm sorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether you like it or not," and he walked boldly forward. As quick as lightning the man's head shot forward and his neck stretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck the Scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the hill. Almost as quickly as it came the head went back to the body, and the man laughed harshly as he said, "It isn't as easy as you think!" A chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and Dorothy saw hundreds of the armless Hammer-Heads upon the hillside, one behind every rock. The Lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the Scarecrow's mishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder he dashed up the hill. Again a head shot swiftly out, and the great Lion went rolling down the hill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball. Dorothy ran down and helped the Scarecrow to his feet, and the Lion came up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said, "It is useless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can withstand them." "What can we do, then?" she asked. "Call the Winged Monkeys," suggested the Tin Woodman; "you have still the right to command them once more." "Very well," she answered, and putting on the Golden Cap she uttered the magic words. The Monkeys were as prompt as ever, and in a few moments the entire band stood before her. "What are your commands?" enquired the King of the Monkeys, bowing low. "Carry us over the hill to the country of the Quadlings," answered the girl. "It shall be done," said the King, and at once the Winged Monkeys caught the four travellers and Toto up in their arms and flew away with them. As they passed over the hill the Hammer-Heads yelled with vexation, and shot their heads high in the air; but they could not reach the Winged Monkeys, which carried Dorothy and her comrades safely over the hill and set them down in the beautiful country of the Quadlings. "This is the last time you can summon us," said the leader to Dorothy; "so good-bye and good luck to you." "Good-bye, and thank you very much," returned the girl; and the Monkeys rose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling. The country of the Quadlings seemed rich and happy. There was field upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between, and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them. The fences and houses and bridges were all painted bright red, just as they had been painted yellow in the country of the Winkies and blue in the country of the Munchkins. The Quadlings themselves, who were short and fat and looked chubby and good natured, were dressed all in red, which showed bright against the green grass and the yellowing grain. The Monkeys had set them down near a farm house, and the four travellers walked up to it and knocked at the door. It was opened by the farmer's wife, and when Dorothy asked for something to eat the woman gave them all a good dinner, with three kinds of cake and four kinds of cookies, and a bowl of milk for Toto. "How far is it to the Castle of Glinda?" asked the child. "It is not a great way," answered the farmer's wife. "Take the road to the South and you will soon reach it." Thanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the fields and across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a very beautiful Castle. Before the gates were three young girls, dressed in handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as Dorothy approached one of them said to her, "Why have you come to the South Country?" "To see the Good Witch who rules here," she answered. "Will you take me to her?" "Let me have your name and I will ask Glinda if she will receive you." They told who they were, and the girl soldier went into the Castle. After a few moments she came back to say that Dorothy and the others were to be admitted at once. [Illustration]

Chapter 22

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-22

Having emerged from the forest, our travelers encounter a steep hill. After they climb it, a strange man with no arms approaches and tells them they shall not pass. The Scarecrow's like, sorry, this is happening. And then the harmless man's head shoots out from his body and knocks the Scarecrow down the hill. Oh dear. There are hundreds of these armless guys. The tin man tells Dorothy to call the Winged Monkeys. The King agrees to carry Dorothy and her friends past the armless dudes. Then he bids her goodbye, reminding her that she has used the Golden Cap three times, so they won't meet again. The travelers are in the country of the Quadlings now, and fortunately the Quadlings are really friendly. Things are looking up. A nice family serves Dorothy and company dinner, followed by seven different kinds of dessert. They deserve it. A woman gives them directions to Glinda's place. They walk for a while, eventually happening upon a castle. Dorothy tells the guards that they want to see Glinda. They're admitted into the castle.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_22_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-23", "summary": "The gang has a chance to clean up before they meet the witch. Finally, they're taken to the throne. Dorothy walks the witch through everything that's happened so far, and explains that she still wants to return to Kansas. Glinda thinks that shouldn't be a problem--she just needs the Golden Cap. The plan is that Glinda will use the cap to send the Scarecrow, the tin man, and the Lion back to Oz, the Winkies, and the forest, respectively. Those are their homes now. As for Dorothy, all she has to do is use the silver shoes. She's had the power to return home this whole time; she just didn't know it. Her friends are grateful for the journey because Dorothy helped them reach their goals. But now Dorothy's ready to go home. She bids everyone a tearful goodbye and tells the shoes to take her home. Now Dorothy feels herself whirling through the air. She takes three steps and, boom! She's back in Kansas. Dorothy sees Uncle Henry and the new farmhouse he built. Toto runs for the barn, barking his head off. Dorothy stands to follow him and finds herself in her stocking feet. The silver shoes fell off along the way and are forever lost in the desert.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXIII. The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish. [Illustration] [Illustration: "_You must give me the Golden Cap._"] [Illustration] Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his joints. When they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl into a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies. She was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was a rich red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her dress was pure white; but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly upon the little girl. "What can I do for you, my child?" she asked. Dorothy told the Witch all her story; how the cyclone had brought her to the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions, and of the wonderful adventures they had met with. "My greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this year than they were last I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it." Glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving little girl. "Bless your dear heart," she said, "I am sure I can tell you of a way to get back to Kansas." Then she added: "But, if I do, you must give me the Golden Cap." "Willingly!" exclaimed Dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to me now, and when you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys three times." "And I think I shall need their service just those three times," answered Glinda, smiling. Dorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to the Scarecrow, "What will you do when Dorothy has left us?" "I will return to the Emerald City," he replied, "for Oz has made me its ruler and the people like me. The only thing that worries me is how to cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads." "By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys to carry you to the gates of the Emerald City," said Glinda, "for it would be a shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler." "Am I really wonderful?" asked the Scarecrow. "You are unusual," replied Glinda. Turning to the Tin Woodman, she asked: "What will become of you when Dorothy leaves this country?" He leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said, "The Winkies were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the Wicked Witch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I could get back again to the country of the West I should like nothing better than to rule over them forever." "My second command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "will be that they carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your brains may not be so large to look at as those of the Scarecrow, but you are really brighter than he is--when you are well polished--and I am sure you will rule the Winkies wisely and well." Then the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked, "When Dorothy has returned to her own home, what will become of you?" "Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads," he answered, "lies a grand old forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their King. If I could only get back to this forest I would pass my life very happily there." "My third command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "shall be to carry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers of the Golden Cap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys, that he and his band may thereafter be free for evermore." The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good Witch earnestly for her kindness, and Dorothy exclaimed, [Illustration] "You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have not yet told me how to get back to Kansas." "Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert," replied Glinda. "If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em the very first day you came to this country." "But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!" cried the Scarecrow. "I might have passed my whole life in the farmer's cornfield." "And I should not have had my lovely heart," said the Tin Woodman. "I might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world." "And I should have lived a coward forever," declared the Lion, "and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me." "This is all true," said Dorothy, "and I am glad I was of use to these good friends. But now that each of them has had what he most desired, and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule beside, I think I should like to go back to Kansas." "The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go." "If that is so," said the child, joyfully, "I will ask them to carry me back to Kansas at once." She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her loving comrades. Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she had shown to her friends and herself. Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times, saying, "Take me home to Aunt Em!" * * * * * [Illustration] Instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears. The Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly that she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where she was. At length, however, she sat up and looked about her. "Good gracious!" she cried. For she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just before her was the new farm-house Uncle Henry built after the cyclone had carried away the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the cows in the barnyard, and Toto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn, barking joyously. Dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet. For the Silver Shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were lost forever in the desert. [Illustration]

Chapter 23

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-23

The gang has a chance to clean up before they meet the witch. Finally, they're taken to the throne. Dorothy walks the witch through everything that's happened so far, and explains that she still wants to return to Kansas. Glinda thinks that shouldn't be a problem--she just needs the Golden Cap. The plan is that Glinda will use the cap to send the Scarecrow, the tin man, and the Lion back to Oz, the Winkies, and the forest, respectively. Those are their homes now. As for Dorothy, all she has to do is use the silver shoes. She's had the power to return home this whole time; she just didn't know it. Her friends are grateful for the journey because Dorothy helped them reach their goals. But now Dorothy's ready to go home. She bids everyone a tearful goodbye and tells the shoes to take her home. Now Dorothy feels herself whirling through the air. She takes three steps and, boom! She's back in Kansas. Dorothy sees Uncle Henry and the new farmhouse he built. Toto runs for the barn, barking his head off. Dorothy stands to follow him and finds herself in her stocking feet. The silver shoes fell off along the way and are forever lost in the desert.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/43936-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Wonderful Wizard of Oz/section_23_part_0.txt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-24", "summary": "Here's Aunt Em! Dorothy runs into her arms. There's no place like home.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXIV. Home Again. Aunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she looked up and saw Dorothy running toward her. "My darling child!" she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and covering her face with kisses; "where in the world did you come from?" "From the Land of Oz," said Dorothy, gravely. "And here is Toto, too. And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be at home again!" [Illustration]

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301030526/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/wonderful-wizard-of-oz-book/summary/chapter-24

Here's Aunt Em! Dorothy runs into her arms. There's no place like home.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3825-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Pygmalion/section_0_part_0.txt

Pygmalion.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Act 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-1", "summary": "It's a dark and stormy night, and a crowd of people are seeking refuge from the rain in front of a church in London's Covent Garden market. Among them are an older woman and her daughter , their son Freddy , an old, well-dressed military man, a poor young flower girl with a thick Cockney accent, and a strange man standing in the shadows writing down everything the flower girl says. Trouble starts when the older woman starts asking the flower girl questions. The girl flips out and starts telling everyone what a good girl she is. The crowd comes to her defense and everything seems fine until some guy informs her about the strange man taking notes. People think he's some kind of cop, or maybe just a pervert. She flips out again, although its pretty darn hard to understand what she's saying through her thick accent, until the note-taker shows himself, and everybody sees that he's not a cop or a pervert, he's just an rich guy with nice boots and a knack for guessing where people come from, geography-wise. People are amazed/frightened by this ability. He tells the flower girl to, well, shut up. She whines some more. He asks her to kindly shut up again and to please stop butchering the English language . He then tells the old guy that he could pass off the crazy flower girl as royalty by teaching her how to speak. The two men introduce themselves - turns out they're both well-respected linguists. The note-taker is Henry Higgins, teacher of phonetics, the old guy an expert on the dead Indian language Sanskrit. Higgins takes pity on the flower girl and gives her a sovereign . The girl jumps for joy, starts howling like a banshee - no, really - and jumps in the next cab. The two men head back to Pickering's hotel for dinner, and poor old Freddy gets left in the rain, abandoned by his mom and sis.", "analysis": ""}

Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab whistles blowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians running for shelter into the market and under the portico of St. Paul's Church, where there are already several people, among them a lady and her daughter in evening dress. They are all peering out gloomily at the rain, except one man with his back turned to the rest, who seems wholly preoccupied with a notebook in which he is writing busily. The church clock strikes the first quarter. THE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to the one on her left] I'm getting chilled to the bone. What can Freddy be doing all this time? He's been gone twenty minutes. THE MOTHER [on her daughter's right] Not so long. But he ought to have got us a cab by this. A BYSTANDER [on the lady's right] He won't get no cab not until half-past eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping their theatre fares. THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can't stand here until half-past eleven. It's too bad. THE BYSTANDER. Well, it ain't my fault, missus. THE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got one at the theatre door. THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy? THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn't he? Freddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street side, and comes between them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a young man of twenty, in evening dress, very wet around the ankles. THE DAUGHTER. Well, haven't you got a cab? FREDDY. There's not one to be had for love or money. THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can't have tried. THE DAUGHTER. It's too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get one ourselves? FREDDY. I tell you they're all engaged. The rain was so sudden: nobody was prepared; and everybody had to take a cab. I've been to Charing Cross one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other; and they were all engaged. THE MOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square? FREDDY. There wasn't one at Trafalgar Square. THE DAUGHTER. Did you try? FREDDY. I tried as far as Charing Cross Station. Did you expect me to walk to Hammersmith? THE DAUGHTER. You haven't tried at all. THE MOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and don't come back until you have found a cab. FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing. THE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in this draught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig-- FREDDY. Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go. [He opens his umbrella and dashes off Strandwards, but comes into collision with a flower girl, who is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. A blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattling peal of thunder, orchestrates the incident] THE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah. FREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off]. THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing them in the basket] There's menners f' yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod into the mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the column, sorting her flowers, on the lady's right. She is not at all an attractive person. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of black straw that has long been exposed to the dust and soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing rather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots are much the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is very dirty. Her features are no worse than theirs; but their condition leaves something to be desired; and she needs the services of a dentist]. THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son's name is Freddy, pray? THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y' de-ooty bawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore gel's flahrzn than ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them? [Here, with apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her dialect without a phonetic alphabet must be abandoned as unintelligible outside London.] THE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea! THE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies? THE DAUGHTER. No. I've nothing smaller than sixpence. THE FLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner, kind lady. THE MOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly]. Now [to the girl] This is for your flowers. THE FLOWER GIRL. Thank you kindly, lady. THE DAUGHTER. Make her give you the change. These things are only a penny a bunch. THE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can keep the change. THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady. THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman's name. THE FLOWER GIRL. I didn't. THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don't try to deceive me. THE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who's trying to deceive you? I called him Freddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you was talking to a stranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside her basket]. THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might have spared Freddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the pillar]. An elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter, and closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight as Freddy, very wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a light overcoat. He takes the place left vacant by the daughter's retirement. THE GENTLEMAN. Phew! THE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its stopping? THE GENTLEMAN. I'm afraid not. It started worse than ever about two minutes ago. [He goes to the plinth beside the flower girl; puts up his foot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser ends]. THE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter]. THE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman's proximity to establish friendly relations with him]. If it's worse it's a sign it's nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off a poor girl. THE GENTLEMAN. I'm sorry, I haven't any change. THE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain, THE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I've nothing less. THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can change half-a-crown. Take this for tuppence. THE GENTLEMAN. Now don't be troublesome: there's a good girl. [Trying his pockets] I really haven't any change--Stop: here's three hapence, if that's any use to you [he retreats to the other pillar]. THE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence better than nothing] Thank you, sir. THE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for it. There's a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word you're saying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes]. THE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain't done nothing wrong by speaking to the gentleman. I've a right to sell flowers if I keep off the kerb. [Hysterically] I'm a respectable girl: so help me, I never spoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [General hubbub, mostly sympathetic to the flower girl, but deprecating her excessive sensibility. Cries of Don't start hollerin. Who's hurting you? Nobody's going to touch you. What's the good of fussing? Steady on. Easy, easy, etc., come from the elderly staid spectators, who pat her comfortingly. Less patient ones bid her shut her head, or ask her roughly what is wrong with her. A remoter group, not knowing what the matter is, crowd in and increase the noise with question and answer: What's the row? What she do? Where is he? A tec taking her down. What! him? Yes: him over there: Took money off the gentleman, etc. The flower girl, distraught and mobbed, breaks through them to the gentleman, crying mildly] Oh, sir, don't let him charge me. You dunno what it means to me. They'll take away my character and drive me on the streets for speaking to gentlemen. They-- THE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding after him] There, there, there, there! Who's hurting you, you silly girl? What do you take me for? THE BYSTANDER. It's all right: he's a gentleman: look at his boots. [Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a copper's nark, sir. THE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What's a copper's nark? THE BYSTANDER [inept at definition] It's a--well, it's a copper's nark, as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of informer. THE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said a word-- THE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut up. Do I look like a policeman? THE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down my words for? How do I know whether you took me down right? You just show me what you've wrote about me. [The note taker opens his book and holds it steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the mob trying to read it over his shoulders would upset a weaker man]. What's that? That ain't proper writing. I can't read that. THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation exactly] "Cheer ap, Keptin; n' haw ya flahr orf a pore gel." THE FLOWER GIRL [much distressed] It's because I called him Captain. I meant no harm. [To the gentleman] Oh, sir, don't let him lay a charge agen me for a word like that. You-- THE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker] Really, sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin protecting me against molestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see that the girl meant no harm. THE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage] Course they could. What business is it of yours? You mind your own affairs. He wants promotion, he does. Taking down people's words! Girl never said a word to him. What harm if she did? Nice thing a girl can't shelter from the rain without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [She is conducted by the more sympathetic demonstrators back to her plinth, where she resumes her seat and struggles with her emotion]. THE BYSTANDER. He ain't a tec. He's a blooming busybody: that's what he is. I tell you, look at his boots. THE NOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your people down at Selsey? THE BYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from Selsey? THE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do you come to be up so far east? You were born in Lisson Grove. THE FLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving Lisson Grove? It wasn't fit for a pig to live in; and I had to pay four-and-six a week. [In tears] Oh, boo--hoo--oo-- THE NOTE TAKER. Live where you like; but stop that noise. THE GENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he can't touch you: you have a right to live where you please. A SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker and the gentleman] Park Lane, for instance. I'd like to go into the Housing Question with you, I would. THE FLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her basket, and talking very low-spiritedly to herself] I'm a good girl, I am. THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where _I_ come from? THE NOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton. Titterings. Popular interest in the note taker's performance increases. THE SARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didn't? Bly me! You know everything, you do. THE FLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Ain't no call to meddle with me, he ain't. THE BYSTANDER [to her] Of course he ain't. Don't you stand it from him. [To the note taker] See here: what call have you to know about people what never offered to meddle with you? Where's your warrant? SEVERAL BYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes: where's your warrant? THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I don't want to have no truck with him. THE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, don't you? Catch you taking liberties with a gentleman! THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell HIM where he come from if you want to go fortune-telling. THE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India. THE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the note taker's favor. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him proper. Hear him tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I ask, sir, do you do this for your living at a music hall? THE NOTE TAKER. I've thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day. The rain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd begin to drop off. THE FLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] He's no gentleman, he ain't, to interfere with a poor girl. THE DAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the front and displacing the gentleman, who politely retires to the other side of the pillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if I stay in this draught any longer. THE NOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her pronunciation of "monia"] Earlscourt. THE DAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent remarks to yourself? THE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn't mean to. I beg your pardon. Your mother's Epsom, unmistakeably. THE MOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker] How very curious! I was brought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom. THE NOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a name! Excuse me. [To the daughter] You want a cab, do you? THE DAUGHTER. Don't dare speak to me. THE MOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates her with an angry shrug and retires haughtily.] We should be so grateful to you, sir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker produces a whistle]. Oh, thank you. [She joins her daughter]. The note taker blows a piercing blast. THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a plain-clothes copper. THE BYSTANDER. That ain't a police whistle: that's a sporting whistle. THE FLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings] He's no right to take away my character. My character is the same to me as any lady's. THE NOTE TAKER. I don't know whether you've noticed it; but the rain stopped about two minutes ago. THE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn't you say so before? and us losing our time listening to your silliness. [He walks off towards the Strand]. THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come from Anwell. Go back there. THE NOTE TAKER [helpfully] _H_anwell. THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech] Thenk you, teacher. Haw haw! So long [he touches his hat with mock respect and strolls off]. THE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like it himself. THE MOTHER. It's quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor bus. Come. [She gathers her skirts above her ankles and hurries off towards the Strand]. THE DAUGHTER. But the cab--[her mother is out of hearing]. Oh, how tiresome! [She follows angrily]. All the rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and the flower girl, who sits arranging her basket, and still pitying herself in murmurs. THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without being worrited and chivied. THE GENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker's left] How do you do it, if I may ask? THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That's my profession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living by his hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in London. Sometimes within two streets. THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward! THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that? THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts. Men begin in Kentish Town with 80 pounds a year, and end in Park Lane with a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but they give themselves away every time they open their mouths. Now I can teach them-- THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl-- THE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooing instantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship. THE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I've a right to be here if I like, same as you. THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting sounds has no right to be anywhere--no right to live. Remember that you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech: that your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton and The Bible; and don't sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon. THE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingled wonder and deprecation without daring to raise her head] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! THE NOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [He writes; then holds out the book and reads, reproducing her vowels exactly] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--ow--oo! THE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite of herself] Garn! THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an ambassador's garden party. I could even get her a place as lady's maid or shop assistant, which requires better English. That's the sort of thing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do genuine scientific work in phonetics, and a little as a poet on Miltonic lines. THE GENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and-- THE NOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, the author of Spoken Sanscrit? THE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you? THE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins's Universal Alphabet. PICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you. HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you. PICKERING. Where do you live? HIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow. PICKERING. I'm at the Carlton. Come with me now and let's have a jaw over some supper. HIGGINS. Right you are. THE FLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kind gentleman. I'm short for my lodging. PICKERING. I really haven't any change. I'm sorry [he goes away]. HIGGINS [shocked at girl's mendacity] Liar. You said you could change half-a-crown. THE FLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed with nails, you ought. [Flinging the basket at his feet] Take the whole blooming basket for sixpence. The church clock strikes the second quarter. HIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaic want of charity to the poor girl] A reminder. [He raises his hat solemnly; then throws a handful of money into the basket and follows Pickering]. THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah--ow--ooh! [Picking up a couple of florins] Aaah--ow--ooh! [Picking up several coins] Aaaaaah--ow--ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign] Aasaaaaaaaaah--ow--ooh!!! FREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To the girl] Where are the two ladies that were here? THE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped. FREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation! THE FLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I'm going home in a taxi. [She sails off to the cab. The driver puts his hand behind him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quite understanding his mistrust, she shows him her handful of money]. Eightpence ain't no object to me, Charlie. [He grins and opens the door]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, round the corner of Micklejohn's oil shop. Let's see how fast you can make her hop it. [She gets in and pulls the door to with a slam as the taxicab starts]. FREDDY. Well, I'm dashed!

Act 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-1

It's a dark and stormy night, and a crowd of people are seeking refuge from the rain in front of a church in London's Covent Garden market. Among them are an older woman and her daughter , their son Freddy , an old, well-dressed military man, a poor young flower girl with a thick Cockney accent, and a strange man standing in the shadows writing down everything the flower girl says. Trouble starts when the older woman starts asking the flower girl questions. The girl flips out and starts telling everyone what a good girl she is. The crowd comes to her defense and everything seems fine until some guy informs her about the strange man taking notes. People think he's some kind of cop, or maybe just a pervert. She flips out again, although its pretty darn hard to understand what she's saying through her thick accent, until the note-taker shows himself, and everybody sees that he's not a cop or a pervert, he's just an rich guy with nice boots and a knack for guessing where people come from, geography-wise. People are amazed/frightened by this ability. He tells the flower girl to, well, shut up. She whines some more. He asks her to kindly shut up again and to please stop butchering the English language . He then tells the old guy that he could pass off the crazy flower girl as royalty by teaching her how to speak. The two men introduce themselves - turns out they're both well-respected linguists. The note-taker is Henry Higgins, teacher of phonetics, the old guy an expert on the dead Indian language Sanskrit. Higgins takes pity on the flower girl and gives her a sovereign . The girl jumps for joy, starts howling like a banshee - no, really - and jumps in the next cab. The two men head back to Pickering's hotel for dinner, and poor old Freddy gets left in the rain, abandoned by his mom and sis.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3825-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Pygmalion/section_1_part_0.txt

Pygmalion.act 2

act 2

{"name": "Act 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-2", "summary": "The next day, in Higgins's house on 10 Wimpole Street, Higgins and the Colonel are talking shop when Mrs. Pearce, Henry's very reasonable maid, tells him that a girl with a funny accent has come to the door. Thinking he might get some good material from her, he decides to let her in. The flower girl from the night before comes in wearing some clean clothes and what may just be the funniest hat you've ever seen. She introduces herself as Eliza Doolittle. Higgins is about to throw her out - he already \"has\" her accent - when she demands to be given speaking lessons. After some deliberation, Higgins and Pickering decide to take her on as a client, only they treat the whole thing like a bet. They really want to see if they can pass her off as a duchess in six months time. Higgins tells Mrs. Pearce to go burn all of Eliza's clothes and get her clean. While she's off in the shower, a hulking dustman - that's British for garbage man - comes in and introduces himself as Alfred Doolittle, Eliza's father. Doolittle proceeds to talk Higgins into giving him five pounds for booze in return for leaving Eliza alone. Higgins, amazed by his speaking ability, does give him some cash, but their discussion is interrupted by the entrance of a \"Japanese Lady.\" She turns out to be Eliza in a kimono, and without all the dirt and the silly clothes, Eliza's really pretty. Eliza loves all the attention so much she wants to go down to where all the other flower girls hang out and strut her stuff. Higgins knows this is a bad idea and tells her so. Mrs. Pearce lures her away with the promise of new clothes. Eliza howls like a banshee again before skipping off stage. Pickering and Higgins shake their heads in disbelief. They've got a lot of work to do.", "analysis": ""}

Next day at 11 a.m. Higgins's laboratory in Wimpole Street. It is a room on the first floor, looking on the street, and was meant for the drawing-room. The double doors are in the middle of the back hall; and persons entering find in the corner to their right two tall file cabinets at right angles to one another against the walls. In this corner stands a flat writing-table, on which are a phonograph, a laryngoscope, a row of tiny organ pipes with a bellows, a set of lamp chimneys for singing flames with burners attached to a gas plug in the wall by an indiarubber tube, several tuning-forks of different sizes, a life-size image of half a human head, showing in section the vocal organs, and a box containing a supply of wax cylinders for the phonograph. Further down the room, on the same side, is a fireplace, with a comfortable leather-covered easy-chair at the side of the hearth nearest the door, and a coal-scuttle. There is a clock on the mantelpiece. Between the fireplace and the phonograph table is a stand for newspapers. On the other side of the central door, to the left of the visitor, is a cabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a telephone and the telephone directory. The corner beyond, and most of the side wall, is occupied by a grand piano, with the keyboard at the end furthest from the door, and a bench for the player extending the full length of the keyboard. On the piano is a dessert dish heaped with fruit and sweets, mostly chocolates. The middle of the room is clear. Besides the easy chair, the piano bench, and two chairs at the phonograph table, there is one stray chair. It stands near the fireplace. On the walls, engravings; mostly Piranesis and mezzotint portraits. No paintings. Pickering is seated at the table, putting down some cards and a tuning-fork which he has been using. Higgins is standing up near him, closing two or three file drawers which are hanging out. He appears in the morning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of man of forty or thereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat with a white linen collar and black silk tie. He is of the energetic, scientific type, heartily, even violently interested in everything that can be studied as a scientific subject, and careless about himself and other people, including their feelings. He is, in fact, but for his years and size, rather like a very impetuous baby "taking notice" eagerly and loudly, and requiring almost as much watching to keep him out of unintended mischief. His manner varies from genial bullying when he is in a good humor to stormy petulance when anything goes wrong; but he is so entirely frank and void of malice that he remains likeable even in his least reasonable moments. HIGGINS [as he shuts the last drawer] Well, I think that's the whole show. PICKERING. It's really amazing. I haven't taken half of it in, you know. HIGGINS. Would you like to go over any of it again? PICKERING [rising and coming to the fireplace, where he plants himself with his back to the fire] No, thank you; not now. I'm quite done up for this morning. HIGGINS [following him, and standing beside him on his left] Tired of listening to sounds? PICKERING. Yes. It's a fearful strain. I rather fancied myself because I can pronounce twenty-four distinct vowel sounds; but your hundred and thirty beat me. I can't hear a bit of difference between most of them. HIGGINS [chuckling, and going over to the piano to eat sweets] Oh, that comes with practice. You hear no difference at first; but you keep on listening, and presently you find they're all as different as A from B. [Mrs. Pearce looks in: she is Higgins's housekeeper] What's the matter? MRS. PEARCE [hesitating, evidently perplexed] A young woman wants to see you, sir. HIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want? MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, she says you'll be glad to see her when you know what she's come about. She's quite a common girl, sir. Very common indeed. I should have sent her away, only I thought perhaps you wanted her to talk into your machines. I hope I've not done wrong; but really you see such queer people sometimes--you'll excuse me, I'm sure, sir-- HIGGINS. Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has she an interesting accent? MRS. PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. I don't know how you can take an interest in it. HIGGINS [to Pickering] Let's have her up. Show her up, Mrs. Pearce [he rushes across to his working table and picks out a cylinder to use on the phonograph]. MRS. PEARCE [only half resigned to it] Very well, sir. It's for you to say. [She goes downstairs]. HIGGINS. This is rather a bit of luck. I'll show you how I make records. We'll set her talking; and I'll take it down first in Bell's visible Speech; then in broad Romic; and then we'll get her on the phonograph so that you can turn her on as often as you like with the written transcript before you. MRS. PEARCE [returning] This is the young woman, sir. The flower girl enters in state. She has a hat with three ostrich feathers, orange, sky-blue, and red. She has a nearly clean apron, and the shoddy coat has been tidied a little. The pathos of this deplorable figure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air, touches Pickering, who has already straightened himself in the presence of Mrs. Pearce. But as to Higgins, the only distinction he makes between men and women is that when he is neither bullying nor exclaiming to the heavens against some featherweight cross, he coaxes women as a child coaxes its nurse when it wants to get anything out of her. HIGGINS [brusquely, recognizing her with unconcealed disappointment, and at once, baby-like, making an intolerable grievance of it] Why, this is the girl I jotted down last night. She's no use: I've got all the records I want of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I'm not going to waste another cylinder on it. [To the girl] Be off with you: I don't want you. THE FLOWER GIRL. Don't you be so saucy. You ain't heard what I come for yet. [To Mrs. Pearce, who is waiting at the door for further instruction] Did you tell him I come in a taxi? MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think a gentleman like Mr. Higgins cares what you came in? THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He ain't above giving lessons, not him: I heard him say so. Well, I ain't come here to ask for any compliment; and if my money's not good enough I can go elsewhere. HIGGINS. Good enough for what? THE FLOWER GIRL. Good enough for ye--oo. Now you know, don't you? I'm come to have lessons, I am. And to pay for em too: make no mistake. HIGGINS [stupent] WELL!!! [Recovering his breath with a gasp] What do you expect me to say to you? THE FLOWER GIRL. Well, if you was a gentleman, you might ask me to sit down, I think. Don't I tell you I'm bringing you business? HIGGINS. Pickering: shall we ask this baggage to sit down or shall we throw her out of the window? THE FLOWER GIRL [running away in terror to the piano, where she turns at bay] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--ow--oo! [Wounded and whimpering] I won't be called a baggage when I've offered to pay like any lady. Motionless, the two men stare at her from the other side of the room, amazed. PICKERING [gently] What is it you want, my girl? THE FLOWER GIRL. I want to be a lady in a flower shop stead of selling at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. But they won't take me unless I can talk more genteel. He said he could teach me. Well, here I am ready to pay him--not asking any favor--and he treats me as if I was dirt. MRS. PEARCE. How can you be such a foolish ignorant girl as to think you could afford to pay Mr. Higgins? THE FLOWER GIRL. Why shouldn't I? I know what lessons cost as well as you do; and I'm ready to pay. HIGGINS. How much? THE FLOWER GIRL [coming back to him, triumphant] Now you're talking! I thought you'd come off it when you saw a chance of getting back a bit of what you chucked at me last night. [Confidentially] You'd had a drop in, hadn't you? HIGGINS [peremptorily] Sit down. THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, if you're going to make a compliment of it-- HIGGINS [thundering at her] Sit down. MRS. PEARCE [severely] Sit down, girl. Do as you're told. [She places the stray chair near the hearthrug between Higgins and Pickering, and stands behind it waiting for the girl to sit down]. THE FLOWER GIRL. Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! [She stands, half rebellious, half bewildered]. PICKERING [very courteous] Won't you sit down? LIZA [coyly] Don't mind if I do. [She sits down. Pickering returns to the hearthrug]. HIGGINS. What's your name? THE FLOWER GIRL. Liza Doolittle. HIGGINS [declaiming gravely] Eliza, Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess, They went to the woods to get a bird's nes': PICKERING. They found a nest with four eggs in it: HIGGINS. They took one apiece, and left three in it. They laugh heartily at their own wit. LIZA. Oh, don't be silly. MRS. PEARCE. You mustn't speak to the gentleman like that. LIZA. Well, why won't he speak sensible to me? HIGGINS. Come back to business. How much do you propose to pay me for the lessons? LIZA. Oh, I know what's right. A lady friend of mine gets French lessons for eighteenpence an hour from a real French gentleman. Well, you wouldn't have the face to ask me the same for teaching me my own language as you would for French; so I won't give more than a shilling. Take it or leave it. HIGGINS [walking up and down the room, rattling his keys and his cash in his pockets] You know, Pickering, if you consider a shilling, not as a simple shilling, but as a percentage of this girl's income, it works out as fully equivalent to sixty or seventy guineas from a millionaire. PICKERING. How so? HIGGINS. Figure it out. A millionaire has about 150 pounds a day. She earns about half-a-crown. LIZA [haughtily] Who told you I only-- HIGGINS [continuing] She offers me two-fifths of her day's income for a lesson. Two-fifths of a millionaire's income for a day would be somewhere about 60 pounds. It's handsome. By George, it's enormous! it's the biggest offer I ever had. LIZA [rising, terrified] Sixty pounds! What are you talking about? I never offered you sixty pounds. Where would I get-- HIGGINS. Hold your tongue. LIZA [weeping] But I ain't got sixty pounds. Oh-- MRS. PEARCE. Don't cry, you silly girl. Sit down. Nobody is going to touch your money. HIGGINS. Somebody is going to touch you, with a broomstick, if you don't stop snivelling. Sit down. LIZA [obeying slowly] Ah--ah--ah--ow--oo--o! One would think you was my father. HIGGINS. If I decide to teach you, I'll be worse than two fathers to you. Here [he offers her his silk handkerchief]! LIZA. What's this for? HIGGINS. To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part of your face that feels moist. Remember: that's your handkerchief; and that's your sleeve. Don't mistake the one for the other if you wish to become a lady in a shop. Liza, utterly bewildered, stares helplessly at him. MRS. PEARCE. It's no use talking to her like that, Mr. Higgins: she doesn't understand you. Besides, you're quite wrong: she doesn't do it that way at all [she takes the handkerchief]. LIZA [snatching it] Here! You give me that handkerchief. He give it to me, not to you. PICKERING [laughing] He did. I think it must be regarded as her property, Mrs. Pearce. MRS. PEARCE [resigning herself] Serve you right, Mr. Higgins. PICKERING. Higgins: I'm interested. What about the ambassador's garden party? I'll say you're the greatest teacher alive if you make that good. I'll bet you all the expenses of the experiment you can't do it. And I'll pay for the lessons. LIZA. Oh, you are real good. Thank you, Captain. HIGGINS [tempted, looking at her] It's almost irresistible. She's so deliciously low--so horribly dirty-- LIZA [protesting extremely] Ah--ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oooo!!! I ain't dirty: I washed my face and hands afore I come, I did. PICKERING. You're certainly not going to turn her head with flattery, Higgins. MRS. PEARCE [uneasy] Oh, don't say that, sir: there's more ways than one of turning a girl's head; and nobody can do it better than Mr. Higgins, though he may not always mean it. I do hope, sir, you won't encourage him to do anything foolish. HIGGINS [becoming excited as the idea grows on him] What is life but a series of inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Never lose a chance: it doesn't come every day. I shall make a duchess of this draggletailed guttersnipe. LIZA [strongly deprecating this view of her] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! HIGGINS [carried away] Yes: in six months--in three if she has a good ear and a quick tongue--I'll take her anywhere and pass her off as anything. We'll start today: now! this moment! Take her away and clean her, Mrs. Pearce. Monkey Brand, if it won't come off any other way. Is there a good fire in the kitchen? MRS. PEARCE [protesting]. Yes; but-- HIGGINS [storming on] Take all her clothes off and burn them. Ring up Whiteley or somebody for new ones. Wrap her up in brown paper till they come. LIZA. You're no gentleman, you're not, to talk of such things. I'm a good girl, I am; and I know what the like of you are, I do. HIGGINS. We want none of your Lisson Grove prudery here, young woman. You've got to learn to behave like a duchess. Take her away, Mrs. Pearce. If she gives you any trouble wallop her. LIZA [springing up and running between Pickering and Mrs. Pearce for protection] No! I'll call the police, I will. MRS. PEARCE. But I've no place to put her. HIGGINS. Put her in the dustbin. LIZA. Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! PICKERING. Oh come, Higgins! be reasonable. MRS. PEARCE [resolutely] You must be reasonable, Mr. Higgins: really you must. You can't walk over everybody like this. Higgins, thus scolded, subsides. The hurricane is succeeded by a zephyr of amiable surprise. HIGGINS [with professional exquisiteness of modulation] I walk over everybody! My dear Mrs. Pearce, my dear Pickering, I never had the slightest intention of walking over anyone. All I propose is that we should be kind to this poor girl. We must help her to prepare and fit herself for her new station in life. If I did not express myself clearly it was because I did not wish to hurt her delicacy, or yours. Liza, reassured, steals back to her chair. MRS. PEARCE [to Pickering] Well, did you ever hear anything like that, sir? PICKERING [laughing heartily] Never, Mrs. Pearce: never. HIGGINS [patiently] What's the matter? MRS. PEARCE. Well, the matter is, sir, that you can't take a girl up like that as if you were picking up a pebble on the beach. HIGGINS. Why not? MRS. PEARCE. Why not! But you don't know anything about her. What about her parents? She may be married. LIZA. Garn! HIGGINS. There! As the girl very properly says, Garn! Married indeed! Don't you know that a woman of that class looks a worn out drudge of fifty a year after she's married. LIZA. Who'd marry me? HIGGINS [suddenly resorting to the most thrillingly beautiful low tones in his best elocutionary style] By George, Eliza, the streets will be strewn with the bodies of men shooting themselves for your sake before I've done with you. MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, sir. You mustn't talk like that to her. LIZA [rising and squaring herself determinedly] I'm going away. He's off his chump, he is. I don't want no balmies teaching me. HIGGINS [wounded in his tenderest point by her insensibility to his elocution] Oh, indeed! I'm mad, am I? Very well, Mrs. Pearce: you needn't order the new clothes for her. Throw her out. LIZA [whimpering] Nah--ow. You got no right to touch me. MRS. PEARCE. You see now what comes of being saucy. [Indicating the door] This way, please. LIZA [almost in tears] I didn't want no clothes. I wouldn't have taken them [she throws away the handkerchief]. I can buy my own clothes. HIGGINS [deftly retrieving the handkerchief and intercepting her on her reluctant way to the door] You're an ungrateful wicked girl. This is my return for offering to take you out of the gutter and dress you beautifully and make a lady of you. MRS. PEARCE. Stop, Mr. Higgins. I won't allow it. It's you that are wicked. Go home to your parents, girl; and tell them to take better care of you. LIZA. I ain't got no parents. They told me I was big enough to earn my own living and turned me out. MRS. PEARCE. Where's your mother? LIZA. I ain't got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixth stepmother. But I done without them. And I'm a good girl, I am. HIGGINS. Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about? The girl doesn't belong to anybody--is no use to anybody but me. [He goes to Mrs. Pearce and begins coaxing]. You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce: I'm sure a daughter would be a great amusement to you. Now don't make any more fuss. Take her downstairs; and-- MRS. PEARCE. But what's to become of her? Is she to be paid anything? Do be sensible, sir. HIGGINS. Oh, pay her whatever is necessary: put it down in the housekeeping book. [Impatiently] What on earth will she want with money? She'll have her food and her clothes. She'll only drink if you give her money. LIZA [turning on him] Oh you are a brute. It's a lie: nobody ever saw the sign of liquor on me. [She goes back to her chair and plants herself there defiantly]. PICKERING [in good-humored remonstrance] Does it occur to you, Higgins, that the girl has some feelings? HIGGINS [looking critically at her] Oh no, I don't think so. Not any feelings that we need bother about. [Cheerily] Have you, Eliza? LIZA. I got my feelings same as anyone else. HIGGINS [to Pickering, reflectively] You see the difficulty? PICKERING. Eh? What difficulty? HIGGINS. To get her to talk grammar. The mere pronunciation is easy enough. LIZA. I don't want to talk grammar. I want to talk like a lady. MRS. PEARCE. Will you please keep to the point, Mr. Higgins. I want to know on what terms the girl is to be here. Is she to have any wages? And what is to become of her when you've finished your teaching? You must look ahead a little. HIGGINS [impatiently] What's to become of her if I leave her in the gutter? Tell me that, Mrs. Pearce. MRS. PEARCE. That's her own business, not yours, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. Well, when I've done with her, we can throw her back into the gutter; and then it will be her own business again; so that's all right. LIZA. Oh, you've no feeling heart in you: you don't care for nothing but yourself [she rises and takes the floor resolutely]. Here! I've had enough of this. I'm going [making for the door]. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought. HIGGINS [snatching a chocolate cream from the piano, his eyes suddenly beginning to twinkle with mischief] Have some chocolates, Eliza. LIZA [halting, tempted] How do I know what might be in them? I've heard of girls being drugged by the like of you. Higgins whips out his penknife; cuts a chocolate in two; puts one half into his mouth and bolts it; and offers her the other half. HIGGINS. Pledge of good faith, Eliza. I eat one half you eat the other. [Liza opens her mouth to retort: he pops the half chocolate into it]. You shall have boxes of them, barrels of them, every day. You shall live on them. Eh? LIZA [who has disposed of the chocolate after being nearly choked by it] I wouldn't have ate it, only I'm too ladylike to take it out of my mouth. HIGGINS. Listen, Eliza. I think you said you came in a taxi. LIZA. Well, what if I did? I've as good a right to take a taxi as anyone else. HIGGINS. You have, Eliza; and in future you shall have as many taxis as you want. You shall go up and down and round the town in a taxi every day. Think of that, Eliza. MRS. PEARCE. Mr. Higgins: you're tempting the girl. It's not right. She should think of the future. HIGGINS. At her age! Nonsense! Time enough to think of the future when you haven't any future to think of. No, Eliza: do as this lady does: think of other people's futures; but never think of your own. Think of chocolates, and taxis, and gold, and diamonds. LIZA. No: I don't want no gold and no diamonds. I'm a good girl, I am. [She sits down again, with an attempt at dignity]. HIGGINS. You shall remain so, Eliza, under the care of Mrs. Pearce. And you shall marry an officer in the Guards, with a beautiful moustache: the son of a marquis, who will disinherit him for marrying you, but will relent when he sees your beauty and goodness-- PICKERING. Excuse me, Higgins; but I really must interfere. Mrs. Pearce is quite right. If this girl is to put herself in your hands for six months for an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughly what she's doing. HIGGINS. How can she? She's incapable of understanding anything. Besides, do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it? PICKERING. Very clever, Higgins; but not sound sense. [To Eliza] Miss Doolittle-- LIZA [overwhelmed] Ah--ah--ow--oo! HIGGINS. There! That's all you get out of Eliza. Ah--ah--ow--oo! No use explaining. As a military man you ought to know that. Give her her orders: that's what she wants. Eliza: you are to live here for the next six months, learning how to speak beautifully, like a lady in a florist's shop. If you're good and do whatever you're told, you shall sleep in a proper bedroom, and have lots to eat, and money to buy chocolates and take rides in taxis. If you're naughty and idle you will sleep in the back kitchen among the black beetles, and be walloped by Mrs. Pearce with a broomstick. At the end of six months you shall go to Buckingham Palace in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If the King finds out you're not a lady, you will be taken by the police to the Tower of London, where your head will be cut off as a warning to other presumptuous flower girls. If you are not found out, you shall have a present of seven-and-sixpence to start life with as a lady in a shop. If you refuse this offer you will be a most ungrateful and wicked girl; and the angels will weep for you. [To Pickering] Now are you satisfied, Pickering? [To Mrs. Pearce] Can I put it more plainly and fairly, Mrs. Pearce? MRS. PEARCE [patiently] I think you'd better let me speak to the girl properly in private. I don't know that I can take charge of her or consent to the arrangement at all. Of course I know you don't mean her any harm; but when you get what you call interested in people's accents, you never think or care what may happen to them or you. Come with me, Eliza. HIGGINS. That's all right. Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. Bundle her off to the bath-room. LIZA [rising reluctantly and suspiciously] You're a great bully, you are. I won't stay here if I don't like. I won't let nobody wallop me. I never asked to go to Bucknam Palace, I didn't. I was never in trouble with the police, not me. I'm a good girl-- MRS. PEARCE. Don't answer back, girl. You don't understand the gentleman. Come with me. [She leads the way to the door, and holds it open for Eliza]. LIZA [as she goes out] Well, what I say is right. I won't go near the king, not if I'm going to have my head cut off. If I'd known what I was letting myself in for, I wouldn't have come here. I always been a good girl; and I never offered to say a word to him; and I don't owe him nothing; and I don't care; and I won't be put upon; and I have my feelings the same as anyone else-- Mrs. Pearce shuts the door; and Eliza's plaints are no longer audible. Pickering comes from the hearth to the chair and sits astride it with his arms on the back. PICKERING. Excuse the straight question, Higgins. Are you a man of good character where women are concerned? HIGGINS [moodily] Have you ever met a man of good character where women are concerned? PICKERING. Yes: very frequently. HIGGINS [dogmatically, lifting himself on his hands to the level of the piano, and sitting on it with a bounce] Well, I haven't. I find that the moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that the moment I let myself make friends with a woman, I become selfish and tyrannical. Women upset everything. When you let them into your life, you find that the woman is driving at one thing and you're driving at another. PICKERING. At what, for example? HIGGINS [coming off the piano restlessly] Oh, Lord knows! I suppose the woman wants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; and each tries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to go north and the other south; and the result is that both have to go east, though they both hate the east wind. [He sits down on the bench at the keyboard]. So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so. PICKERING [rising and standing over him gravely] Come, Higgins! You know what I mean. If I'm to be in this business I shall feel responsible for that girl. I hope it's understood that no advantage is to be taken of her position. HIGGINS. What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you. [Rising to explain] You see, she'll be a pupil; and teaching would be impossible unless pupils were sacred. I've taught scores of American millionairesses how to speak English: the best looking women in the world. I'm seasoned. They might as well be blocks of wood. I might as well be a block of wood. It's-- Mrs. Pearce opens the door. She has Eliza's hat in her hand. Pickering retires to the easy-chair at the hearth and sits down. HIGGINS [eagerly] Well, Mrs. Pearce: is it all right? MRS. PEARCE [at the door] I just wish to trouble you with a word, if I may, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. Yes, certainly. Come in. [She comes forward]. Don't burn that, Mrs. Pearce. I'll keep it as a curiosity. [He takes the hat]. MRS. PEARCE. Handle it carefully, sir, please. I had to promise her not to burn it; but I had better put it in the oven for a while. HIGGINS [putting it down hastily on the piano] Oh! thank you. Well, what have you to say to me? PICKERING. Am I in the way? MRS. PEARCE. Not at all, sir. Mr. Higgins: will you please be very particular what you say before the girl? HIGGINS [sternly] Of course. I'm always particular about what I say. Why do you say this to me? MRS. PEARCE [unmoved] No, sir: you're not at all particular when you've mislaid anything or when you get a little impatient. Now it doesn't matter before me: I'm used to it. But you really must not swear before the girl. HIGGINS [indignantly] I swear! [Most emphatically] I never swear. I detest the habit. What the devil do you mean? MRS. PEARCE [stolidly] That's what I mean, sir. You swear a great deal too much. I don't mind your damning and blasting, and what the devil and where the devil and who the devil-- HIGGINS. Really! Mrs. Pearce: this language from your lips! MRS. PEARCE [not to be put off]--but there is a certain word I must ask you not to use. The girl has just used it herself because the bath was too hot. It begins with the same letter as bath. She knows no better: she learnt it at her mother's knee. But she must not hear it from your lips. HIGGINS [loftily] I cannot charge myself with having ever uttered it, Mrs. Pearce. [She looks at him steadfastly. He adds, hiding an uneasy conscience with a judicial air] Except perhaps in a moment of extreme and justifiable excitement. MRS. PEARCE. Only this morning, sir, you applied it to your boots, to the butter, and to the brown bread. HIGGINS. Oh, that! Mere alliteration, Mrs. Pearce, natural to a poet. MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, whatever you choose to call it, I beg you not to let the girl hear you repeat it. HIGGINS. Oh, very well, very well. Is that all? MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. We shall have to be very particular with this girl as to personal cleanliness. HIGGINS. Certainly. Quite right. Most important. MRS. PEARCE. I mean not to be slovenly about her dress or untidy in leaving things about. HIGGINS [going to her solemnly] Just so. I intended to call your attention to that [He passes on to Pickering, who is enjoying the conversation immensely]. It is these little things that matter, Pickering. Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves is as true of personal habits as of money. [He comes to anchor on the hearthrug, with the air of a man in an unassailable position]. MRS. PEARCE. Yes, sir. Then might I ask you not to come down to breakfast in your dressing-gown, or at any rate not to use it as a napkin to the extent you do, sir. And if you would be so good as not to eat everything off the same plate, and to remember not to put the porridge saucepan out of your hand on the clean tablecloth, it would be a better example to the girl. You know you nearly choked yourself with a fishbone in the jam only last week. HIGGINS [routed from the hearthrug and drifting back to the piano] I may do these things sometimes in absence of mind; but surely I don't do them habitually. [Angrily] By the way: my dressing-gown smells most damnably of benzine. MRS. PEARCE. No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins. But if you will wipe your fingers-- HIGGINS [yelling] Oh very well, very well: I'll wipe them in my hair in future. MRS. PEARCE. I hope you're not offended, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS [shocked at finding himself thought capable of an unamiable sentiment] Not at all, not at all. You're quite right, Mrs. Pearce: I shall be particularly careful before the girl. Is that all? MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. Might she use some of those Japanese dresses you brought from abroad? I really can't put her back into her old things. HIGGINS. Certainly. Anything you like. Is that all? MRS. PEARCE. Thank you, sir. That's all. [She goes out]. HIGGINS. You know, Pickering, that woman has the most extraordinary ideas about me. Here I am, a shy, diffident sort of man. I've never been able to feel really grown-up and tremendous, like other chaps. And yet she's firmly persuaded that I'm an arbitrary overbearing bossing kind of person. I can't account for it. Mrs. Pearce returns. MRS. PEARCE. If you please, sir, the trouble's beginning already. There's a dustman downstairs, Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you. He says you have his daughter here. PICKERING [rising] Phew! I say! [He retreats to the hearthrug]. HIGGINS [promptly] Send the blackguard up. MRS. PEARCE. Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out]. PICKERING. He may not be a blackguard, Higgins. HIGGINS. Nonsense. Of course he's a blackguard. PICKERING. Whether he is or not, I'm afraid we shall have some trouble with him. HIGGINS [confidently] Oh no: I think not. If there's any trouble he shall have it with me, not I with him. And we are sure to get something interesting out of him. PICKERING. About the girl? HIGGINS. No. I mean his dialect. PICKERING. Oh! MRS. PEARCE [at the door] Doolittle, sir. [She admits Doolittle and retires]. Alfred Doolittle is an elderly but vigorous dustman, clad in the costume of his profession, including a hat with a back brim covering his neck and shoulders. He has well marked and rather interesting features, and seems equally free from fear and conscience. He has a remarkably expressive voice, the result of a habit of giving vent to his feelings without reserve. His present pose is that of wounded honor and stern resolution. DOOLITTLE [at the door, uncertain which of the two gentlemen is his man] Professor Higgins? HIGGINS. Here. Good morning. Sit down. DOOLITTLE. Morning, Governor. [He sits down magisterially] I come about a very serious matter, Governor. HIGGINS [to Pickering] Brought up in Hounslow. Mother Welsh, I should think. [Doolittle opens his mouth, amazed. Higgins continues] What do you want, Doolittle? DOOLITTLE [menacingly] I want my daughter: that's what I want. See? HIGGINS. Of course you do. You're her father, aren't you? You don't suppose anyone else wants her, do you? I'm glad to see you have some spark of family feeling left. She's upstairs. Take her away at once. DOOLITTLE [rising, fearfully taken aback] What! HIGGINS. Take her away. Do you suppose I'm going to keep your daughter for you? DOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, look here, Governor. Is this reasonable? Is it fair to take advantage of a man like this? The girl belongs to me. You got her. Where do I come in? [He sits down again]. HIGGINS. Your daughter had the audacity to come to my house and ask me to teach her how to speak properly so that she could get a place in a flower-shop. This gentleman and my housekeeper have been here all the time. [Bullying him] How dare you come here and attempt to blackmail me? You sent her here on purpose. DOOLITTLE [protesting] No, Governor. HIGGINS. You must have. How else could you possibly know that she is here? DOOLITTLE. Don't take a man up like that, Governor. HIGGINS. The police shall take you up. This is a plant--a plot to extort money by threats. I shall telephone for the police [he goes resolutely to the telephone and opens the directory]. DOOLITTLE. Have I asked you for a brass farthing? I leave it to the gentleman here: have I said a word about money? HIGGINS [throwing the book aside and marching down on Doolittle with a poser] What else did you come for? DOOLITTLE [sweetly] Well, what would a man come for? Be human, governor. HIGGINS [disarmed] Alfred: did you put her up to it? DOOLITTLE. So help me, Governor, I never did. I take my Bible oath I ain't seen the girl these two months past. HIGGINS. Then how did you know she was here? DOOLITTLE ["most musical, most melancholy"] I'll tell you, Governor, if you'll only let me get a word in. I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you. HIGGINS. Pickering: this chap has a certain natural gift of rhetoric. Observe the rhythm of his native woodnotes wild. "I'm willing to tell you: I'm wanting to tell you: I'm waiting to tell you." Sentimental rhetoric! That's the Welsh strain in him. It also accounts for his mendacity and dishonesty. PICKERING. Oh, PLEASE, Higgins: I'm west country myself. [To Doolittle] How did you know the girl was here if you didn't send her? DOOLITTLE. It was like this, Governor. The girl took a boy in the taxi to give him a jaunt. Son of her landlady, he is. He hung about on the chance of her giving him another ride home. Well, she sent him back for her luggage when she heard you was willing for her to stop here. I met the boy at the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street. HIGGINS. Public house. Yes? DOOLITTLE. The poor man's club, Governor: why shouldn't I? PICKERING. Do let him tell his story, Higgins. DOOLITTLE. He told me what was up. And I ask you, what was my feelings and my duty as a father? I says to the boy, "You bring me the luggage," I says-- PICKERING. Why didn't you go for it yourself? DOOLITTLE. Landlady wouldn't have trusted me with it, Governor. She's that kind of woman: you know. I had to give the boy a penny afore he trusted me with it, the little swine. I brought it to her just to oblige you like, and make myself agreeable. That's all. HIGGINS. How much luggage? DOOLITTLE. Musical instrument, Governor. A few pictures, a trifle of jewelry, and a bird-cage. She said she didn't want no clothes. What was I to think from that, Governor? I ask you as a parent what was I to think? HIGGINS. So you came to rescue her from worse than death, eh? DOOLITTLE [appreciatively: relieved at being understood] Just so, Governor. That's right. PICKERING. But why did you bring her luggage if you intended to take her away? DOOLITTLE. Have I said a word about taking her away? Have I now? HIGGINS [determinedly] You're going to take her away, double quick. [He crosses to the hearth and rings the bell]. DOOLITTLE [rising] No, Governor. Don't say that. I'm not the man to stand in my girl's light. Here's a career opening for her, as you might say; and-- Mrs. Pearce opens the door and awaits orders. HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce: this is Eliza's father. He has come to take her away. Give her to him. [He goes back to the piano, with an air of washing his hands of the whole affair]. DOOLITTLE. No. This is a misunderstanding. Listen here-- MRS. PEARCE. He can't take her away, Mr. Higgins: how can he? You told me to burn her clothes. DOOLITTLE. That's right. I can't carry the girl through the streets like a blooming monkey, can I? I put it to you. HIGGINS. You have put it to me that you want your daughter. Take your daughter. If she has no clothes go out and buy her some. DOOLITTLE [desperate] Where's the clothes she come in? Did I burn them or did your missus here? MRS. PEARCE. I am the housekeeper, if you please. I have sent for some clothes for your girl. When they come you can take her away. You can wait in the kitchen. This way, please. Doolittle, much troubled, accompanies her to the door; then hesitates; finally turns confidentially to Higgins. DOOLITTLE. Listen here, Governor. You and me is men of the world, ain't we? HIGGINS. Oh! Men of the world, are we? You'd better go, Mrs. Pearce. MRS. PEARCE. I think so, indeed, sir. [She goes, with dignity]. PICKERING. The floor is yours, Mr. Doolittle. DOOLITTLE [to Pickering] I thank you, Governor. [To Higgins, who takes refuge on the piano bench, a little overwhelmed by the proximity of his visitor; for Doolittle has a professional flavor of dust about him]. Well, the truth is, I've taken a sort of fancy to you, Governor; and if you want the girl, I'm not so set on having her back home again but what I might be open to an arrangement. Regarded in the light of a young woman, she's a fine handsome girl. As a daughter she's not worth her keep; and so I tell you straight. All I ask is my rights as a father; and you're the last man alive to expect me to let her go for nothing; for I can see you're one of the straight sort, Governor. Well, what's a five pound note to you? And what's Eliza to me? [He returns to his chair and sits down judicially]. PICKERING. I think you ought to know, Doolittle, that Mr. Higgins's intentions are entirely honorable. DOOLITTLE. Course they are, Governor. If I thought they wasn't, I'd ask fifty. HIGGINS [revolted] Do you mean to say, you callous rascal, that you would sell your daughter for 50 pounds? DOOLITTLE. Not in a general way I wouldn't; but to oblige a gentleman like you I'd do a good deal, I do assure you. PICKERING. Have you no morals, man? DOOLITTLE [unabashed] Can't afford them, Governor. Neither could you if you was as poor as me. Not that I mean any harm, you know. But if Liza is going to have a bit out of this, why not me too? HIGGINS [troubled] I don't know what to do, Pickering. There can be no question that as a matter of morals it's a positive crime to give this chap a farthing. And yet I feel a sort of rough justice in his claim. DOOLITTLE. That's it, Governor. That's all I say. A father's heart, as it were. PICKERING. Well, I know the feeling; but really it seems hardly right-- DOOLITTLE. Don't say that, Governor. Don't look at it that way. What am I, Governors both? I ask you, what am I? I'm one of the undeserving poor: that's what I am. Think of what that means to a man. It means that he's up agen middle class morality all the time. If there's anything going, and I put in for a bit of it, it's always the same story: "You're undeserving; so you can't have it." But my needs is as great as the most deserving widow's that ever got money out of six different charities in one week for the death of the same husband. I don't need less than a deserving man: I need more. I don't eat less hearty than him; and I drink a lot more. I want a bit of amusement, cause I'm a thinking man. I want cheerfulness and a song and a band when I feel low. Well, they charge me just the same for everything as they charge the deserving. What is middle class morality? Just an excuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, I ask you, as two gentlemen, not to play that game on me. I'm playing straight with you. I ain't pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that's the truth. Will you take advantage of a man's nature to do him out of the price of his own daughter what he's brought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of his brow until she's growed big enough to be interesting to you two gentlemen? Is five pounds unreasonable? I put it to you; and I leave it to you. HIGGINS [rising, and going over to Pickering] Pickering: if we were to take this man in hand for three months, he could choose between a seat in the Cabinet and a popular pulpit in Wales. PICKERING. What do you say to that, Doolittle? DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, thank you kindly. I've heard all the preachers and all the prime ministers--for I'm a thinking man and game for politics or religion or social reform same as all the other amusements--and I tell you it's a dog's life anyway you look at it. Undeserving poverty is my line. Taking one station in society with another, it's--it's--well, it's the only one that has any ginger in it, to my taste. HIGGINS. I suppose we must give him a fiver. PICKERING. He'll make a bad use of it, I'm afraid. DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, so help me I won't. Don't you be afraid that I'll save it and spare it and live idle on it. There won't be a penny of it left by Monday: I'll have to go to work same as if I'd never had it. It won't pauperize me, you bet. Just one good spree for myself and the missus, giving pleasure to ourselves and employment to others, and satisfaction to you to think it's not been throwed away. You couldn't spend it better. HIGGINS [taking out his pocket book and coming between Doolittle and the piano] This is irresistible. Let's give him ten. [He offers two notes to the dustman]. DOOLITTLE. No, Governor. She wouldn't have the heart to spend ten; and perhaps I shouldn't neither. Ten pounds is a lot of money: it makes a man feel prudent like; and then goodbye to happiness. You give me what I ask you, Governor: not a penny more, and not a penny less. PICKERING. Why don't you marry that missus of yours? I rather draw the line at encouraging that sort of immorality. DOOLITTLE. Tell her so, Governor: tell her so. I'm willing. It's me that suffers by it. I've no hold on her. I got to be agreeable to her. I got to give her presents. I got to buy her clothes something sinful. I'm a slave to that woman, Governor, just because I'm not her lawful husband. And she knows it too. Catch her marrying me! Take my advice, Governor: marry Eliza while she's young and don't know no better. If you don't you'll be sorry for it after. If you do, she'll be sorry for it after; but better you than her, because you're a man, and she's only a woman and don't know how to be happy anyhow. HIGGINS. Pickering: if we listen to this man another minute, we shall have no convictions left. [To Doolittle] Five pounds I think you said. DOOLITTLE. Thank you kindly, Governor. HIGGINS. You're sure you won't take ten? DOOLITTLE. Not now. Another time, Governor. HIGGINS [handing him a five-pound note] Here you are. DOOLITTLE. Thank you, Governor. Good morning. [He hurries to the door, anxious to get away with his booty. When he opens it he is confronted with a dainty and exquisitely clean young Japanese lady in a simple blue cotton kimono printed cunningly with small white jasmine blossoms. Mrs. Pearce is with her. He gets out of her way deferentially and apologizes]. Beg pardon, miss. THE JAPANESE LADY. Garn! Don't you know your own daughter? DOOLITTLE {exclaiming Bly me! it's Eliza! HIGGINS {simul- What's that! This! PICKERING {taneously By Jove! LIZA. Don't I look silly? HIGGINS. Silly? MRS. PEARCE [at the door] Now, Mr. Higgins, please don't say anything to make the girl conceited about herself. HIGGINS [conscientiously] Oh! Quite right, Mrs. Pearce. [To Eliza] Yes: damned silly. MRS. PEARCE. Please, sir. HIGGINS [correcting himself] I mean extremely silly. LIZA. I should look all right with my hat on. [She takes up her hat; puts it on; and walks across the room to the fireplace with a fashionable air]. HIGGINS. A new fashion, by George! And it ought to look horrible! DOOLITTLE [with fatherly pride] Well, I never thought she'd clean up as good looking as that, Governor. She's a credit to me, ain't she? LIZA. I tell you, it's easy to clean up here. Hot and cold water on tap, just as much as you like, there is. Woolly towels, there is; and a towel horse so hot, it burns your fingers. Soft brushes to scrub yourself, and a wooden bowl of soap smelling like primroses. Now I know why ladies is so clean. Washing's a treat for them. Wish they saw what it is for the like of me! HIGGINS. I'm glad the bath-room met with your approval. LIZA. It didn't: not all of it; and I don't care who hears me say it. Mrs. Pearce knows. HIGGINS. What was wrong, Mrs. Pearce? MRS. PEARCE [blandly] Oh, nothing, sir. It doesn't matter. LIZA. I had a good mind to break it. I didn't know which way to look. But I hung a towel over it, I did. HIGGINS. Over what? MRS. PEARCE. Over the looking-glass, sir. HIGGINS. Doolittle: you have brought your daughter up too strictly. DOOLITTLE. Me! I never brought her up at all, except to give her a lick of a strap now and again. Don't put it on me, Governor. She ain't accustomed to it, you see: that's all. But she'll soon pick up your free-and-easy ways. LIZA. I'm a good girl, I am; and I won't pick up no free and easy ways. HIGGINS. Eliza: if you say again that you're a good girl, your father shall take you home. LIZA. Not him. You don't know my father. All he come here for was to touch you for some money to get drunk on. DOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I want money for? To put into the plate in church, I suppose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is so incensed by this that Pickering presently finds it necessary to step between them]. Don't you give me none of your lip; and don't let me hear you giving this gentleman any of it neither, or you'll hear from me about it. See? HIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go, Doolittle? Your blessing, for instance. DOOLITTLE. No, Governor: I ain't such a mug as to put up my children to all I know myself. Hard enough to hold them in without that. If you want Eliza's mind improved, Governor, you do it yourself with a strap. So long, gentlemen. [He turns to go]. HIGGINS [impressively] Stop. You'll come regularly to see your daughter. It's your duty, you know. My brother is a clergyman; and he could help you in your talks with her. DOOLITTLE [evasively] Certainly. I'll come, Governor. Not just this week, because I have a job at a distance. But later on you may depend on me. Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, ma'am. [He takes off his hat to Mrs. Pearce, who disdains the salutation and goes out. He winks at Higgins, thinking him probably a fellow sufferer from Mrs. Pearce's difficult disposition, and follows her]. LIZA. Don't you believe the old liar. He'd as soon you set a bull-dog on him as a clergyman. You won't see him again in a hurry. HIGGINS. I don't want to, Eliza. Do you? LIZA. Not me. I don't want never to see him again, I don't. He's a disgrace to me, he is, collecting dust, instead of working at his trade. PICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza? LIZA. Talking money out of other people's pockets into his own. His proper trade's a navvy; and he works at it sometimes too--for exercise--and earns good money at it. Ain't you going to call me Miss Doolittle any more? PICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. It was a slip of the tongue. LIZA. Oh, I don't mind; only it sounded so genteel. I should just like to take a taxi to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and get out there and tell it to wait for me, just to put the girls in their place a bit. I wouldn't speak to them, you know. PICKERING. Better wait til we get you something really fashionable. HIGGINS. Besides, you shouldn't cut your old friends now that you have risen in the world. That's what we call snobbery. LIZA. You don't call the like of them my friends now, I should hope. They've took it out of me often enough with their ridicule when they had the chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my own back. But if I'm to have fashionable clothes, I'll wait. I should like to have some. Mrs. Pearce says you're going to give me some to wear in bed at night different to what I wear in the daytime; but it do seem a waste of money when you could get something to show. Besides, I never could fancy changing into cold things on a winter night. MRS. PEARCE [coming back] Now, Eliza. The new things have come for you to try on. LIZA. Ah--ow--oo--ooh! [She rushes out]. MRS. PEARCE [following her] Oh, don't rush about like that, girl [She shuts the door behind her]. HIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job. PICKERING [with conviction] Higgins: we have.

Act 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-2

The next day, in Higgins's house on 10 Wimpole Street, Higgins and the Colonel are talking shop when Mrs. Pearce, Henry's very reasonable maid, tells him that a girl with a funny accent has come to the door. Thinking he might get some good material from her, he decides to let her in. The flower girl from the night before comes in wearing some clean clothes and what may just be the funniest hat you've ever seen. She introduces herself as Eliza Doolittle. Higgins is about to throw her out - he already "has" her accent - when she demands to be given speaking lessons. After some deliberation, Higgins and Pickering decide to take her on as a client, only they treat the whole thing like a bet. They really want to see if they can pass her off as a duchess in six months time. Higgins tells Mrs. Pearce to go burn all of Eliza's clothes and get her clean. While she's off in the shower, a hulking dustman - that's British for garbage man - comes in and introduces himself as Alfred Doolittle, Eliza's father. Doolittle proceeds to talk Higgins into giving him five pounds for booze in return for leaving Eliza alone. Higgins, amazed by his speaking ability, does give him some cash, but their discussion is interrupted by the entrance of a "Japanese Lady." She turns out to be Eliza in a kimono, and without all the dirt and the silly clothes, Eliza's really pretty. Eliza loves all the attention so much she wants to go down to where all the other flower girls hang out and strut her stuff. Higgins knows this is a bad idea and tells her so. Mrs. Pearce lures her away with the promise of new clothes. Eliza howls like a banshee again before skipping off stage. Pickering and Higgins shake their heads in disbelief. They've got a lot of work to do.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3825-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Pygmalion/section_2_part_0.txt

Pygmalion.act 3

act 3

{"name": "Act 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-3", "summary": "Act Three finds us at the apartment of Henry Higgins's mum. Higgins, it seems, wants to test his work at a party she'll soon be throwing. Mrs. Higgins does not approve of the idea - you get the feeling she doesn't approve of most things Higgins does - but Higgins doesn't listen. He's not one to take no for an answer. He's also, we find out, not interested in women, really. Except women like his dear old mother. Higgins assures his mother that Eliza will be on her best behavior, and talk only about the weather and other people's health. Turns out the whole thing isn't much of a party. The only guests are the mother and sister from the first act, Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill, good old Freddy, Pickering, and, of course, Eliza. Eliza enters the party last, looking stunning, and proceeds to ask everyone \"How do you do?\" She acts a bit like a robot - a beautiful robot with a perfect accent and a very small vocabulary. Higgins spends most of the time trying to figure out why the Eynsford Hills look so familiar. By the time he figures it out, Eliza has forgotten to stick to the script. She starts talking about how her aunt was \"did in\" by someone. Freddy, not the sharpest tool in the shed, is laughing like an idiot. His vocabulary seems pretty small too . Higgins, embarrassed, gives the signal - a cough - and Eliza heads off like clockwork. After the Eynsford Hills leave, Mrs. Higgins gives Henry and Pickering a talking to. She scolds them like they're little boys. They assure her that they're treating Eliza well, not like a doll at all, but Mrs. Higgins doesn't buy it. Things start to get heavy, and we're not exactly sure why. You idiots, she says, if Eliza learns to act like a lady, she won't be able to do anything to make a living! Higgins and Pickering skip away, unconcerned.", "analysis": ""}

It is Mrs. Higgins's at-home day. Nobody has yet arrived. Her drawing-room, in a flat on Chelsea embankment, has three windows looking on the river; and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would be in an older house of the same pretension. The windows are open, giving access to a balcony with flowers in pots. If you stand with your face to the windows, you have the fireplace on your left and the door in the right-hand wall close to the corner nearest the windows. Mrs. Higgins was brought up on Morris and Burne Jones; and her room, which is very unlike her son's room in Wimpole Street, is not crowded with furniture and little tables and nicknacks. In the middle of the room there is a big ottoman; and this, with the carpet, the Morris wall-papers, and the Morris chintz window curtains and brocade covers of the ottoman and its cushions, supply all the ornament, and are much too handsome to be hidden by odds and ends of useless things. A few good oil-paintings from the exhibitions in the Grosvenor Gallery thirty years ago (the Burne Jones, not the Whistler side of them) are on the walls. The only landscape is a Cecil Lawson on the scale of a Rubens. There is a portrait of Mrs. Higgins as she was when she defied fashion in her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettian costumes which, when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism in the eighteen-seventies. In the corner diagonally opposite the door Mrs. Higgins, now over sixty and long past taking the trouble to dress out of the fashion, sits writing at an elegantly simple writing-table with a bell button within reach of her hand. There is a Chippendale chair further back in the room between her and the window nearest her side. At the other side of the room, further forward, is an Elizabethan chair roughly carved in the taste of Inigo Jones. On the same side a piano in a decorated case. The corner between the fireplace and the window is occupied by a divan cushioned in Morris chintz. It is between four and five in the afternoon. The door is opened violently; and Higgins enters with his hat on. MRS. HIGGINS [dismayed] Henry [scolding him]! What are you doing here to-day? It is my at home day: you promised not to come. [As he bends to kiss her, she takes his hat off, and presents it to him]. HIGGINS. Oh bother! [He throws the hat down on the table]. MRS. HIGGINS. Go home at once. HIGGINS [kissing her] I know, mother. I came on purpose. MRS. HIGGINS. But you mustn't. I'm serious, Henry. You offend all my friends: they stop coming whenever they meet you. HIGGINS. Nonsense! I know I have no small talk; but people don't mind. [He sits on the settee]. MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! don't they? Small talk indeed! What about your large talk? Really, dear, you mustn't stay. HIGGINS. I must. I've a job for you. A phonetic job. MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. I'm sorry; but I can't get round your vowels; and though I like to get pretty postcards in your patent shorthand, I always have to read the copies in ordinary writing you so thoughtfully send me. HIGGINS. Well, this isn't a phonetic job. MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was. HIGGINS. Not your part of it. I've picked up a girl. MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl has picked you up? HIGGINS. Not at all. I don't mean a love affair. MRS. HIGGINS. What a pity! HIGGINS. Why? MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you never fall in love with anyone under forty-five. When will you discover that there are some rather nice-looking young women about? HIGGINS. Oh, I can't be bothered with young women. My idea of a loveable woman is something as like you as possible. I shall never get into the way of seriously liking young women: some habits lie too deep to be changed. [Rising abruptly and walking about, jingling his money and his keys in his trouser pockets] Besides, they're all idiots. MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know what you would do if you really loved me, Henry? HIGGINS. Oh bother! What? Marry, I suppose? MRS. HIGGINS. No. Stop fidgeting and take your hands out of your pockets. [With a gesture of despair, he obeys and sits down again]. That's a good boy. Now tell me about the girl. HIGGINS. She's coming to see you. MRS. HIGGINS. I don't remember asking her. HIGGINS. You didn't. I asked her. If you'd known her you wouldn't have asked her. MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why? HIGGINS. Well, it's like this. She's a common flower girl. I picked her off the kerbstone. MRS. HIGGINS. And invited her to my at-home! HIGGINS [rising and coming to her to coax her] Oh, that'll be all right. I've taught her to speak properly; and she has strict orders as to her behavior. She's to keep to two subjects: the weather and everybody's health--Fine day and How do you do, you know--and not to let herself go on things in general. That will be safe. MRS. HIGGINS. Safe! To talk about our health! about our insides! perhaps about our outsides! How could you be so silly, Henry? HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, she must talk about something. [He controls himself and sits down again]. Oh, she'll be all right: don't you fuss. Pickering is in it with me. I've a sort of bet on that I'll pass her off as a duchess in six months. I started on her some months ago; and she's getting on like a house on fire. I shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; and she's been easier to teach than my middle-class pupils because she's had to learn a complete new language. She talks English almost as you talk French. MRS. HIGGINS. That's satisfactory, at all events. HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isn't. MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean? HIGGINS. You see, I've got her pronunciation all right; but you have to consider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she pronounces; and that's where-- They are interrupted by the parlor-maid, announcing guests. THE PARLOR-MAID. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill. [She withdraws]. HIGGINS. Oh Lord! [He rises; snatches his hat from the table; and makes for the door; but before he reaches it his mother introduces him]. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill are the mother and daughter who sheltered from the rain in Covent Garden. The mother is well bred, quiet, and has the habitual anxiety of straitened means. The daughter has acquired a gay air of being very much at home in society: the bravado of genteel poverty. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] How do you do? [They shake hands]. MISS EYNSFORD HILL. How d'you do? [She shakes]. MRS. HIGGINS [introducing] My son Henry. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Your celebrated son! I have so longed to meet you, Professor Higgins. HIGGINS [glumly, making no movement in her direction] Delighted. [He backs against the piano and bows brusquely]. Miss EYNSFORD HILL [going to him with confident familiarity] How do you do? HIGGINS [staring at her] I've seen you before somewhere. I haven't the ghost of a notion where; but I've heard your voice. [Drearily] It doesn't matter. You'd better sit down. MRS. HIGGINS. I'm sorry to say that my celebrated son has no manners. You mustn't mind him. MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] I don't. [She sits in the Elizabethan chair]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [a little bewildered] Not at all. [She sits on the ottoman between her daughter and Mrs. Higgins, who has turned her chair away from the writing-table]. HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didn't mean to be. [He goes to the central window, through which, with his back to the company, he contemplates the river and the flowers in Battersea Park on the opposite bank as if they were a frozen dessert.] The parlor-maid returns, ushering in Pickering. THE PARLOR-MAID. Colonel Pickering [She withdraws]. PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? MRS. HIGGINS. So glad you've come. Do you know Mrs. Eynsford Hill--Miss Eynsford Hill? [Exchange of bows. The Colonel brings the Chippendale chair a little forward between Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Higgins, and sits down]. PICKERING. Has Henry told you what we've come for? HIGGINS [over his shoulder] We were interrupted: damn it! MRS. HIGGINS. Oh Henry, Henry, really! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [half rising] Are we in the way? MRS. HIGGINS [rising and making her sit down again] No, no. You couldn't have come more fortunately: we want you to meet a friend of ours. HIGGINS [turning hopefully] Yes, by George! We want two or three people. You'll do as well as anybody else. The parlor-maid returns, ushering Freddy. THE PARLOR-MAID. Mr. Eynsford Hill. HIGGINS [almost audibly, past endurance] God of Heaven! another of them. FREDDY [shaking hands with Mrs. Higgins] Ahdedo? MRS. HIGGINS. Very good of you to come. [Introducing] Colonel Pickering. FREDDY [bowing] Ahdedo? MRS. HIGGINS. I don't think you know my son, Professor Higgins. FREDDY [going to Higgins] Ahdedo? HIGGINS [looking at him much as if he were a pickpocket] I'll take my oath I've met you before somewhere. Where was it? FREDDY. I don't think so. HIGGINS [resignedly] It don't matter, anyhow. Sit down. He shakes Freddy's hand, and almost slings him on the ottoman with his face to the windows; then comes round to the other side of it. HIGGINS. Well, here we are, anyhow! [He sits down on the ottoman next Mrs. Eynsford Hill, on her left.] And now, what the devil are we going to talk about until Eliza comes? MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: you are the life and soul of the Royal Society's soirees; but really you're rather trying on more commonplace occasions. HIGGINS. Am I? Very sorry. [Beaming suddenly] I suppose I am, you know. [Uproariously] Ha, ha! MISS EYNSFORD HILL [who considers Higgins quite eligible matrimonially] I sympathize. I haven't any small talk. If people would only be frank and say what they really think! HIGGINS [relapsing into gloom] Lord forbid! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [taking up her daughter's cue] But why? HIGGINS. What they think they ought to think is bad enough, Lord knows; but what they really think would break up the whole show. Do you suppose it would be really agreeable if I were to come out now with what I really think? MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] Is it so very cynical? HIGGINS. Cynical! Who the dickens said it was cynical? I mean it wouldn't be decent. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [seriously] Oh! I'm sure you don't mean that, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. You see, we're all savages, more or less. We're supposed to be civilized and cultured--to know all about poetry and philosophy and art and science, and so on; but how many of us know even the meanings of these names? [To Miss Hill] What do you know of poetry? [To Mrs. Hill] What do you know of science? [Indicating Freddy] What does he know of art or science or anything else? What the devil do you imagine I know of philosophy? MRS. HIGGINS [warningly] Or of manners, Henry? THE PARLOR-MAID [opening the door] Miss Doolittle. [She withdraws]. HIGGINS [rising hastily and running to Mrs. Higgins] Here she is, mother. [He stands on tiptoe and makes signs over his mother's head to Eliza to indicate to her which lady is her hostess]. Eliza, who is exquisitely dressed, produces an impression of such remarkable distinction and beauty as she enters that they all rise, quite flustered. Guided by Higgins's signals, she comes to Mrs. Higgins with studied grace. LIZA [speaking with pedantic correctness of pronunciation and great beauty of tone] How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? [She gasps slightly in making sure of the H in Higgins, but is quite successful]. Mr. Higgins told me I might come. MRS. HIGGINS [cordially] Quite right: I'm very glad indeed to see you. PICKERING. How do you do, Miss Doolittle? LIZA [shaking hands with him] Colonel Pickering, is it not? MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I feel sure we have met before, Miss Doolittle. I remember your eyes. LIZA. How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman gracefully in the place just left vacant by Higgins]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My daughter Clara. LIZA. How do you do? CLARA [impulsively] How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman beside Eliza, devouring her with her eyes]. FREDDY [coming to their side of the ottoman] I've certainly had the pleasure. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My son Freddy. LIZA. How do you do? Freddy bows and sits down in the Elizabethan chair, infatuated. HIGGINS [suddenly] By George, yes: it all comes back to me! [They stare at him]. Covent Garden! [Lamentably] What a damned thing! MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, please! [He is about to sit on the edge of the table]. Don't sit on my writing-table: you'll break it. HIGGINS [sulkily] Sorry. He goes to the divan, stumbling into the fender and over the fire-irons on his way; extricating himself with muttered imprecations; and finishing his disastrous journey by throwing himself so impatiently on the divan that he almost breaks it. Mrs. Higgins looks at him, but controls herself and says nothing. A long and painful pause ensues. MRS. HIGGINS [at last, conversationally] Will it rain, do you think? LIZA. The shallow depression in the west of these islands is likely to move slowly in an easterly direction. There are no indications of any great change in the barometrical situation. FREDDY. Ha! ha! how awfully funny! LIZA. What is wrong with that, young man? I bet I got it right. FREDDY. Killing! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I'm sure I hope it won't turn cold. There's so much influenza about. It runs right through our whole family regularly every spring. LIZA [darkly] My aunt died of influenza: so they said. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [clicks her tongue sympathetically]!!! LIZA [in the same tragic tone] But it's my belief they done the old woman in. MRS. HIGGINS [puzzled] Done her in? LIZA. Y-e-e-e-es, Lord love you! Why should she die of influenza? She come through diphtheria right enough the year before. I saw her with my own eyes. Fairly blue with it, she was. They all thought she was dead; but my father he kept ladling gin down her throat til she came to so sudden that she bit the bowl off the spoon. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [startled] Dear me! LIZA [piling up the indictment] What call would a woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. What does doing her in mean? HIGGINS [hastily] Oh, that's the new small talk. To do a person in means to kill them. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Eliza, horrified] You surely don't believe that your aunt was killed? LIZA. Do I not! Them she lived with would have killed her for a hat-pin, let alone a hat. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. But it can't have been right for your father to pour spirits down her throat like that. It might have killed her. LIZA. Not her. Gin was mother's milk to her. Besides, he'd poured so much down his own throat that he knew the good of it. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Do you mean that he drank? LIZA. Drank! My word! Something chronic. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. How dreadful for you! LIZA. Not a bit. It never did him no harm what I could see. But then he did not keep it up regular. [Cheerfully] On the burst, as you might say, from time to time. And always more agreeable when he had a drop in. When he was out of work, my mother used to give him fourpence and tell him to go out and not come back until he'd drunk himself cheerful and loving-like. There's lots of women has to make their husbands drunk to make them fit to live with. [Now quite at her ease] You see, it's like this. If a man has a bit of a conscience, it always takes him when he's sober; and then it makes him low-spirited. A drop of booze just takes that off and makes him happy. [To Freddy, who is in convulsions of suppressed laughter] Here! what are you sniggering at? FREDDY. The new small talk. You do it so awfully well. LIZA. If I was doing it proper, what was you laughing at? [To Higgins] Have I said anything I oughtn't? MRS. HIGGINS [interposing] Not at all, Miss Doolittle. LIZA. Well, that's a mercy, anyhow. [Expansively] What I always say is-- HIGGINS [rising and looking at his watch] Ahem! LIZA [looking round at him; taking the hint; and rising] Well: I must go. [They all rise. Freddy goes to the door]. So pleased to have met you. Good-bye. [She shakes hands with Mrs. Higgins]. MRS. HIGGINS. Good-bye. LIZA. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. PICKERING. Good-bye, Miss Doolittle. [They shake hands]. LIZA [nodding to the others] Good-bye, all. FREDDY [opening the door for her] Are you walking across the Park, Miss Doolittle? If so-- LIZA. Walk! Not bloody likely. [Sensation]. I am going in a taxi. [She goes out]. Pickering gasps and sits down. Freddy goes out on the balcony to catch another glimpse of Eliza. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [suffering from shock] Well, I really can't get used to the new ways. CLARA [throwing herself discontentedly into the Elizabethan chair]. Oh, it's all right, mamma, quite right. People will think we never go anywhere or see anybody if you are so old-fashioned. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I daresay I am very old-fashioned; but I do hope you won't begin using that expression, Clara. I have got accustomed to hear you talking about men as rotters, and calling everything filthy and beastly; though I do think it horrible and unladylike. But this last is really too much. Don't you think so, Colonel Pickering? PICKERING. Don't ask me. I've been away in India for several years; and manners have changed so much that I sometimes don't know whether I'm at a respectable dinner-table or in a ship's forecastle. CLARA. It's all a matter of habit. There's no right or wrong in it. Nobody means anything by it. And it's so quaint, and gives such a smart emphasis to things that are not in themselves very witty. I find the new small talk delightful and quite innocent. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [rising] Well, after that, I think it's time for us to go. Pickering and Higgins rise. CLARA [rising] Oh yes: we have three at homes to go to still. Good-bye, Mrs. Higgins. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. Good-bye, Professor Higgins. HIGGINS [coming grimly at her from the divan, and accompanying her to the door] Good-bye. Be sure you try on that small talk at the three at-homes. Don't be nervous about it. Pitch it in strong. CLARA [all smiles] I will. Good-bye. Such nonsense, all this early Victorian prudery! HIGGINS [tempting her] Such damned nonsense! CLARA. Such bloody nonsense! MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [convulsively] Clara! CLARA. Ha! ha! [She goes out radiant, conscious of being thoroughly up to date, and is heard descending the stairs in a stream of silvery laughter]. FREDDY [to the heavens at large] Well, I ask you [He gives it up, and comes to Mrs. Higgins]. Good-bye. MRS. HIGGINS [shaking hands] Good-bye. Would you like to meet Miss Doolittle again? FREDDY [eagerly] Yes, I should, most awfully. MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you know my days. FREDDY. Yes. Thanks awfully. Good-bye. [He goes out]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Good-bye, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. Good-bye. Good-bye. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Pickering] It's no use. I shall never be able to bring myself to use that word. PICKERING. Don't. It's not compulsory, you know. You'll get on quite well without it. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Only, Clara is so down on me if I am not positively reeking with the latest slang. Good-bye. PICKERING. Good-bye [They shake hands]. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] You mustn't mind Clara. [Pickering, catching from her lowered tone that this is not meant for him to hear, discreetly joins Higgins at the window]. We're so poor! and she gets so few parties, poor child! She doesn't quite know. [Mrs. Higgins, seeing that her eyes are moist, takes her hand sympathetically and goes with her to the door]. But the boy is nice. Don't you think so? MRS. HIGGINS. Oh, quite nice. I shall always be delighted to see him. MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Thank you, dear. Good-bye. [She goes out]. HIGGINS [eagerly] Well? Is Eliza presentable [he swoops on his mother and drags her to the ottoman, where she sits down in Eliza's place with her son on her left]? Pickering returns to his chair on her right. MRS. HIGGINS. You silly boy, of course she's not presentable. She's a triumph of your art and of her dressmaker's; but if you suppose for a moment that she doesn't give herself away in every sentence she utters, you must be perfectly cracked about her. PICKERING. But don't you think something might be done? I mean something to eliminate the sanguinary element from her conversation. MRS. HIGGINS. Not as long as she is in Henry's hands. HIGGINS [aggrieved] Do you mean that my language is improper? MRS. HIGGINS. No, dearest: it would be quite proper--say on a canal barge; but it would not be proper for her at a garden party. HIGGINS [deeply injured] Well I must say-- PICKERING [interrupting him] Come, Higgins: you must learn to know yourself. I haven't heard such language as yours since we used to review the volunteers in Hyde Park twenty years ago. HIGGINS [sulkily] Oh, well, if you say so, I suppose I don't always talk like a bishop. MRS. HIGGINS [quieting Henry with a touch] Colonel Pickering: will you tell me what is the exact state of things in Wimpole Street? PICKERING [cheerfully: as if this completely changed the subject] Well, I have come to live there with Henry. We work together at my Indian Dialects; and we think it more convenient-- MRS. HIGGINS. Quite so. I know all about that: it's an excellent arrangement. But where does this girl live? HIGGINS. With us, of course. Where would she live? MRS. HIGGINS. But on what terms? Is she a servant? If not, what is she? PICKERING [slowly] I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Higgins. HIGGINS. Well, dash me if I do! I've had to work at the girl every day for months to get her to her present pitch. Besides, she's useful. She knows where my things are, and remembers my appointments and so forth. MRS. HIGGINS. How does your housekeeper get on with her? HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce? Oh, she's jolly glad to get so much taken off her hands; for before Eliza came, she had to have to find things and remind me of my appointments. But she's got some silly bee in her bonnet about Eliza. She keeps saying "You don't think, sir": doesn't she, Pick? PICKERING. Yes: that's the formula. "You don't think, sir." That's the end of every conversation about Eliza. HIGGINS. As if I ever stop thinking about the girl and her confounded vowels and consonants. I'm worn out, thinking about her, and watching her lips and her teeth and her tongue, not to mention her soul, which is the quaintest of the lot. MRS. HIGGINS. You certainly are a pretty pair of babies, playing with your live doll. HIGGINS. Playing! The hardest job I ever tackled: make no mistake about that, mother. But you have no idea how frightfully interesting it is to take a human being and change her into a quite different human being by creating a new speech for her. It's filling up the deepest gulf that separates class from class and soul from soul. PICKERING [drawing his chair closer to Mrs. Higgins and bending over to her eagerly] Yes: it's enormously interesting. I assure you, Mrs. Higgins, we take Eliza very seriously. Every week--every day almost--there is some new change. [Closer again] We keep records of every stage--dozens of gramophone disks and photographs-- HIGGINS [assailing her at the other ear] Yes, by George: it's the most absorbing experiment I ever tackled. She regularly fills our lives up; doesn't she, Pick? PICKERING. We're always talking Eliza. HIGGINS. Teaching Eliza. PICKERING. Dressing Eliza. MRS. HIGGINS. What! HIGGINS. Inventing new Elizas. Higgins and Pickering, speaking together: HIGGINS. You know, she has the most extraordinary quickness of ear: PICKERING. I assure you, my dear Mrs. Higgins, that girl HIGGINS. just like a parrot. I've tried her with every PICKERING. is a genius. She can play the piano quite beautifully HIGGINS. possible sort of sound that a human being can make-- PICKERING. We have taken her to classical concerts and to music HIGGINS. Continental dialects, African dialects, Hottentot PICKERING. halls; and it's all the same to her: she plays everything HIGGINS. clicks, things it took me years to get hold of; and PICKERING. she hears right off when she comes home, whether it's HIGGINS. she picks them up like a shot, right away, as if she had PICKERING. Beethoven and Brahms or Lehar and Lionel Morickton; HIGGINS. been at it all her life. PICKERING. though six months ago, she'd never as much as touched a piano. MRS. HIGGINS [putting her fingers in her ears, as they are by this time shouting one another down with an intolerable noise] Sh--sh--sh--sh! [They stop]. PICKERING. I beg your pardon. [He draws his chair back apologetically]. HIGGINS. Sorry. When Pickering starts shouting nobody can get a word in edgeways. MRS. HIGGINS. Be quiet, Henry. Colonel Pickering: don't you realize that when Eliza walked into Wimpole Street, something walked in with her? PICKERING. Her father did. But Henry soon got rid of him. MRS. HIGGINS. It would have been more to the point if her mother had. But as her mother didn't something else did. PICKERING. But what? MRS. HIGGINS [unconsciously dating herself by the word] A problem. PICKERING. Oh, I see. The problem of how to pass her off as a lady. HIGGINS. I'll solve that problem. I've half solved it already. MRS. HIGGINS. No, you two infinitely stupid male creatures: the problem of what is to be done with her afterwards. HIGGINS. I don't see anything in that. She can go her own way, with all the advantages I have given her. MRS. HIGGINS. The advantages of that poor woman who was here just now! The manners and habits that disqualify a fine lady from earning her own living without giving her a fine lady's income! Is that what you mean? PICKERING [indulgently, being rather bored] Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Higgins. [He rises to go]. HIGGINS [rising also] We'll find her some light employment. PICKERING. She's happy enough. Don't you worry about her. Good-bye. [He shakes hands as if he were consoling a frightened child, and makes for the door]. HIGGINS. Anyhow, there's no good bothering now. The thing's done. Good-bye, mother. [He kisses her, and follows Pickering]. PICKERING [turning for a final consolation] There are plenty of openings. We'll do what's right. Good-bye. HIGGINS [to Pickering as they go out together] Let's take her to the Shakespear exhibition at Earls Court. PICKERING. Yes: let's. Her remarks will be delicious. HIGGINS. She'll mimic all the people for us when we get home. PICKERING. Ripping. [Both are heard laughing as they go downstairs]. MRS. HIGGINS [rises with an impatient bounce, and returns to her work at the writing-table. She sweeps a litter of disarranged papers out of her way; snatches a sheet of paper from her stationery case; and tries resolutely to write. At the third line she gives it up; flings down her pen; grips the table angrily and exclaims] Oh, men! men!! men!!!

Act 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-3

Act Three finds us at the apartment of Henry Higgins's mum. Higgins, it seems, wants to test his work at a party she'll soon be throwing. Mrs. Higgins does not approve of the idea - you get the feeling she doesn't approve of most things Higgins does - but Higgins doesn't listen. He's not one to take no for an answer. He's also, we find out, not interested in women, really. Except women like his dear old mother. Higgins assures his mother that Eliza will be on her best behavior, and talk only about the weather and other people's health. Turns out the whole thing isn't much of a party. The only guests are the mother and sister from the first act, Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill, good old Freddy, Pickering, and, of course, Eliza. Eliza enters the party last, looking stunning, and proceeds to ask everyone "How do you do?" She acts a bit like a robot - a beautiful robot with a perfect accent and a very small vocabulary. Higgins spends most of the time trying to figure out why the Eynsford Hills look so familiar. By the time he figures it out, Eliza has forgotten to stick to the script. She starts talking about how her aunt was "did in" by someone. Freddy, not the sharpest tool in the shed, is laughing like an idiot. His vocabulary seems pretty small too . Higgins, embarrassed, gives the signal - a cough - and Eliza heads off like clockwork. After the Eynsford Hills leave, Mrs. Higgins gives Henry and Pickering a talking to. She scolds them like they're little boys. They assure her that they're treating Eliza well, not like a doll at all, but Mrs. Higgins doesn't buy it. Things start to get heavy, and we're not exactly sure why. You idiots, she says, if Eliza learns to act like a lady, she won't be able to do anything to make a living! Higgins and Pickering skip away, unconcerned.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3825-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Pygmalion/section_3_part_0.txt

Pygmalion.act 4

act 4

{"name": "Act 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-4", "summary": "Midnight at Wimpole Street, some months later. Eliza comes in, looking beautiful but tired. Higgins and Pickering stumble in, drunk and happy. They've just come from a bunch of fancy parties and, well, it turns out their scheme worked. Higgins has won the bet, and is too busy tooting his own horn to congratulate Eliza. He and Pickering talk about the evening's events as though Eliza can't hear them - even though she's sitting right across the room. They act like she's a kind of performing monkey, a puppet, a doll, a robot. By now, though, she's got a much larger vocabulary, and she knows Higgins can be a pretty miserable jerk. Even after she brings Higgins his slippers, the two men don't pay any attention to her. At this point Eliza's just about ready to pull an Incredible Hulk and strangle the two of them. When Higgins asks her to turn off the lights and give Mrs. Pearce his breakfast order, she throws his slippers in his face. She even threatens to kill him. Just as Mrs. Higgins warned, Higgins's work has left Eliza in a pickle. She doesn't know what to do with herself now that he's won his bet, and she's mad. Just like Mrs. Higgins said, she's learned how to act like a lady and now she's worried she won't be able to do anything to make a living. Higgins tries to talk her down, suggests she get married, become a florist, etc., but Eliza doesn't listen. All she wants to do is get out of there, telling Higgins that he can keep all the clothing and jewelry he bought her. This gets Higgins super angry and now he nearly pulls an Incredible Hulk and hits Eliza. He gets so angry that he cusses Eliza out and then storms out of the room. Eliza smiles, for the first time, Shaw tells us, as Higgins slams the door.", "analysis": ""}

The Wimpole Street laboratory. Midnight. Nobody in the room. The clock on the mantelpiece strikes twelve. The fire is not alight: it is a summer night. Presently Higgins and Pickering are heard on the stairs. HIGGINS [calling down to Pickering] I say, Pick: lock up, will you. I shan't be going out again. PICKERING. Right. Can Mrs. Pearce go to bed? We don't want anything more, do we? HIGGINS. Lord, no! Eliza opens the door and is seen on the lighted landing in opera cloak, brilliant evening dress, and diamonds, with fan, flowers, and all accessories. She comes to the hearth, and switches on the electric lights there. She is tired: her pallor contrasts strongly with her dark eyes and hair; and her expression is almost tragic. She takes off her cloak; puts her fan and flowers on the piano; and sits down on the bench, brooding and silent. Higgins, in evening dress, with overcoat and hat, comes in, carrying a smoking jacket which he has picked up downstairs. He takes off the hat and overcoat; throws them carelessly on the newspaper stand; disposes of his coat in the same way; puts on the smoking jacket; and throws himself wearily into the easy-chair at the hearth. Pickering, similarly attired, comes in. He also takes off his hat and overcoat, and is about to throw them on Higgins's when he hesitates. PICKERING. I say: Mrs. Pearce will row if we leave these things lying about in the drawing-room. HIGGINS. Oh, chuck them over the bannisters into the hall. She'll find them there in the morning and put them away all right. She'll think we were drunk. PICKERING. We are, slightly. Are there any letters? HIGGINS. I didn't look. [Pickering takes the overcoats and hats and goes down stairs. Higgins begins half singing half yawning an air from La Fanciulla del Golden West. Suddenly he stops and exclaims] I wonder where the devil my slippers are! Eliza looks at him darkly; then leaves the room. Higgins yawns again, and resumes his song. Pickering returns, with the contents of the letter-box in his hand. PICKERING. Only circulars, and this coroneted billet-doux for you. [He throws the circulars into the fender, and posts himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the grate]. HIGGINS [glancing at the billet-doux] Money-lender. [He throws the letter after the circulars]. Eliza returns with a pair of large down-at-heel slippers. She places them on the carpet before Higgins, and sits as before without a word. HIGGINS [yawning again] Oh Lord! What an evening! What a crew! What a silly tomfoollery! [He raises his shoe to unlace it, and catches sight of the slippers. He stops unlacing and looks at them as if they had appeared there of their own accord]. Oh! they're there, are they? PICKERING [stretching himself] Well, I feel a bit tired. It's been a long day. The garden party, a dinner party, and the opera! Rather too much of a good thing. But you've won your bet, Higgins. Eliza did the trick, and something to spare, eh? HIGGINS [fervently] Thank God it's over! Eliza flinches violently; but they take no notice of her; and she recovers herself and sits stonily as before. PICKERING. Were you nervous at the garden party? I was. Eliza didn't seem a bit nervous. HIGGINS. Oh, she wasn't nervous. I knew she'd be all right. No, it's the strain of putting the job through all these months that has told on me. It was interesting enough at first, while we were at the phonetics; but after that I got deadly sick of it. If I hadn't backed myself to do it I should have chucked the whole thing up two months ago. It was a silly notion: the whole thing has been a bore. PICKERING. Oh come! the garden party was frightfully exciting. My heart began beating like anything. HIGGINS. Yes, for the first three minutes. But when I saw we were going to win hands down, I felt like a bear in a cage, hanging about doing nothing. The dinner was worse: sitting gorging there for over an hour, with nobody but a damned fool of a fashionable woman to talk to! I tell you, Pickering, never again for me. No more artificial duchesses. The whole thing has been simple purgatory. PICKERING. You've never been broken in properly to the social routine. [Strolling over to the piano] I rather enjoy dipping into it occasionally myself: it makes me feel young again. Anyhow, it was a great success: an immense success. I was quite frightened once or twice because Eliza was doing it so well. You see, lots of the real people can't do it at all: they're such fools that they think style comes by nature to people in their position; and so they never learn. There's always something professional about doing a thing superlatively well. HIGGINS. Yes: that's what drives me mad: the silly people don't know their own silly business. [Rising] However, it's over and done with; and now I can go to bed at last without dreading tomorrow. Eliza's beauty becomes murderous. PICKERING. I think I shall turn in too. Still, it's been a great occasion: a triumph for you. Good-night. [He goes]. HIGGINS [following him] Good-night. [Over his shoulder, at the door] Put out the lights, Eliza; and tell Mrs. Pearce not to make coffee for me in the morning: I'll take tea. [He goes out]. Eliza tries to control herself and feel indifferent as she rises and walks across to the hearth to switch off the lights. By the time she gets there she is on the point of screaming. She sits down in Higgins's chair and holds on hard to the arms. Finally she gives way and flings herself furiously on the floor raging. HIGGINS [in despairing wrath outside] What the devil have I done with my slippers? [He appears at the door]. LIZA [snatching up the slippers, and hurling them at him one after the other with all her force] There are your slippers. And there. Take your slippers; and may you never have a day's luck with them! HIGGINS [astounded] What on earth--! [He comes to her]. What's the matter? Get up. [He pulls her up]. Anything wrong? LIZA [breathless] Nothing wrong--with YOU. I've won your bet for you, haven't I? That's enough for you. _I_ don't matter, I suppose. HIGGINS. YOU won my bet! You! Presumptuous insect! _I_ won it. What did you throw those slippers at me for? LIZA. Because I wanted to smash your face. I'd like to kill you, you selfish brute. Why didn't you leave me where you picked me out of--in the gutter? You thank God it's all over, and that now you can throw me back again there, do you? [She crisps her fingers, frantically]. HIGGINS [looking at her in cool wonder] The creature IS nervous, after all. LIZA [gives a suffocated scream of fury, and instinctively darts her nails at his face]!! HIGGINS [catching her wrists] Ah! would you? Claws in, you cat. How dare you show your temper to me? Sit down and be quiet. [He throws her roughly into the easy-chair]. LIZA [crushed by superior strength and weight] What's to become of me? What's to become of me? HIGGINS. How the devil do I know what's to become of you? What does it matter what becomes of you? LIZA. You don't care. I know you don't care. You wouldn't care if I was dead. I'm nothing to you--not so much as them slippers. HIGGINS [thundering] THOSE slippers. LIZA [with bitter submission] Those slippers. I didn't think it made any difference now. A pause. Eliza hopeless and crushed. Higgins a little uneasy. HIGGINS [in his loftiest manner] Why have you begun going on like this? May I ask whether you complain of your treatment here? LIZA. No. HIGGINS. Has anybody behaved badly to you? Colonel Pickering? Mrs. Pearce? Any of the servants? LIZA. No. HIGGINS. I presume you don't pretend that I have treated you badly. LIZA. No. HIGGINS. I am glad to hear it. [He moderates his tone]. Perhaps you're tired after the strain of the day. Will you have a glass of champagne? [He moves towards the door]. LIZA. No. [Recollecting her manners] Thank you. HIGGINS [good-humored again] This has been coming on you for some days. I suppose it was natural for you to be anxious about the garden party. But that's all over now. [He pats her kindly on the shoulder. She writhes]. There's nothing more to worry about. LIZA. No. Nothing more for you to worry about. [She suddenly rises and gets away from him by going to the piano bench, where she sits and hides her face]. Oh God! I wish I was dead. HIGGINS [staring after her in sincere surprise] Why? in heaven's name, why? [Reasonably, going to her] Listen to me, Eliza. All this irritation is purely subjective. LIZA. I don't understand. I'm too ignorant. HIGGINS. It's only imagination. Low spirits and nothing else. Nobody's hurting you. Nothing's wrong. You go to bed like a good girl and sleep it off. Have a little cry and say your prayers: that will make you comfortable. LIZA. I heard YOUR prayers. "Thank God it's all over!" HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, don't you thank God it's all over? Now you are free and can do what you like. LIZA [pulling herself together in desperation] What am I fit for? What have you left me fit for? Where am I to go? What am I to do? What's to become of me? HIGGINS [enlightened, but not at all impressed] Oh, that's what's worrying you, is it? [He thrusts his hands into his pockets, and walks about in his usual manner, rattling the contents of his pockets, as if condescending to a trivial subject out of pure kindness]. I shouldn't bother about it if I were you. I should imagine you won't have much difficulty in settling yourself, somewhere or other, though I hadn't quite realized that you were going away. [She looks quickly at him: he does not look at her, but examines the dessert stand on the piano and decides that he will eat an apple]. You might marry, you know. [He bites a large piece out of the apple, and munches it noisily]. You see, Eliza, all men are not confirmed old bachelors like me and the Colonel. Most men are the marrying sort (poor devils!); and you're not bad-looking; it's quite a pleasure to look at you sometimes--not now, of course, because you're crying and looking as ugly as the very devil; but when you're all right and quite yourself, you're what I should call attractive. That is, to the people in the marrying line, you understand. You go to bed and have a good nice rest; and then get up and look at yourself in the glass; and you won't feel so cheap. Eliza again looks at him, speechless, and does not stir. The look is quite lost on him: he eats his apple with a dreamy expression of happiness, as it is quite a good one. HIGGINS [a genial afterthought occurring to him] I daresay my mother could find some chap or other who would do very well-- LIZA. We were above that at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. HIGGINS [waking up] What do you mean? LIZA. I sold flowers. I didn't sell myself. Now you've made a lady of me I'm not fit to sell anything else. I wish you'd left me where you found me. HIGGINS [slinging the core of the apple decisively into the grate] Tosh, Eliza. Don't you insult human relations by dragging all this cant about buying and selling into it. You needn't marry the fellow if you don't like him. LIZA. What else am I to do? HIGGINS. Oh, lots of things. What about your old idea of a florist's shop? Pickering could set you up in one: he's lots of money. [Chuckling] He'll have to pay for all those togs you have been wearing today; and that, with the hire of the jewellery, will make a big hole in two hundred pounds. Why, six months ago you would have thought it the millennium to have a flower shop of your own. Come! you'll be all right. I must clear off to bed: I'm devilish sleepy. By the way, I came down for something: I forget what it was. LIZA. Your slippers. HIGGINS. Oh yes, of course. You shied them at me. [He picks them up, and is going out when she rises and speaks to him]. LIZA. Before you go, sir-- HIGGINS [dropping the slippers in his surprise at her calling him sir] Eh? LIZA. Do my clothes belong to me or to Colonel Pickering? HIGGINS [coming back into the room as if her question were the very climax of unreason] What the devil use would they be to Pickering? LIZA. He might want them for the next girl you pick up to experiment on. HIGGINS [shocked and hurt] Is THAT the way you feel towards us? LIZA. I don't want to hear anything more about that. All I want to know is whether anything belongs to me. My own clothes were burnt. HIGGINS. But what does it matter? Why need you start bothering about that in the middle of the night? LIZA. I want to know what I may take away with me. I don't want to be accused of stealing. HIGGINS [now deeply wounded] Stealing! You shouldn't have said that, Eliza. That shows a want of feeling. LIZA. I'm sorry. I'm only a common ignorant girl; and in my station I have to be careful. There can't be any feelings between the like of you and the like of me. Please will you tell me what belongs to me and what doesn't? HIGGINS [very sulky] You may take the whole damned houseful if you like. Except the jewels. They're hired. Will that satisfy you? [He turns on his heel and is about to go in extreme dudgeon]. LIZA [drinking in his emotion like nectar, and nagging him to provoke a further supply] Stop, please. [She takes off her jewels]. Will you take these to your room and keep them safe? I don't want to run the risk of their being missing. HIGGINS [furious] Hand them over. [She puts them into his hands]. If these belonged to me instead of to the jeweler, I'd ram them down your ungrateful throat. [He perfunctorily thrusts them into his pockets, unconsciously decorating himself with the protruding ends of the chains]. LIZA [taking a ring off] This ring isn't the jeweler's: it's the one you bought me in Brighton. I don't want it now. [Higgins dashes the ring violently into the fireplace, and turns on her so threateningly that she crouches over the piano with her hands over her face, and exclaims] Don't you hit me. HIGGINS. Hit you! You infamous creature, how dare you accuse me of such a thing? It is you who have hit me. You have wounded me to the heart. LIZA [thrilling with hidden joy] I'm glad. I've got a little of my own back, anyhow. HIGGINS [with dignity, in his finest professional style] You have caused me to lose my temper: a thing that has hardly ever happened to me before. I prefer to say nothing more tonight. I am going to bed. LIZA [pertly] You'd better leave a note for Mrs. Pearce about the coffee; for she won't be told by me. HIGGINS [formally] Damn Mrs. Pearce; and damn the coffee; and damn you; and damn my own folly in having lavished MY hard-earned knowledge and the treasure of my regard and intimacy on a heartless guttersnipe. [He goes out with impressive decorum, and spoils it by slamming the door savagely]. Eliza smiles for the first time; expresses her feelings by a wild pantomime in which an imitation of Higgins's exit is confused with her own triumph; and finally goes down on her knees on the hearthrug to look for the ring.

Act 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422224809/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/pygmalion/summary/act-4

Midnight at Wimpole Street, some months later. Eliza comes in, looking beautiful but tired. Higgins and Pickering stumble in, drunk and happy. They've just come from a bunch of fancy parties and, well, it turns out their scheme worked. Higgins has won the bet, and is too busy tooting his own horn to congratulate Eliza. He and Pickering talk about the evening's events as though Eliza can't hear them - even though she's sitting right across the room. They act like she's a kind of performing monkey, a puppet, a doll, a robot. By now, though, she's got a much larger vocabulary, and she knows Higgins can be a pretty miserable jerk. Even after she brings Higgins his slippers, the two men don't pay any attention to her. At this point Eliza's just about ready to pull an Incredible Hulk and strangle the two of them. When Higgins asks her to turn off the lights and give Mrs. Pearce his breakfast order, she throws his slippers in his face. She even threatens to kill him. Just as Mrs. Higgins warned, Higgins's work has left Eliza in a pickle. She doesn't know what to do with herself now that he's won his bet, and she's mad. Just like Mrs. Higgins said, she's learned how to act like a lady and now she's worried she won't be able to do anything to make a living. Higgins tries to talk her down, suggests she get married, become a florist, etc., but Eliza doesn't listen. All she wants to do is get out of there, telling Higgins that he can keep all the clothing and jewelry he bought her. This gets Higgins super angry and now he nearly pulls an Incredible Hulk and hits Eliza. He gets so angry that he cusses Eliza out and then storms out of the room. Eliza smiles, for the first time, Shaw tells us, as Higgins slams the door.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/3825-chapters/act_iv.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Pygmalion/section_3_part_0.txt

Pygmalion.act iv

act iv

{"name": "Act IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210119022725/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/pygmalion/section4/", "summary": "The trio return to Higgins' Wimpole Street laboratory, exhausted from the night's happenings. They talk about the evening and their great success, though Higgins seems rather bored, more concerned with his inability to find slippers. While he talks absentmindedly with Pickering, Eliza slips out, returns with his slippers, and lays them on the floor before him without a word. When he notices them, he thinks that they appeared out of nowhere. Higgins and Pickering begin to speak as if Eliza is not there with them, saying how happy they are that the entire experiment is over, agreeing that it had become rather boring in the last few months. The two of them then leave the room to go to bed. Eliza is clearly hurt , but Higgins and Pickering are oblivious to her. Higgins pops back in, once again mystified over what he has done with his slippers, and Eliza promptly flings them in his face. Eliza is mad enough to kill him; she thinks that she is no more important to him than his slippers. At Higgins' retort that she is presumptuous and ungrateful, she answers that no one has treated her badly, but that she is still left confused about what is to happen to her now that the bet has been won. Higgins says that she can always get married or open that flower shop , but she replies by saying that she wishes she had been left where she was before. She goes on to ask whether her clothes belong to her, meaning what can she take away with her without being accused of thievery. Higgins is genuinely hurt, something that does not happen to him often. She returns him a ring he bought for her, but he throws it into the fireplace. After he leaves, she finds it again, but then leaves it on the dessert stand and departs.", "analysis": "Commentary If we consider the conventional structure of a romance or fairy tale, the story has really already reached its climax by this point, because Cinderella has been turned into a princess, and the challenge has been met. Then why does the play carry on for another two acts? This would appear completely counter- productive, only if one thinks that this play is only about changing appearances. The fact that the play carries on indicates that there are more transformations in Eliza to be witnessed: this act shows the birth of an independent spirit in the face of Higgins' bullying superiority. The loosely set-up dichotomy between people and objects is brought to a head when Eliza flings his slippers in his face, and complains that she means no more to him than his slippers--\"You don't care. I know you don't care. You wouldn't care if I was dead. I'm nothing to you--not so much as them slippers. \" Not only does she object to being treated like an object, she goes on to assert herself by saying that she would never sell herself, like Higgins suggests when he tells her she can go get married. This climactic move forces Higgins to reconsider what a woman can be, and, as he confesses in the final act, marks the beginning of his considering Eliza to be an equal rather than a burden. One thing to consider in this act is why Shaw has chosen not to portray the climax at the ambassador's party where Eliza can prove how well she has been instructed by Higgins . One reason is that most theatrical productions do not have the capacity to stage an opulent, luxurious ball just for a short scene. But another reason is that Shaw's intention is to rob the story of its romance. We are spared the actual training of Eliza as well as her moment of glory ; instead, all we get is scenes of her pre- and post- the dramatic climax."}

The Wimpole Street laboratory. Midnight. Nobody in the room. The clock on the mantelpiece strikes twelve. The fire is not alight: it is a summer night. Presently Higgins and Pickering are heard on the stairs. HIGGINS [calling down to Pickering] I say, Pick: lock up, will you. I shan't be going out again. PICKERING. Right. Can Mrs. Pearce go to bed? We don't want anything more, do we? HIGGINS. Lord, no! Eliza opens the door and is seen on the lighted landing in opera cloak, brilliant evening dress, and diamonds, with fan, flowers, and all accessories. She comes to the hearth, and switches on the electric lights there. She is tired: her pallor contrasts strongly with her dark eyes and hair; and her expression is almost tragic. She takes off her cloak; puts her fan and flowers on the piano; and sits down on the bench, brooding and silent. Higgins, in evening dress, with overcoat and hat, comes in, carrying a smoking jacket which he has picked up downstairs. He takes off the hat and overcoat; throws them carelessly on the newspaper stand; disposes of his coat in the same way; puts on the smoking jacket; and throws himself wearily into the easy-chair at the hearth. Pickering, similarly attired, comes in. He also takes off his hat and overcoat, and is about to throw them on Higgins's when he hesitates. PICKERING. I say: Mrs. Pearce will row if we leave these things lying about in the drawing-room. HIGGINS. Oh, chuck them over the bannisters into the hall. She'll find them there in the morning and put them away all right. She'll think we were drunk. PICKERING. We are, slightly. Are there any letters? HIGGINS. I didn't look. [Pickering takes the overcoats and hats and goes down stairs. Higgins begins half singing half yawning an air from La Fanciulla del Golden West. Suddenly he stops and exclaims] I wonder where the devil my slippers are! Eliza looks at him darkly; then leaves the room. Higgins yawns again, and resumes his song. Pickering returns, with the contents of the letter-box in his hand. PICKERING. Only circulars, and this coroneted billet-doux for you. [He throws the circulars into the fender, and posts himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the grate]. HIGGINS [glancing at the billet-doux] Money-lender. [He throws the letter after the circulars]. Eliza returns with a pair of large down-at-heel slippers. She places them on the carpet before Higgins, and sits as before without a word. HIGGINS [yawning again] Oh Lord! What an evening! What a crew! What a silly tomfoollery! [He raises his shoe to unlace it, and catches sight of the slippers. He stops unlacing and looks at them as if they had appeared there of their own accord]. Oh! they're there, are they? PICKERING [stretching himself] Well, I feel a bit tired. It's been a long day. The garden party, a dinner party, and the opera! Rather too much of a good thing. But you've won your bet, Higgins. Eliza did the trick, and something to spare, eh? HIGGINS [fervently] Thank God it's over! Eliza flinches violently; but they take no notice of her; and she recovers herself and sits stonily as before. PICKERING. Were you nervous at the garden party? I was. Eliza didn't seem a bit nervous. HIGGINS. Oh, she wasn't nervous. I knew she'd be all right. No, it's the strain of putting the job through all these months that has told on me. It was interesting enough at first, while we were at the phonetics; but after that I got deadly sick of it. If I hadn't backed myself to do it I should have chucked the whole thing up two months ago. It was a silly notion: the whole thing has been a bore. PICKERING. Oh come! the garden party was frightfully exciting. My heart began beating like anything. HIGGINS. Yes, for the first three minutes. But when I saw we were going to win hands down, I felt like a bear in a cage, hanging about doing nothing. The dinner was worse: sitting gorging there for over an hour, with nobody but a damned fool of a fashionable woman to talk to! I tell you, Pickering, never again for me. No more artificial duchesses. The whole thing has been simple purgatory. PICKERING. You've never been broken in properly to the social routine. [Strolling over to the piano] I rather enjoy dipping into it occasionally myself: it makes me feel young again. Anyhow, it was a great success: an immense success. I was quite frightened once or twice because Eliza was doing it so well. You see, lots of the real people can't do it at all: they're such fools that they think style comes by nature to people in their position; and so they never learn. There's always something professional about doing a thing superlatively well. HIGGINS. Yes: that's what drives me mad: the silly people don't know their own silly business. [Rising] However, it's over and done with; and now I can go to bed at last without dreading tomorrow. Eliza's beauty becomes murderous. PICKERING. I think I shall turn in too. Still, it's been a great occasion: a triumph for you. Good-night. [He goes]. HIGGINS [following him] Good-night. [Over his shoulder, at the door] Put out the lights, Eliza; and tell Mrs. Pearce not to make coffee for me in the morning: I'll take tea. [He goes out]. Eliza tries to control herself and feel indifferent as she rises and walks across to the hearth to switch off the lights. By the time she gets there she is on the point of screaming. She sits down in Higgins's chair and holds on hard to the arms. Finally she gives way and flings herself furiously on the floor raging. HIGGINS [in despairing wrath outside] What the devil have I done with my slippers? [He appears at the door]. LIZA [snatching up the slippers, and hurling them at him one after the other with all her force] There are your slippers. And there. Take your slippers; and may you never have a day's luck with them! HIGGINS [astounded] What on earth--! [He comes to her]. What's the matter? Get up. [He pulls her up]. Anything wrong? LIZA [breathless] Nothing wrong--with YOU. I've won your bet for you, haven't I? That's enough for you. _I_ don't matter, I suppose. HIGGINS. YOU won my bet! You! Presumptuous insect! _I_ won it. What did you throw those slippers at me for? LIZA. Because I wanted to smash your face. I'd like to kill you, you selfish brute. Why didn't you leave me where you picked me out of--in the gutter? You thank God it's all over, and that now you can throw me back again there, do you? [She crisps her fingers, frantically]. HIGGINS [looking at her in cool wonder] The creature IS nervous, after all. LIZA [gives a suffocated scream of fury, and instinctively darts her nails at his face]!! HIGGINS [catching her wrists] Ah! would you? Claws in, you cat. How dare you show your temper to me? Sit down and be quiet. [He throws her roughly into the easy-chair]. LIZA [crushed by superior strength and weight] What's to become of me? What's to become of me? HIGGINS. How the devil do I know what's to become of you? What does it matter what becomes of you? LIZA. You don't care. I know you don't care. You wouldn't care if I was dead. I'm nothing to you--not so much as them slippers. HIGGINS [thundering] THOSE slippers. LIZA [with bitter submission] Those slippers. I didn't think it made any difference now. A pause. Eliza hopeless and crushed. Higgins a little uneasy. HIGGINS [in his loftiest manner] Why have you begun going on like this? May I ask whether you complain of your treatment here? LIZA. No. HIGGINS. Has anybody behaved badly to you? Colonel Pickering? Mrs. Pearce? Any of the servants? LIZA. No. HIGGINS. I presume you don't pretend that I have treated you badly. LIZA. No. HIGGINS. I am glad to hear it. [He moderates his tone]. Perhaps you're tired after the strain of the day. Will you have a glass of champagne? [He moves towards the door]. LIZA. No. [Recollecting her manners] Thank you. HIGGINS [good-humored again] This has been coming on you for some days. I suppose it was natural for you to be anxious about the garden party. But that's all over now. [He pats her kindly on the shoulder. She writhes]. There's nothing more to worry about. LIZA. No. Nothing more for you to worry about. [She suddenly rises and gets away from him by going to the piano bench, where she sits and hides her face]. Oh God! I wish I was dead. HIGGINS [staring after her in sincere surprise] Why? in heaven's name, why? [Reasonably, going to her] Listen to me, Eliza. All this irritation is purely subjective. LIZA. I don't understand. I'm too ignorant. HIGGINS. It's only imagination. Low spirits and nothing else. Nobody's hurting you. Nothing's wrong. You go to bed like a good girl and sleep it off. Have a little cry and say your prayers: that will make you comfortable. LIZA. I heard YOUR prayers. "Thank God it's all over!" HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, don't you thank God it's all over? Now you are free and can do what you like. LIZA [pulling herself together in desperation] What am I fit for? What have you left me fit for? Where am I to go? What am I to do? What's to become of me? HIGGINS [enlightened, but not at all impressed] Oh, that's what's worrying you, is it? [He thrusts his hands into his pockets, and walks about in his usual manner, rattling the contents of his pockets, as if condescending to a trivial subject out of pure kindness]. I shouldn't bother about it if I were you. I should imagine you won't have much difficulty in settling yourself, somewhere or other, though I hadn't quite realized that you were going away. [She looks quickly at him: he does not look at her, but examines the dessert stand on the piano and decides that he will eat an apple]. You might marry, you know. [He bites a large piece out of the apple, and munches it noisily]. You see, Eliza, all men are not confirmed old bachelors like me and the Colonel. Most men are the marrying sort (poor devils!); and you're not bad-looking; it's quite a pleasure to look at you sometimes--not now, of course, because you're crying and looking as ugly as the very devil; but when you're all right and quite yourself, you're what I should call attractive. That is, to the people in the marrying line, you understand. You go to bed and have a good nice rest; and then get up and look at yourself in the glass; and you won't feel so cheap. Eliza again looks at him, speechless, and does not stir. The look is quite lost on him: he eats his apple with a dreamy expression of happiness, as it is quite a good one. HIGGINS [a genial afterthought occurring to him] I daresay my mother could find some chap or other who would do very well-- LIZA. We were above that at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. HIGGINS [waking up] What do you mean? LIZA. I sold flowers. I didn't sell myself. Now you've made a lady of me I'm not fit to sell anything else. I wish you'd left me where you found me. HIGGINS [slinging the core of the apple decisively into the grate] Tosh, Eliza. Don't you insult human relations by dragging all this cant about buying and selling into it. You needn't marry the fellow if you don't like him. LIZA. What else am I to do? HIGGINS. Oh, lots of things. What about your old idea of a florist's shop? Pickering could set you up in one: he's lots of money. [Chuckling] He'll have to pay for all those togs you have been wearing today; and that, with the hire of the jewellery, will make a big hole in two hundred pounds. Why, six months ago you would have thought it the millennium to have a flower shop of your own. Come! you'll be all right. I must clear off to bed: I'm devilish sleepy. By the way, I came down for something: I forget what it was. LIZA. Your slippers. HIGGINS. Oh yes, of course. You shied them at me. [He picks them up, and is going out when she rises and speaks to him]. LIZA. Before you go, sir-- HIGGINS [dropping the slippers in his surprise at her calling him sir] Eh? LIZA. Do my clothes belong to me or to Colonel Pickering? HIGGINS [coming back into the room as if her question were the very climax of unreason] What the devil use would they be to Pickering? LIZA. He might want them for the next girl you pick up to experiment on. HIGGINS [shocked and hurt] Is THAT the way you feel towards us? LIZA. I don't want to hear anything more about that. All I want to know is whether anything belongs to me. My own clothes were burnt. HIGGINS. But what does it matter? Why need you start bothering about that in the middle of the night? LIZA. I want to know what I may take away with me. I don't want to be accused of stealing. HIGGINS [now deeply wounded] Stealing! You shouldn't have said that, Eliza. That shows a want of feeling. LIZA. I'm sorry. I'm only a common ignorant girl; and in my station I have to be careful. There can't be any feelings between the like of you and the like of me. Please will you tell me what belongs to me and what doesn't? HIGGINS [very sulky] You may take the whole damned houseful if you like. Except the jewels. They're hired. Will that satisfy you? [He turns on his heel and is about to go in extreme dudgeon]. LIZA [drinking in his emotion like nectar, and nagging him to provoke a further supply] Stop, please. [She takes off her jewels]. Will you take these to your room and keep them safe? I don't want to run the risk of their being missing. HIGGINS [furious] Hand them over. [She puts them into his hands]. If these belonged to me instead of to the jeweler, I'd ram them down your ungrateful throat. [He perfunctorily thrusts them into his pockets, unconsciously decorating himself with the protruding ends of the chains]. LIZA [taking a ring off] This ring isn't the jeweler's: it's the one you bought me in Brighton. I don't want it now. [Higgins dashes the ring violently into the fireplace, and turns on her so threateningly that she crouches over the piano with her hands over her face, and exclaims] Don't you hit me. HIGGINS. Hit you! You infamous creature, how dare you accuse me of such a thing? It is you who have hit me. You have wounded me to the heart. LIZA [thrilling with hidden joy] I'm glad. I've got a little of my own back, anyhow. HIGGINS [with dignity, in his finest professional style] You have caused me to lose my temper: a thing that has hardly ever happened to me before. I prefer to say nothing more tonight. I am going to bed. LIZA [pertly] You'd better leave a note for Mrs. Pearce about the coffee; for she won't be told by me. HIGGINS [formally] Damn Mrs. Pearce; and damn the coffee; and damn you; and damn my own folly in having lavished MY hard-earned knowledge and the treasure of my regard and intimacy on a heartless guttersnipe. [He goes out with impressive decorum, and spoils it by slamming the door savagely]. Eliza smiles for the first time; expresses her feelings by a wild pantomime in which an imitation of Higgins's exit is confused with her own triumph; and finally goes down on her knees on the hearthrug to look for the ring.

Act IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210119022725/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/pygmalion/section4/

The trio return to Higgins' Wimpole Street laboratory, exhausted from the night's happenings. They talk about the evening and their great success, though Higgins seems rather bored, more concerned with his inability to find slippers. While he talks absentmindedly with Pickering, Eliza slips out, returns with his slippers, and lays them on the floor before him without a word. When he notices them, he thinks that they appeared out of nowhere. Higgins and Pickering begin to speak as if Eliza is not there with them, saying how happy they are that the entire experiment is over, agreeing that it had become rather boring in the last few months. The two of them then leave the room to go to bed. Eliza is clearly hurt , but Higgins and Pickering are oblivious to her. Higgins pops back in, once again mystified over what he has done with his slippers, and Eliza promptly flings them in his face. Eliza is mad enough to kill him; she thinks that she is no more important to him than his slippers. At Higgins' retort that she is presumptuous and ungrateful, she answers that no one has treated her badly, but that she is still left confused about what is to happen to her now that the bet has been won. Higgins says that she can always get married or open that flower shop , but she replies by saying that she wishes she had been left where she was before. She goes on to ask whether her clothes belong to her, meaning what can she take away with her without being accused of thievery. Higgins is genuinely hurt, something that does not happen to him often. She returns him a ring he bought for her, but he throws it into the fireplace. After he leaves, she finds it again, but then leaves it on the dessert stand and departs.

Commentary If we consider the conventional structure of a romance or fairy tale, the story has really already reached its climax by this point, because Cinderella has been turned into a princess, and the challenge has been met. Then why does the play carry on for another two acts? This would appear completely counter- productive, only if one thinks that this play is only about changing appearances. The fact that the play carries on indicates that there are more transformations in Eliza to be witnessed: this act shows the birth of an independent spirit in the face of Higgins' bullying superiority. The loosely set-up dichotomy between people and objects is brought to a head when Eliza flings his slippers in his face, and complains that she means no more to him than his slippers--"You don't care. I know you don't care. You wouldn't care if I was dead. I'm nothing to you--not so much as them slippers. " Not only does she object to being treated like an object, she goes on to assert herself by saying that she would never sell herself, like Higgins suggests when he tells her she can go get married. This climactic move forces Higgins to reconsider what a woman can be, and, as he confesses in the final act, marks the beginning of his considering Eliza to be an equal rather than a burden. One thing to consider in this act is why Shaw has chosen not to portray the climax at the ambassador's party where Eliza can prove how well she has been instructed by Higgins . One reason is that most theatrical productions do not have the capacity to stage an opulent, luxurious ball just for a short scene. But another reason is that Shaw's intention is to rob the story of its romance. We are spared the actual training of Eliza as well as her moment of glory ; instead, all we get is scenes of her pre- and post- the dramatic climax.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Twelfth Night/section_3_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 4.scene 1-scene 5

act 4

{"name": "Act 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125104708/https://www.gradesaver.com/twelfth-night/study-guide/summary-act-4", "summary": "Feste approaches Sebastian, thinking that Sebastian is 'Cesario'; when Sebastian tells Feste that he does not know him, nor Olivia, whom Feste tells him to meet, Feste becomes rather upset, and accuses Sebastian of \"strangeness\". Then Sir Andrew comes, and strikes Sebastian out of anger, as if he were Cesario; Sir Toby and Sebastian come close to getting in a duel of their own, when Olivia finds them, and charges them to stop. Olivia dismisses Sir Toby, and asks Sebastian \"would thou'dst be ruled by me,\" thinking that he is Cesario, due to his great resemblance to his sister. Sebastian decides to go along with it, struck by Olivia's beauty, thinking it all a pleasant dream from which he hopes he will not awaken. Scene 2: Maria and Feste conspire to present Feste as Sir Topaz, the curate, to Malvolio, who is hidden from view. Feste tries to convince that Malvolio that he is crazy, and Malvolio continues to insist that he is not, that he has been wrongly incarcerated. Feste then confronts Malvolio as himself, and torments him some more; he fakes a conversation with himself as Feste and Sir Topaz, and Malvolio begs for paper and ink so that he can send a message to Olivia. Feste promises to fetch these things, and exits with a song. Scene 3: Sebastian debates with himself whether he is mad, or whether it is the Lady Olivia; but, he recognizes that is cannot be her, since she is able to command a large household, and therefore would have to be sane and coherent. Olivia asks him to come with her to the parson and be married to her; Sebastian, though he does not know her and cannot figure out exactly what is going on, says he will marry her, and leaves with her.", "analysis": "Analysis: Feste the fool confronts Sebastian, and Sebastian, completely baffled about who Feste is and why Feste is addressing him like Feste knows him, adopts an annoyed, and even more formal tone than is usual for him. \"I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else,\" Sebastian urges Feste . Feste is displeased by Sebastian's high-flown language, taking Sebastian's normal speech as being designed to sound condescending to Feste. Feste parodies Sebastian's tone and language by asking Sebastian, \"I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness,\" and mocking his use of the word \"vent\" . Note the contrast between Sebastian's more stiff manner of speaking, and Viola's more plain and witty way of expressing herself; unlike Viola, Sebastian does not engage in any kind of wordplay with Feste, choosing rather to avoid any type of confrontation of wits. The theme of mistaken identity comes back into the foreground in the scenes with Sebastian in this act, with the issue waiting to be resolved in the final act. There is one basic similarity shown between Sebastian and Viola in their encounters with Feste, and that is their generosity, shown by their willingness to give Feste money for his troubles. Another common aspect of their personalities is their impulsiveness; Sebastian proves very impulsive, as he chooses to marry Olivia after knowing her for only a few minutes. These shared aspects in their temperament mean that Sebastian and Viola are more easily mistaken for each other; had they been vastly different, then perhaps the difference between the two would have been more easily discovered. Sebastian's reaction to Olivia's show of affection is parallel to a situation of yet another twin, Antipholus, in Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors; Antipholus too was confronted by a woman claiming his affections, who mistook him for his identical twin. The reaction of the two twins is similar as well; Antipholus reacts by questioning his sanity and whether he is awake, just as Sebastian does in his aside. Both make the same decision in this situation as well; Sebastian himself decides to let his \"sense in Lethe steep,\" alluding to the mythical river of oblivion to convey the capriciousness of his decision . Here, again, the play depends on dramatic irony in its entertainment value to the audience, and in getting the characters to mistake each other. This situation presented in this scene is very funny because Olivia mistakes Sebastian for Viola, and Sebastian does not realize this identity mix-up he is involved in. The audience is wise to it all, and is entertained by knowing how these characters are confused, and by knowing that some kind of messy incident will be required in order to sort this situation out, and that both Olivia and Sebastian, not to mention the others, will be shocked by the truth. Feste continues his mischief in the next scene, with Malvolio; he disguises himself as a cleric named \"Topaz,\" which is a stone that symbolized sanity, and hence was thought to be a cure for madness. Feste again speaks with a tone of fake intellectualism, poking fun of the habit of scholars to quote famous figures by concocting a reference to the fictional \"old Hermit of Prague\" . He corrupts the Spanish greeting \"buenos dias\" into something that almost sounds like Latin, \"bonos dies,\" also to make himself sound more falsely authoritative. To convince Malvolio that he is insane, Feste tosses about a few paradoxes, and contradicts some of the things that Malvolio knows to be true. Feste begins by asking Malvolio if it is light or dark where he is imprisoned; Malvolio answers that it is indeed dark, and Feste counters him by swearing that there are \"bay windows transparent as barricadoes\" and \"lustrous as ebony\" . By barricadoes, Feste means \"barricades,\" which are not at all transparent, and ebony is dark and black, rather than light; these statements are meant to contradict what Malvolio perceives, but also to confuse him through the paradox inherent in the statements. Feste then examines him as to his belief in Pythagoras' theory of souls, and threatens to leave Malvolio when Malvolio says he does not believe in it. It would be odd for a Christian parson to believe that souls inhabit other bodies after death, rather than believing the traditional Christian idea, that souls go to heaven; however, Malvolio does not pick up on this key fact, and does not realize that Sir Topaz is really Feste in disguise. Continuing his efforts, Feste upsets Malvolio by telling him that he is \"more puzzled than Egyptians in their fog,\" referring to one of the plagues of Egypt in the Bible, which was a heavy fog of darkness that stayed for three days . Malvolio tries to reinforce his statement that the place where he is is dark, reasoning that \"this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell\" . His attempt to qualify his perceptions through this simile shows how stubborn he is, and how difficult a time Feste and company will have if they want to drive Malvolio truly mad. Feste addresses Malvolio as himself as well; but to Malvolio's calls of \"fool,\" Feste merely taunts him with a song that rubs in Malvolio's situation, of being in love with a woman who only cares for someone else. Malvolio's cries fall flat with Feste, who acts the part of a fool, but has been displayed as someone who is rather wise; it is ironic that Malvolio would call Feste a fool, since Malvolio has acted more of a fool than Feste usually does. During this scene, Malvolio is heard, but not seen, on stage. In some versions, he speaks from beneath the stage, and in a few other versions, he is behind the stage; the scene relies on Feste and his impersonation skills and, as written, does not give much sympathy to Malvolio. However, Malvolio's treatment, which was mostly comic in previous scenes, becomes rather cruel; Malvolio keeps begging to be let out, and for light and writing instruments, yet his pleas are ignored while Feste tries his best to make Malvolio seem even more foolish than he is. Feste is rather diffident to Malvolio, and his delight in tormenting Malvolio is rather sadistic as well; while before, Feste was witty, benevolent, and full of jests, here he reveals a darker side, as the play becomes a little darker as well."}

ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come. How shall I feast him? what bestow on him? I speak too loud.---- Where is Malvolio? _Mar._ He's coming, madam; But in strange manner. He is sure possessed. _Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave? _Mar._ No, madam, He does nothing but smile: your ladyship Were best have guard about you, if he come; For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. _Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA. I'm as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be.-- _Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA. How now, Malvolio? _Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._ _Oli._ Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. _Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and please all_. _Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? _Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the sweet Roman hand. _Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? _Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee. _Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? _Mar._ How do you, Malvolio? _Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws. _Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? _Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ. _Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio? _Mal._ _Some are born great_,-- _Oli._ Ha? _Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,-- _Oli._ What say'st thou? _Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._ _Oli._ Heaven restore thee! _Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;-- _Oli._ Thy yellow stockings? _Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._ _Oli._ Cross-garter'd? _Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;-- _Oli._ Am I made? _Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._ _Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness. _Enter_ FABIAN. _Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned; I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure. _Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN. Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And, when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. _Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him. _Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA. _Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man? _Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off. _Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. _Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so? _Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind. _Mal._ Do you know what you say? _Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd. _Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman. _Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him? let me alone with him. _Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. _Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck? _Mal._ Sir? _Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier! _Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby. _Mal._ My prayers, minx? _Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness. _Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha! ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO. _Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha! _Sir To._ Is't possible? _Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. _Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. _Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint. _Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed. _Mar._ The house will be the quieter. _Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA. But see, but see. _Fab._ More matter for a May morning. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_. _Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in't. _Fab._ Is't so saucy? _Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read. _Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ _Fab._ Good and valiant. _Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._ _Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. _Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge thee for._ _Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less. _Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me_,-- _Fab._ Good. _Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._ _Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good. _Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him. _Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. _Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away. _Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. _Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take leave, and presently after him. _Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA. _Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary out: There's something in me, that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. _Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears, Go on my master's griefs. _Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you: And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny; That honour, saved, may upon asking give? _Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master. _Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? _Vio._ I will acquit you. _Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well! [_Exit_ OLIVIA. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee. _Vio._ And you, sir. _Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. _Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. _Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. _Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he? _Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't. _Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. _Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me, which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or forswear to wear iron about you. _Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. _Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? _Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. _Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he? _Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him, if I can. _Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_. _Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;-- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,---- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they say, he has been fencer to the Sophy. _Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him. _Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. _Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet. _Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you. _Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA. I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded him, the youth's a devil. _Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants, as if a bear were at his heels. _Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you. _Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. _Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious. _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to 't. _Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath! _Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will. [_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me; If you offend him, I for him defy you. _Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you? _Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will. _Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. [SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.] [SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a little_.] _Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the officers. _Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir Andrew,-- _Sir And._ Here I am. _Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.] _Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your sword, if you please. _Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well. _Enter two Officers of Justice._ _1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office. _2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Duke Orsino. _Ant._ You do mistake me, sir. _1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.-- Take him away; he knows, I know him well. _Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you; But there's no remedy. Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me Much more, for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed; But be of comfort. _1 Off._ Come, sir, away. _Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money. _Vio._ What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have showed me here, And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I'll lend you something: my having is not much; I'll make division of my present with you; Hold, there is half my coffer. _Ant._ Will you deny me now? Is't possible, that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery; Lest that it make me so unsound a man, As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you. _Vio._ I know of none; Nor know I you by voice, or any feature. _Ant._ O heavens themselves! _1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go. _Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here, I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death; And to his image, which, methought, did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!-- Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.-- In nature there's no blemish, but the mind; None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind: Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_. _Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. [_They retire together._ _Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such, and so, In favour was my brother; and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament; For him I imitate: O, if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_Exit_ VIOLA. [_They advance._] _Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. _Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. _Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him. _Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword. _Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN. _Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you? _Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of thee. _Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is so. _Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not me. _Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming? _Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment. _Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you. [_Striking_ SEBASTIAN. _Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and there:--Are all the people mad? [_Beating_ SIR ANDREW. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house. _Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [_Exit_ CLOWN. _Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN. _Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that. _Seb._ Let go thy hand. _Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on. _Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee. --What would'st thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. _Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._ _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_. _Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here! [_Exit_ FABIAN. _Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold. _Sir To._ Madam? _Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario:---- Rudesby, be gone!-- _Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Oli._ And you, sir, follow him. _Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,-- [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house; And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; Do not deny. _Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:-- Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! _Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me! _Seb._ Madam, I will. _Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._ SCENE IV. _A Gallery in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ MARIA, _with a black Gown and Hood, and_ CLOWN. _Mar._ Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe, thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call Sir Toby the whilst. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Clo._ Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA. _Sir To._ Jove bless thee, master parson. _Clo._ _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, _That, that is, is_; so I, being master parson, am master parson: For what is that, but that? and is, but is? _Sir To._ To him, Sir Topas. _Clo._ [_Opens the door of an inner Room_] What, hoa, I say,--Peace in this prison! _Sir To._ The knave counterfeits well; a good knave. _Mal._ [_In the inner Room._] Who calls there? _Clo._ Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic. _Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. _Clo._ Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of ladies? _Sir To._ Well said, master parson. _Mal._ Sir Topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in hideous darkness. _Clo._ Say'st thou, that house is dark? _Mal._ As hell, Sir Topas. _Clo._ Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness, but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the Egyptians in their fog. _Mal._ I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused: I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question. _Clo._ What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl? _Mal._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. _Clo._ What thinkest thou of his opinion? _Mal._ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. _Clo._ Fare thee well: Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. _Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas,-- _Sir To._ My most exquisite Sir Topas,-- _Clo._ Nay, I am for all waters. [_Takes off the gown and hood, and gives them to_ MARIA.] _Mar._ Thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he sees thee not. _Sir To._ To him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou find'st him: Come by and by to my chamber. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA. _Clo._ [_Sings._] _Hey Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does._ _Mal._ Fool,--fool,--good fool,-- _Clo._ Who calls, ha? _Mal._ As ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't. _Clo._ Master Malvolio! _Mal_. Ay, good fool. _Clo._ Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? _Mal._ Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. _Clo._ But as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. _Mal._ Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. _Clo._ I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad, indeed? or do you but counterfeit? _Mal._ Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true. _Clo._ Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. _Mal._ Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree. I pr'ythee, be gone. _Clo._ [_Shuts the door of the inner Room, and sings._] _I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I'll be with you again, &c._ [_Exit._ SCENE V. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SEBASTIAN. _Seb._ This is the air; that is the glorious sun; This pearl she gave me, I do feel't, and see't: And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio then? I could not find him at the Elephant; His counsel now might do me golden service: For though my soul disputes well with my sense, That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes, And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me To any other trust, but that I am mad, Or else the lady's mad.--But here she comes. _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and a_ FRIAR. _Oli._ Blame not this haste of mine:--If you mean well, Now go with me, and with this holy man, Into the chantry by: there, before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith; That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace: He shall conceal it, Whiles you are willing it shall come to note; What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth.--What do you say? _Seb._ I'll follow this good man, and go with you; And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. _Oli._ Then lead the way, good father: [_Exit_ FRIAR. And heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine! [_Exeunt._

Act 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125104708/https://www.gradesaver.com/twelfth-night/study-guide/summary-act-4

Feste approaches Sebastian, thinking that Sebastian is 'Cesario'; when Sebastian tells Feste that he does not know him, nor Olivia, whom Feste tells him to meet, Feste becomes rather upset, and accuses Sebastian of "strangeness". Then Sir Andrew comes, and strikes Sebastian out of anger, as if he were Cesario; Sir Toby and Sebastian come close to getting in a duel of their own, when Olivia finds them, and charges them to stop. Olivia dismisses Sir Toby, and asks Sebastian "would thou'dst be ruled by me," thinking that he is Cesario, due to his great resemblance to his sister. Sebastian decides to go along with it, struck by Olivia's beauty, thinking it all a pleasant dream from which he hopes he will not awaken. Scene 2: Maria and Feste conspire to present Feste as Sir Topaz, the curate, to Malvolio, who is hidden from view. Feste tries to convince that Malvolio that he is crazy, and Malvolio continues to insist that he is not, that he has been wrongly incarcerated. Feste then confronts Malvolio as himself, and torments him some more; he fakes a conversation with himself as Feste and Sir Topaz, and Malvolio begs for paper and ink so that he can send a message to Olivia. Feste promises to fetch these things, and exits with a song. Scene 3: Sebastian debates with himself whether he is mad, or whether it is the Lady Olivia; but, he recognizes that is cannot be her, since she is able to command a large household, and therefore would have to be sane and coherent. Olivia asks him to come with her to the parson and be married to her; Sebastian, though he does not know her and cannot figure out exactly what is going on, says he will marry her, and leaves with her.

Analysis: Feste the fool confronts Sebastian, and Sebastian, completely baffled about who Feste is and why Feste is addressing him like Feste knows him, adopts an annoyed, and even more formal tone than is usual for him. "I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else," Sebastian urges Feste . Feste is displeased by Sebastian's high-flown language, taking Sebastian's normal speech as being designed to sound condescending to Feste. Feste parodies Sebastian's tone and language by asking Sebastian, "I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness," and mocking his use of the word "vent" . Note the contrast between Sebastian's more stiff manner of speaking, and Viola's more plain and witty way of expressing herself; unlike Viola, Sebastian does not engage in any kind of wordplay with Feste, choosing rather to avoid any type of confrontation of wits. The theme of mistaken identity comes back into the foreground in the scenes with Sebastian in this act, with the issue waiting to be resolved in the final act. There is one basic similarity shown between Sebastian and Viola in their encounters with Feste, and that is their generosity, shown by their willingness to give Feste money for his troubles. Another common aspect of their personalities is their impulsiveness; Sebastian proves very impulsive, as he chooses to marry Olivia after knowing her for only a few minutes. These shared aspects in their temperament mean that Sebastian and Viola are more easily mistaken for each other; had they been vastly different, then perhaps the difference between the two would have been more easily discovered. Sebastian's reaction to Olivia's show of affection is parallel to a situation of yet another twin, Antipholus, in Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors; Antipholus too was confronted by a woman claiming his affections, who mistook him for his identical twin. The reaction of the two twins is similar as well; Antipholus reacts by questioning his sanity and whether he is awake, just as Sebastian does in his aside. Both make the same decision in this situation as well; Sebastian himself decides to let his "sense in Lethe steep," alluding to the mythical river of oblivion to convey the capriciousness of his decision . Here, again, the play depends on dramatic irony in its entertainment value to the audience, and in getting the characters to mistake each other. This situation presented in this scene is very funny because Olivia mistakes Sebastian for Viola, and Sebastian does not realize this identity mix-up he is involved in. The audience is wise to it all, and is entertained by knowing how these characters are confused, and by knowing that some kind of messy incident will be required in order to sort this situation out, and that both Olivia and Sebastian, not to mention the others, will be shocked by the truth. Feste continues his mischief in the next scene, with Malvolio; he disguises himself as a cleric named "Topaz," which is a stone that symbolized sanity, and hence was thought to be a cure for madness. Feste again speaks with a tone of fake intellectualism, poking fun of the habit of scholars to quote famous figures by concocting a reference to the fictional "old Hermit of Prague" . He corrupts the Spanish greeting "buenos dias" into something that almost sounds like Latin, "bonos dies," also to make himself sound more falsely authoritative. To convince Malvolio that he is insane, Feste tosses about a few paradoxes, and contradicts some of the things that Malvolio knows to be true. Feste begins by asking Malvolio if it is light or dark where he is imprisoned; Malvolio answers that it is indeed dark, and Feste counters him by swearing that there are "bay windows transparent as barricadoes" and "lustrous as ebony" . By barricadoes, Feste means "barricades," which are not at all transparent, and ebony is dark and black, rather than light; these statements are meant to contradict what Malvolio perceives, but also to confuse him through the paradox inherent in the statements. Feste then examines him as to his belief in Pythagoras' theory of souls, and threatens to leave Malvolio when Malvolio says he does not believe in it. It would be odd for a Christian parson to believe that souls inhabit other bodies after death, rather than believing the traditional Christian idea, that souls go to heaven; however, Malvolio does not pick up on this key fact, and does not realize that Sir Topaz is really Feste in disguise. Continuing his efforts, Feste upsets Malvolio by telling him that he is "more puzzled than Egyptians in their fog," referring to one of the plagues of Egypt in the Bible, which was a heavy fog of darkness that stayed for three days . Malvolio tries to reinforce his statement that the place where he is is dark, reasoning that "this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell" . His attempt to qualify his perceptions through this simile shows how stubborn he is, and how difficult a time Feste and company will have if they want to drive Malvolio truly mad. Feste addresses Malvolio as himself as well; but to Malvolio's calls of "fool," Feste merely taunts him with a song that rubs in Malvolio's situation, of being in love with a woman who only cares for someone else. Malvolio's cries fall flat with Feste, who acts the part of a fool, but has been displayed as someone who is rather wise; it is ironic that Malvolio would call Feste a fool, since Malvolio has acted more of a fool than Feste usually does. During this scene, Malvolio is heard, but not seen, on stage. In some versions, he speaks from beneath the stage, and in a few other versions, he is behind the stage; the scene relies on Feste and his impersonation skills and, as written, does not give much sympathy to Malvolio. However, Malvolio's treatment, which was mostly comic in previous scenes, becomes rather cruel; Malvolio keeps begging to be let out, and for light and writing instruments, yet his pleas are ignored while Feste tries his best to make Malvolio seem even more foolish than he is. Feste is rather diffident to Malvolio, and his delight in tormenting Malvolio is rather sadistic as well; while before, Feste was witty, benevolent, and full of jests, here he reveals a darker side, as the play becomes a little darker as well.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_0_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 1.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1", "summary": "Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, is sitting in his palace and enjoying himself by listening to music. He is in love and is in a whimsical, romantic mood, luxuriating in the various emotions which the music evokes. But he impulsively decides that he has heard enough, and after sending the musicians away, he expounds on the subject of love. Curio, one of his pages, asks his master if he wouldn't like to hunt; perhaps exercise will cure his master's soulful, philosophical moodiness. Orsino replies that he would like to hunt -- but he would like to hunt the lovely Olivia, to whom he has sent another of his pages, Valentine, as an emissary. At that moment, Valentine enters. But he brings such bad news that he begs \"not be admitted\": Olivia's brother has died, and she has vowed to mourn her brother's death for seven years. Surprisingly, the news does not dampen Orsino's spirit. He rhapsodizes on how a girl with such sensitivity can express her emotions; if she \"hath a heart of that fine frame,\" he says, then she would be even more devoted and loyal to a lover.", "analysis": "Twelfth Night has always been one of Shakespeare's most popular plays on the stage. On a first reading of the play, some students find the play difficult to come to grips with. This is because so much of the delight of the play comes from viewing the play. One must imagine the opening of the play with musicians entering and playing lovely music of a languid and melancholy nature to match the mood and personality of Duke Orsino's mood. The general setting of the play is also significant. Shakespeare always set his comedies in faraway places so as to emphasize the ethereal quality of the romance. The name \"Illyria\" would be as little known to his audience as it is to today's average person; the fact that such a place did in fact exist on the Adriatic coast is of no importance to the play, for the name itself evokes images of faraway places filled with intrigues and love, and this is the concept that is emphasized throughout the play by the extensive use of music. In some productions, in addition to the songs played and sung on the stage, languid background music is played throughout the comedy. The duke is in love, and his famous first lines announce this feeling: If music be the food of love, play on!Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die. But the duke is not in love with any one particular person ; but most of all, the duke is in love with love itself; after all, the Lady Olivia has rejected his protestations of love, and yet he continues to insist that she marry him. The duke thoroughly delights in giving himself up to the exquisite delights of his own passions, but actually he does little to try to possess the object of his affections. In fact, this is the reason why he will later use Viola to do his courting for him. The duke's character is set in his first speech. At the same time that he indulges in the sentimental music, he impetuously grows tired of it and dismisses the musicians. The duke then evokes the metaphor of the sea, which he likens to love. The sea is vast, as is the duke's capacity for love, but the sea is also changeable, unstable, and constantly shifting its mien. At the end of the comedy, the duke, significantly, will shift his love from the Lady Olivia to Viola within a moment; thus we should not be disturbed by this quick change. Feste later compares the duke's love to an opal, a gem which constantly changes its color according to the nature of the light. When we hear that the Lady Olivia is going to mourn her brother for seven years, her desire to remain \"cloistered like a nun\" for seven years identifies her as a person of extreme romantic sentimentality, one who is not in touch with the real world; thus, she is a romantic counterpart to Duke Orsino. When the duke hears the news, he is pleased: if she can remain devoted to her brother for so long, it means that she has a constant heart; therefore, she will be constant to a lover forever, when the time comes. The duke then lies down; he goes to his \"sweet beds of flowers\" in order to sleep and dream, believing that \"love thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.\" In this short opening scene, we have seen the duke restless and enamored of love, tired of love, and finally ready to sleep and dream of love."}

ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. _The Sea-coast._ _Enter_ VIOLA, ROBERTO, _and two Sailors, carrying a Trunk_. _Vio._ What country, friends, is this? _Rob._ This is Illyria, lady. _Vio._ And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance, he is not drown'd:--What think you, sailors? _Rob._ It is perchance, that you yourself were saved. _Vio._ O my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be. _Rob._ True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and that poor number saved with you, Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, So long as I could see. _Vio._ Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know'st thou this country? _Rob._ Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born, Not three hours travel from this very place. _Vio._ Who governs here? _Rob._ A noble duke, in nature, As in his name. _Vio._ What is his name? _Rob._ Orsino. _Vio._ Orsino!--I have heard my father name him: He was a bachelor then. _Rob._ And so is now, Or was so very late: for but a month Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do, The less will prattle of,) that he did seek The love of fair Olivia. _Vio._ What is she? _Rob._ A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died: for whose dear love, They say, she hath abjured the company And sight of men. _Vio._ Oh, that I served that lady! And might not be deliver'd to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is! _Rob._ That were hard to compass; Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the duke's. _Vio._ There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; And, I believe, thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am; and be my aid For such disguise as, haply, shall become The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke; Thou shalt present me as a page unto him, Of gentle breeding, and my name, Cesario:-- That trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother, Will furnish man's apparel to my need:-- It may be worth thy pains: for I can sing, And speak to him in many sorts of music, That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. _Rob._ Be you his page, and I your mute will be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see! _Vio._ I thank thee:--Lead me on. [_Exeunt._

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1

Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, is sitting in his palace and enjoying himself by listening to music. He is in love and is in a whimsical, romantic mood, luxuriating in the various emotions which the music evokes. But he impulsively decides that he has heard enough, and after sending the musicians away, he expounds on the subject of love. Curio, one of his pages, asks his master if he wouldn't like to hunt; perhaps exercise will cure his master's soulful, philosophical moodiness. Orsino replies that he would like to hunt -- but he would like to hunt the lovely Olivia, to whom he has sent another of his pages, Valentine, as an emissary. At that moment, Valentine enters. But he brings such bad news that he begs "not be admitted": Olivia's brother has died, and she has vowed to mourn her brother's death for seven years. Surprisingly, the news does not dampen Orsino's spirit. He rhapsodizes on how a girl with such sensitivity can express her emotions; if she "hath a heart of that fine frame," he says, then she would be even more devoted and loyal to a lover.

Twelfth Night has always been one of Shakespeare's most popular plays on the stage. On a first reading of the play, some students find the play difficult to come to grips with. This is because so much of the delight of the play comes from viewing the play. One must imagine the opening of the play with musicians entering and playing lovely music of a languid and melancholy nature to match the mood and personality of Duke Orsino's mood. The general setting of the play is also significant. Shakespeare always set his comedies in faraway places so as to emphasize the ethereal quality of the romance. The name "Illyria" would be as little known to his audience as it is to today's average person; the fact that such a place did in fact exist on the Adriatic coast is of no importance to the play, for the name itself evokes images of faraway places filled with intrigues and love, and this is the concept that is emphasized throughout the play by the extensive use of music. In some productions, in addition to the songs played and sung on the stage, languid background music is played throughout the comedy. The duke is in love, and his famous first lines announce this feeling: If music be the food of love, play on!Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die. But the duke is not in love with any one particular person ; but most of all, the duke is in love with love itself; after all, the Lady Olivia has rejected his protestations of love, and yet he continues to insist that she marry him. The duke thoroughly delights in giving himself up to the exquisite delights of his own passions, but actually he does little to try to possess the object of his affections. In fact, this is the reason why he will later use Viola to do his courting for him. The duke's character is set in his first speech. At the same time that he indulges in the sentimental music, he impetuously grows tired of it and dismisses the musicians. The duke then evokes the metaphor of the sea, which he likens to love. The sea is vast, as is the duke's capacity for love, but the sea is also changeable, unstable, and constantly shifting its mien. At the end of the comedy, the duke, significantly, will shift his love from the Lady Olivia to Viola within a moment; thus we should not be disturbed by this quick change. Feste later compares the duke's love to an opal, a gem which constantly changes its color according to the nature of the light. When we hear that the Lady Olivia is going to mourn her brother for seven years, her desire to remain "cloistered like a nun" for seven years identifies her as a person of extreme romantic sentimentality, one who is not in touch with the real world; thus, she is a romantic counterpart to Duke Orsino. When the duke hears the news, he is pleased: if she can remain devoted to her brother for so long, it means that she has a constant heart; therefore, she will be constant to a lover forever, when the time comes. The duke then lies down; he goes to his "sweet beds of flowers" in order to sleep and dream, believing that "love thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers." In this short opening scene, we have seen the duke restless and enamored of love, tired of love, and finally ready to sleep and dream of love.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_1_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 1.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-2", "summary": "Viola and a sea captain and several sailors enter. They have been shipwrecked on the seacoast of Illyria and have barely escaped drowning. The captain congratulates Viola on not being drowned, for he tells her that when their ship split in half, he saw her brother, Sebastian, tie himself to a mast; yet even that, he fears, did not save Sebastian, for he saw him and the mast borne away on the waves. According to the captain, there is a slim chance that Sebastian survived, but there is a strong possibility that only the captain, Viola, and these few sailors are the sole survivors. Viola is appreciative of the captain's kind, if cautious, optimism; she gives him some gold coins and asks him if he has any idea where they are. The captain does; he knows Illyria well. He was born and reared here, and he tells Viola that the country is governed by a \"noble Duke,\" Duke Orsino. Viola recognizes the name; her father spoke of him. The duke is a bachelor, she believes. The captain is not so sure that this fact is still true; he says that according to current gossip, the duke has been seeking the love of \"fair Olivia,\" but he says that Olivia is a virgin and that she is determined to remain so. Following the death of Olivia's father and the death of her brother , Olivia forswore men altogether. The story intrigues Viola; she herself is now in mourning for her brother, Sebastian, and nothing would please her more than to serve Olivia. The captain, however, says that such a plan is impossible. Olivia will see no one. For a moment, Viola ponders, then she devises an ingenious scheme. She will disguise herself as a young eunuch, and she will pay the captain handsomely for his aid if he presents her to Duke Orsino. She will sing for the duke, play any number of musical instruments for him and -- in short -- she will ingratiate herself in his household. The captain agrees, and they exit.", "analysis": "With the shift of this scene to the seacoast of Illyria, we meet another principal character in the comedy -- Viola -- and in meeting her, we hear more about the Lady Olivia, and even though their names are almost perfect anagrams , and even though they are in similar dramatic situations in this play, they are vastly different women. Both of them have recently been orphaned, and, to all outward semblances, both have lost a brother and are therefore alone in the world. But here the similarity ends. Olivia is indulging in her grief, but whereas Viola deeply grieves for her brother, she is still able to function in the practical world. Unlike Olivia, Viola, shipwrecked and alone, does not have time to indulge in her grief. Being a shipwrecked virgin maid on a strange shore and knowing no one, she must use her wit, her intelligence, and her ability to analyze situations and characters. Consequently, Viola decides to disguise herself as a man for a very practical purpose -- to assure her own protection in an alien world which would not respect a young virgin maiden. And with the assumption of this disguise, we will have the beginning of a complicated series of disguises which will run throughout the remainder of the comedy. Viola's uncanny ability to intuit other people's ideas enables her to trust the sea captain; he can help her carry out her plans and keep her identity secret. Without his trust, her plans would fail, and after she has assumed her disguise, she uses it to its fullest potential -- that is, she never passes up the opportunity to use her disguise in order to make puns and double entendres for parodies and satires and, ultimately, to comment subtly on the disguised biological difference between herself and the Lady Olivia. In other words, while the disguise provides Viola with security and protection, it also allows her to utilize her wit for her own enjoyment and also for the enjoyment of the audience."}

SCENE II. _A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _The Duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ CURIO, _and Gentlemen_. _Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.---- [_Music._] That strain again;--it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing, and giving odours.-- [_Music._] Enough; no more; [_He rises._ 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. _Cur._ Will you go hunt, my lord? _Duke._ What, Curio? _Cur._ The hart. _Duke._ Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought, she purged the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn'd into a hart; And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er since pursue me. _Enter_ VALENTINE. How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak. _Val._ So please my lord, I might not be admitted; But from her handmaid do return this answer; The element itself, till seven years heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this, to season A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh, And lasting, in her sad remembrance. _Duke._ O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame, To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else That live in her!-- Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-2

Viola and a sea captain and several sailors enter. They have been shipwrecked on the seacoast of Illyria and have barely escaped drowning. The captain congratulates Viola on not being drowned, for he tells her that when their ship split in half, he saw her brother, Sebastian, tie himself to a mast; yet even that, he fears, did not save Sebastian, for he saw him and the mast borne away on the waves. According to the captain, there is a slim chance that Sebastian survived, but there is a strong possibility that only the captain, Viola, and these few sailors are the sole survivors. Viola is appreciative of the captain's kind, if cautious, optimism; she gives him some gold coins and asks him if he has any idea where they are. The captain does; he knows Illyria well. He was born and reared here, and he tells Viola that the country is governed by a "noble Duke," Duke Orsino. Viola recognizes the name; her father spoke of him. The duke is a bachelor, she believes. The captain is not so sure that this fact is still true; he says that according to current gossip, the duke has been seeking the love of "fair Olivia," but he says that Olivia is a virgin and that she is determined to remain so. Following the death of Olivia's father and the death of her brother , Olivia forswore men altogether. The story intrigues Viola; she herself is now in mourning for her brother, Sebastian, and nothing would please her more than to serve Olivia. The captain, however, says that such a plan is impossible. Olivia will see no one. For a moment, Viola ponders, then she devises an ingenious scheme. She will disguise herself as a young eunuch, and she will pay the captain handsomely for his aid if he presents her to Duke Orsino. She will sing for the duke, play any number of musical instruments for him and -- in short -- she will ingratiate herself in his household. The captain agrees, and they exit.

With the shift of this scene to the seacoast of Illyria, we meet another principal character in the comedy -- Viola -- and in meeting her, we hear more about the Lady Olivia, and even though their names are almost perfect anagrams , and even though they are in similar dramatic situations in this play, they are vastly different women. Both of them have recently been orphaned, and, to all outward semblances, both have lost a brother and are therefore alone in the world. But here the similarity ends. Olivia is indulging in her grief, but whereas Viola deeply grieves for her brother, she is still able to function in the practical world. Unlike Olivia, Viola, shipwrecked and alone, does not have time to indulge in her grief. Being a shipwrecked virgin maid on a strange shore and knowing no one, she must use her wit, her intelligence, and her ability to analyze situations and characters. Consequently, Viola decides to disguise herself as a man for a very practical purpose -- to assure her own protection in an alien world which would not respect a young virgin maiden. And with the assumption of this disguise, we will have the beginning of a complicated series of disguises which will run throughout the remainder of the comedy. Viola's uncanny ability to intuit other people's ideas enables her to trust the sea captain; he can help her carry out her plans and keep her identity secret. Without his trust, her plans would fail, and after she has assumed her disguise, she uses it to its fullest potential -- that is, she never passes up the opportunity to use her disguise in order to make puns and double entendres for parodies and satires and, ultimately, to comment subtly on the disguised biological difference between herself and the Lady Olivia. In other words, while the disguise provides Viola with security and protection, it also allows her to utilize her wit for her own enjoyment and also for the enjoyment of the audience.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_2_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 1.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-3", "summary": "At Olivia's house, Sir Toby Belch, Olivia's uncle, is criticizing his niece for mourning the death of her brother so profusely. He says to her serving girl, Maria, that his niece is melodramatically overreacting, and he thoroughly disapproves. Maria disapproves of several things herself: she disapproves of Sir Toby's arriving at such a late hour, dressing so slovenly, and drinking so much. Only yesterday, Olivia complained of these things, plus the fact that Sir Toby brought someone who he thinks is the perfect suitor to the house, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Despite Maria's calling Aguecheek a \"fool and a prodigal,\" Sir Toby is proud of the chap -- a fitting suitor for his niece: Aguecheek, he says, receives three thousand ducats a year, plays the violincello, and speaks several languages. Maria is not impressed. To her, the man is reputed to be a gambler, a quarreler, a coward, and a habitual drunkard. When Sir Andrew joins them, there follows a brief exchange of jests, most of them at Sir Andrew's expense. Maria leaves, and the two men discuss Sir Andrew's chances as a prospective suitor of Olivia. Sir Andrew is discouraged and ready to ride home tomorrow, but Sir Toby persuades him to prolong his visit for another month, especially since Sir Andrew delights in masques and revels and, as Sir Toby points out, Sir Andrew is a superb dancer and an acrobat, as well. Laughing and joking, the two men leave the stage. It is obvious that Sir Toby has a secret and mysterious purpose for wanting to persuade Sir Andrew to stay and woo the fair Olivia.", "analysis": "With this scene, we are introduced to still another set of characters: in the modern idiom, we have already met the \"upstairs\" characters; now we meet the \"downstairs\" characters. Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and Maria form the subplot that counterbalances the main plot. Sir Toby Belch, as his name implies, is characterized by his heavy drinking and by his obese, corpulent frame. In an earlier play, Shakespeare created a similar type of character in Sir John Falstaff ; this character was extremely popular with Elizabethan audiences, and Sir Toby is reminiscent of the earlier Sir John; both are plump, jolly knights with a penchant for drinking, merrymaking, and foolery of all types. In this play, Sir Toby spends most of his time complimenting Sir Andrew so that the latter will continue to supply him with money for drinking and cavorting. Sir Toby's niece, we discover, is too withdrawn in her melodramatic mourning to be aware of the partying going on in her house, but when she does become aware of it, she disapproves and relies upon her steward, Malvolio, to keep her household in order; thus, Malvolio will soon become the butt of the partymakers' jokes. Maria, another member of the subplot, is Olivia's vivacious, clever, and mischievous maid. She comes from a Shakespearean tradition of servants who are wittier and cleverer than the people who surround them. Thus, she will be seen to be far more witty than Sir Andrew Aguecheek is, and he will become the object of her many jokes and puns, but he will never realize the extent to which Maria ridicules him. Sir Andrew Aguecheek is necessary for the plot mainly because he is in possession of three thousand ducats a year, and Sir Toby is anxious to remain on good terms with him so as to be a recipient of the eccentric knight's beneficence. Consequently, he continually plots ways to make the knight think that Olivia is indeed receptive to the romantic overtures of the tall, skinny, ridiculous knight. Now we know that two vastly different people, Duke Orsino and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, are both seeking the hand of the Lady Olivia. Later, Malvolio will become a third \"suitor,\" by a ruse played upon him by Maria and her cohorts."}

SCENE III. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ MARIA _and_ SIR TOBY BELCH. _Sir To._ What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life. _Mar._ By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. _Sir To._ Why, let her except before excepted. _Mar._ Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. _Sir To._ Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. _Mar._ That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in here, to be her wooer. _Sir To._ Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek? _Mar._ Ay, he. _Sir To._ He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. _Mar._ What's that to the purpose? _Sir To._ Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year. _Mar._ Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. _Sir To._ Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and hath all the good gifts of nature. _Mar._ He hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave. _Sir To._ By this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that say so of him. Who are they? _Mar._ They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company. _Sir To._ With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top--See, here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. [SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, _without_. _Sir And._ Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch? _Sir To._ Sweet Sir Andrew! _Enter_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir And._ Bless you, fair shrew. _Mar._ And you too, sir. _Sir To._ Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. _Sir And._ What's that? _Sir To._ My niece's chamber-maid. _Sir And._ Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. _Mar._ My name is Mary, sir. _Sir And._ Good Mistress Mary Accost,---- _Sir To._ You mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her. _Sir And._ By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost? _Mar._ Fare you well, gentlemen. _Sir To._ An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 'would thou might'st never draw sword again. _Sir And._ An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? _Mar._ Sir, I have not you by the hand. _Sir And._ Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. _Mar._ [_Takes his hand._] Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. _Sir And._ Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor? _Mar._ It's dry, sir. _Sir And._ Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? _Mar._ A dry jest, sir. _Sir And._ Are you full of them? _Mar._ Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_Lets go his hand._] now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Sir To._ O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down? _Sir And._ Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down: Methinks, sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit. _Sir To._ No question. _Sir And._ An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. _Sir To._ _Pourquoy_, my dear knight? _Sir And._ What is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? I would I had bestow'd that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but follow'd the arts! _Sir To._ Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. _Sir And._ Why, would that have mended my hair? _Sir To._ Past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by nature. _Sir And._ But it becomes me well enough, does't not? _Sir To._ Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. _Sir And._ 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke himself, here hard by, wooes her. _Sir To._ She'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. _Sir And._ I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. _Sir To._ Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? _Sir And._ As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I'll not compare with an old man. _Sir To._ What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? _Sir And._ 'Faith, I can cut a caper. _Sir To._ And I can cut the mutton to't. _Sir And._ And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria. _Sir To._ Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard. _Sir And._ Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels? _Sir To._ What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus? _Sir And._ Taurus? that's sides and heart. _Sir To._ No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper:--Ha! higher:--Ha, ha!--excellent! [_Exeunt._

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-3

At Olivia's house, Sir Toby Belch, Olivia's uncle, is criticizing his niece for mourning the death of her brother so profusely. He says to her serving girl, Maria, that his niece is melodramatically overreacting, and he thoroughly disapproves. Maria disapproves of several things herself: she disapproves of Sir Toby's arriving at such a late hour, dressing so slovenly, and drinking so much. Only yesterday, Olivia complained of these things, plus the fact that Sir Toby brought someone who he thinks is the perfect suitor to the house, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Despite Maria's calling Aguecheek a "fool and a prodigal," Sir Toby is proud of the chap -- a fitting suitor for his niece: Aguecheek, he says, receives three thousand ducats a year, plays the violincello, and speaks several languages. Maria is not impressed. To her, the man is reputed to be a gambler, a quarreler, a coward, and a habitual drunkard. When Sir Andrew joins them, there follows a brief exchange of jests, most of them at Sir Andrew's expense. Maria leaves, and the two men discuss Sir Andrew's chances as a prospective suitor of Olivia. Sir Andrew is discouraged and ready to ride home tomorrow, but Sir Toby persuades him to prolong his visit for another month, especially since Sir Andrew delights in masques and revels and, as Sir Toby points out, Sir Andrew is a superb dancer and an acrobat, as well. Laughing and joking, the two men leave the stage. It is obvious that Sir Toby has a secret and mysterious purpose for wanting to persuade Sir Andrew to stay and woo the fair Olivia.

With this scene, we are introduced to still another set of characters: in the modern idiom, we have already met the "upstairs" characters; now we meet the "downstairs" characters. Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and Maria form the subplot that counterbalances the main plot. Sir Toby Belch, as his name implies, is characterized by his heavy drinking and by his obese, corpulent frame. In an earlier play, Shakespeare created a similar type of character in Sir John Falstaff ; this character was extremely popular with Elizabethan audiences, and Sir Toby is reminiscent of the earlier Sir John; both are plump, jolly knights with a penchant for drinking, merrymaking, and foolery of all types. In this play, Sir Toby spends most of his time complimenting Sir Andrew so that the latter will continue to supply him with money for drinking and cavorting. Sir Toby's niece, we discover, is too withdrawn in her melodramatic mourning to be aware of the partying going on in her house, but when she does become aware of it, she disapproves and relies upon her steward, Malvolio, to keep her household in order; thus, Malvolio will soon become the butt of the partymakers' jokes. Maria, another member of the subplot, is Olivia's vivacious, clever, and mischievous maid. She comes from a Shakespearean tradition of servants who are wittier and cleverer than the people who surround them. Thus, she will be seen to be far more witty than Sir Andrew Aguecheek is, and he will become the object of her many jokes and puns, but he will never realize the extent to which Maria ridicules him. Sir Andrew Aguecheek is necessary for the plot mainly because he is in possession of three thousand ducats a year, and Sir Toby is anxious to remain on good terms with him so as to be a recipient of the eccentric knight's beneficence. Consequently, he continually plots ways to make the knight think that Olivia is indeed receptive to the romantic overtures of the tall, skinny, ridiculous knight. Now we know that two vastly different people, Duke Orsino and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, are both seeking the hand of the Lady Olivia. Later, Malvolio will become a third "suitor," by a ruse played upon him by Maria and her cohorts.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_3_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 1.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-4", "summary": "In Duke Orsino's palace, one of his pages, Valentine, enters, accompanied by Viola, disguised as a young eunuch, Cesario. By their conversation, we realize that after only three days, Cesario has already become a great favorite with the duke. In fact, Viola has won Orsino's confidence and favor so thoroughly that when \"Cesario\" enters, Orsino sends the others away so that he and Cesario might be alone. He asks Cesario to do him a very special, very personal favor. Cesario is to be the duke's messenger, his proxy, and carry notes of love from Orsino to Olivia. Cesario is to explain in detail the passion which Orsino has for Olivia and, in addition, Cesario is to enact Orsino's \"woes.\" Furthermore, because Cesario himself is so beautifully handsome, Orsino believes that his avowals of love will be all the better received. His reasoning is that his love messages will entice the fair Olivia favorably because they will be presented in such a handsome package, as it were. Orsino also says that if Cesario is successful, he will be well rewarded; he will \"live as freely as thy lord / To call his fortune thine.\" Cesario is reluctant; in an aside, he reveals that \"he\" has fallen in love with Orsino. Ironically, as Cesario, Viola will be doing some wooing for a man whom she would gladly have as a husband herself.", "analysis": "This scene shows us that Viola has been completely successful in carrying out her plan to become a member of Duke Orsino's household. Within a period of only three days she has completely captivated the duke, who has taken a fancy to her and is now not only employing her as his personal messenger, but he has also confided his innermost thoughts to her -- that is, he has confided them to \"Cesario.\" At the opening of the scene, Valentine informs Cesario that he is likely to be advanced in the duke's service. This prompts Cesario to ask if the duke is sometimes \"inconstant\" in his favors. Viola is hoping that the duke will ultimately be constant to her -- and yet she is also hoping that the duke will be inconstant in his affections for Olivia; it is not, however, until the last line of this scene that we discover that in these three days Viola has fallen in love with the duke. Part of the comic situation here involves the dramatic irony that Viola is forced to try to win Olivia for Duke Orsino when in reality, she would like to shed her disguise and be his wife herself. At the end of the scene, Viola cries out, \"Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.\" This statement aligns Viola then with the other romantic lovers. She differs from them only by the fact that she is in constant touch with reality and can therefore evaluate her position."}

SCENE IV. _A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _Enter_ VALENTINE, _and_ VIOLA _in Man's Attire_. _Val._ If the duke continue these favors towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced. _Vio._ You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? _Val._ No, believe me. _Vio._ I thank you.--Here comes the duke. _Enter_ DUKE, CURIO, _and Gentlemen_. _Duke._ Who saw Cesario, ho? _Vio._ On your attendance, my lord; here. _Duke._ Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario, Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd To thee the book even of my secret soul: Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, Till thou have audience. _Vio._ Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. _Duke._ Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. _Vio._ Say, I do speak with her, my lord. What then? _Duke._ O, then unfold the passion of my love. Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. _Vio._ I think not so, my lord. _Duke._ Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound: I know, thy constellation is right apt For this affair:--Go:--prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. [_Exeunt_ DUKE, CURIO, VALENTINE, _and Gentlemen_. _Vio._ I'll do my best, To woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!-- Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [_Exit._

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-4

In Duke Orsino's palace, one of his pages, Valentine, enters, accompanied by Viola, disguised as a young eunuch, Cesario. By their conversation, we realize that after only three days, Cesario has already become a great favorite with the duke. In fact, Viola has won Orsino's confidence and favor so thoroughly that when "Cesario" enters, Orsino sends the others away so that he and Cesario might be alone. He asks Cesario to do him a very special, very personal favor. Cesario is to be the duke's messenger, his proxy, and carry notes of love from Orsino to Olivia. Cesario is to explain in detail the passion which Orsino has for Olivia and, in addition, Cesario is to enact Orsino's "woes." Furthermore, because Cesario himself is so beautifully handsome, Orsino believes that his avowals of love will be all the better received. His reasoning is that his love messages will entice the fair Olivia favorably because they will be presented in such a handsome package, as it were. Orsino also says that if Cesario is successful, he will be well rewarded; he will "live as freely as thy lord / To call his fortune thine." Cesario is reluctant; in an aside, he reveals that "he" has fallen in love with Orsino. Ironically, as Cesario, Viola will be doing some wooing for a man whom she would gladly have as a husband herself.

This scene shows us that Viola has been completely successful in carrying out her plan to become a member of Duke Orsino's household. Within a period of only three days she has completely captivated the duke, who has taken a fancy to her and is now not only employing her as his personal messenger, but he has also confided his innermost thoughts to her -- that is, he has confided them to "Cesario." At the opening of the scene, Valentine informs Cesario that he is likely to be advanced in the duke's service. This prompts Cesario to ask if the duke is sometimes "inconstant" in his favors. Viola is hoping that the duke will ultimately be constant to her -- and yet she is also hoping that the duke will be inconstant in his affections for Olivia; it is not, however, until the last line of this scene that we discover that in these three days Viola has fallen in love with the duke. Part of the comic situation here involves the dramatic irony that Viola is forced to try to win Olivia for Duke Orsino when in reality, she would like to shed her disguise and be his wife herself. At the end of the scene, Viola cries out, "Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife." This statement aligns Viola then with the other romantic lovers. She differs from them only by the fact that she is in constant touch with reality and can therefore evaluate her position.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_11_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 3.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-2", "summary": "At Olivia's house, Sir Andrew is becoming angry and frustrated. He is making absolutely no progress in winning the affections of Olivia; he is convinced that she bestows more favors on \"the count's serving man\" than she does on Sir Andrew. He tells Sir Toby and Fabian that he saw Olivia and Cesario in the orchard, and it was plain to him that Olivia is in love with Cesario. Fabian disagrees; he argues that Olivia is only using Cesario as a ploy to disguise her love for Sir Andrew and thereby make Sir Andrew jealous. Fabian thinks that Sir Andrew should have challenged Cesario on the spot and \"banged the youth into dumbness.\" He laments the fact that Sir Andrew has lost his chance to prove his valor before Olivia's eyes. Now Sir Andrew will \"hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard\" unless he redeems himself by some great and glorious deed. Sir Toby agrees. He proposes that Sir Andrew challenge Cesario to a duel. They themselves will deliver the challenge. Sir Andrew agrees to the plan and goes off to find a pen and some paper, and while he is gone, Sir Toby and Fabian chuckle over the practical joke they have just arranged. They are sure that neither Sir Andrew nor Cesario will actually provoke the other into a real duel. Maria arrives onstage with the news that Malvolio \"does obey every point of the letter.\" He is sporting yellow stockings; he is cross-gartered, and he \"does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map . . . of the Indies.\"", "analysis": "Essentially, this scene serves to advance the subplot, which will culminate when the cowardly Sir Andrew will try to engage Cesario in an actual duel. The first part of this scene reveals that Olivia's love for Cesario is even apparent to someone as dense as Sir Andrew. The mere fact that he has made no progress in his courtship with Olivia does not surprise us. What is astonishing, however, is that he still thinks that he has a chance to win the affection of Olivia. She is obviously far too sensitive and intelligent for this foolish and zany knight, but Sir Andrew is nevertheless jealous of the favors which he has observed Olivia giving to Cesario. To add unity to the scene, we hear that Malvolio is completely following the instructions in the forged letter. Thus, if Sir Andrew is foolish in his belief that he will obtain Olivia's hand, then Malvolio is extremely egotistical to also think so. And as we will see by his dress and demeanor, he will ultimately be revealed as being as foolish as Sir Andrew."}

SCENE II. _A public Square._ _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO. _Seb._ I would not, by my will, have troubled you; But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you. _Ant._ I could not stay behind you; my desire, More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; I fear'd besides what might befall your travel, Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, Unguided, and unfriended, often prove Rough and unhospitable: My willing love, The rather by these arguments of doubt, Set forth in your pursuit. _Seb._ My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make, but thanks, And thanks, and ever thanks.--What is to do? Shall we go see the reliques of this town? _Ant._ To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging. _Seb._ I am not weary, and 'tis long to night; I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes With the memorials, and the things of fame, That do renown this city. _Ant._ 'Would, you'd pardon me; I do not without danger walk these streets: Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst Orsino's gallies, I did some service; of such note indeed, That were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered. _Seb._ Do not then walk too open. _Ant._ It doth not fit me.--Hold, sir, here's my purse; In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge, With viewing of the town; there shall you have me. _Seb._ Why I your purse? _Ant._ Haply, your eye shall light upon some toy You have desire to purchase; and your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir. _Seb._ I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour. _Ant._ To the Elephant. _Seb._ I do remember. [_Exeunt._

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-2

At Olivia's house, Sir Andrew is becoming angry and frustrated. He is making absolutely no progress in winning the affections of Olivia; he is convinced that she bestows more favors on "the count's serving man" than she does on Sir Andrew. He tells Sir Toby and Fabian that he saw Olivia and Cesario in the orchard, and it was plain to him that Olivia is in love with Cesario. Fabian disagrees; he argues that Olivia is only using Cesario as a ploy to disguise her love for Sir Andrew and thereby make Sir Andrew jealous. Fabian thinks that Sir Andrew should have challenged Cesario on the spot and "banged the youth into dumbness." He laments the fact that Sir Andrew has lost his chance to prove his valor before Olivia's eyes. Now Sir Andrew will "hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard" unless he redeems himself by some great and glorious deed. Sir Toby agrees. He proposes that Sir Andrew challenge Cesario to a duel. They themselves will deliver the challenge. Sir Andrew agrees to the plan and goes off to find a pen and some paper, and while he is gone, Sir Toby and Fabian chuckle over the practical joke they have just arranged. They are sure that neither Sir Andrew nor Cesario will actually provoke the other into a real duel. Maria arrives onstage with the news that Malvolio "does obey every point of the letter." He is sporting yellow stockings; he is cross-gartered, and he "does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map . . . of the Indies."

Essentially, this scene serves to advance the subplot, which will culminate when the cowardly Sir Andrew will try to engage Cesario in an actual duel. The first part of this scene reveals that Olivia's love for Cesario is even apparent to someone as dense as Sir Andrew. The mere fact that he has made no progress in his courtship with Olivia does not surprise us. What is astonishing, however, is that he still thinks that he has a chance to win the affection of Olivia. She is obviously far too sensitive and intelligent for this foolish and zany knight, but Sir Andrew is nevertheless jealous of the favors which he has observed Olivia giving to Cesario. To add unity to the scene, we hear that Malvolio is completely following the instructions in the forged letter. Thus, if Sir Andrew is foolish in his belief that he will obtain Olivia's hand, then Malvolio is extremely egotistical to also think so. And as we will see by his dress and demeanor, he will ultimately be revealed as being as foolish as Sir Andrew.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_12_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 3.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-3", "summary": "Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, and Antonio, the sea captain, enter. They are strolling down a street not far from Duke Orsino's palace, and Antonio is explaining that because of his fondness and concern for Sebastian, he simply could not let him wander around Illyria alone, even though he knows that it is risky for him to accompany Sebastian. He knows that he is likely to be arrested on sight if he is recognized, but he had no choice: he likes Sebastian so much that he cannot bear to think of any harm coming to him. Sebastian is very grateful for the risk which Antonio is taking, and Antonio tells him that it is best that already he should be taking precautions. He asks to be excused so that he can take cover. He gives Sebastian his purse, and they arrange to meet in an hour at a tavern called The Elephant. Thus Sebastian, with a purse full of money in hand, goes off to see the sights of the town.", "analysis": "In a comedy dealing essentially with romantic love, this scene continues to investigate another type of love -- the manly love that Antonio feels for young Sebastian; he loves young Sebastian enough to follow him into the enemy's country, where he himself is in danger of being arrested and severely punished if he is discovered. But it is not merely love that Antonio feels for Sebastian; it is also jealousy, for Antonio says: And not all love to see you, though so muchAs might have drawn one to a longer voyage, But jealousy what might befall your travel. The trust and affection that Antonio has for Sebastian is also seen at the end of the scene when Antonio gives his purse of money to Sebastian in case the young man wants to purchase something. This gift of money will later become an important part of the plot when Viola, dressed as Cesario, is mistaken by Antonio for Sebastian. Thus, another purpose of the scene is to bring Sebastian into the same city where Viola is, thus setting the stage for further complications involving mistaken identities. The plot is rapidly reaching the point of complication where Shakespeare will have to begin unraveling it."}

SCENE III. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ CLOWN, _playing on a Tabor, and_ VIOLA. _Vio._ Save thee, friend, and thy music: Dost thou live by thy tabor? _Clo._ No, sir, I live by the church. _Vio._ Art thou a churchman? _Clo._ No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. _Vio._ Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool? _Clo._ No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. _Vio._ I saw thee late at the Duke Orsino's. _Clo._ Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master, as with my mistress: I think, I saw your wisdom there. _Vio._ Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold, there's expences for thee. [_Gives him money._ _Clo._ Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! _Vio._ By my troth, I'll tell thee; I am almost sick for one.--Is thy lady within? _Clo._ Would not a pair of these have bred, sir? _Vio._ Yes, being kept together, and put to use. _Clo._ I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. _Vio._ I understand you, sir: [_Gives him more money._] 'tis well begged. _Clo._ My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you came: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: I might say, element; but the word is over-worn. [_Exit_ CLOWN. _Vio._ This fellow's wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time; And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice, As full of labour as a wise man's art. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _and_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir To._ Save you, gentleman. _Vio._ And you, sir. _Sir To._ My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. _Vio._ I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my voyage. _Sir To._ Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion. _Vio._ My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. _Sir To._ I mean,--to go, sir, to enter. _Vio._ I will answer you with gait and entrance: But we are prevented. _Enter_ OLIVIA. Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! _Sir And._ That youth's a rare courtier!--_Rain odours!_--well. _Vio._ My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. _Sir And._ _Odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--I'll get 'em all three ready. _Oli._ Leave me to my hearing. _Sir And._ _Odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._ [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW. _Oli._ Give me your hand, sir. _Vio._ My duty, madam, and most humble service. _Oli._ What is your name? _Vio._ Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess. _Oli._ My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was called compliment: You are servant to the Duke Orsino, youth. _Vio._ And he is yours, and his must needs be yours; Your servant's servant is your servant, madam. _Oli._ For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, 'Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me! _Vio._ Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:-- _Oli._ O, by your leave, I pray you; I bade you never speak again of him: But, would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that, Than music from the spheres. _Vio._ Dear lady,---- _Oli._ Give me leave, I beseech you: I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you: Under your hard construction must I sit, To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours: What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom, Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak. _Vio._ I pity you. _Oli._ That's a degree to love. _Vio._ No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof, That very oft we pity enemies. _Oli._ Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again: O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! [_Clock strikes._ The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.-- Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you: And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your wife is like to reap a proper man: There lies your way, due west. _Vio._ Then westward-hoe: Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship! You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? _Oli._ Stay: I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me. _Vio._ That you do think, you are not what you are. _Oli._ If I think so, I think the same of you. _Vio._ Then think you right; I am not what I am. _Oli._ I would, you were as I would have you be! _Vio._ Would it be better, madam, than I am, I wish it might; for now I am your fool. _Oli._ O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing, I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. _Vio._ By innocence, I swear, and by my youth. I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master's tears to you deplore. _Oli._ Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_Exeunt._

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-3

Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, and Antonio, the sea captain, enter. They are strolling down a street not far from Duke Orsino's palace, and Antonio is explaining that because of his fondness and concern for Sebastian, he simply could not let him wander around Illyria alone, even though he knows that it is risky for him to accompany Sebastian. He knows that he is likely to be arrested on sight if he is recognized, but he had no choice: he likes Sebastian so much that he cannot bear to think of any harm coming to him. Sebastian is very grateful for the risk which Antonio is taking, and Antonio tells him that it is best that already he should be taking precautions. He asks to be excused so that he can take cover. He gives Sebastian his purse, and they arrange to meet in an hour at a tavern called The Elephant. Thus Sebastian, with a purse full of money in hand, goes off to see the sights of the town.

In a comedy dealing essentially with romantic love, this scene continues to investigate another type of love -- the manly love that Antonio feels for young Sebastian; he loves young Sebastian enough to follow him into the enemy's country, where he himself is in danger of being arrested and severely punished if he is discovered. But it is not merely love that Antonio feels for Sebastian; it is also jealousy, for Antonio says: And not all love to see you, though so muchAs might have drawn one to a longer voyage, But jealousy what might befall your travel. The trust and affection that Antonio has for Sebastian is also seen at the end of the scene when Antonio gives his purse of money to Sebastian in case the young man wants to purchase something. This gift of money will later become an important part of the plot when Viola, dressed as Cesario, is mistaken by Antonio for Sebastian. Thus, another purpose of the scene is to bring Sebastian into the same city where Viola is, thus setting the stage for further complications involving mistaken identities. The plot is rapidly reaching the point of complication where Shakespeare will have to begin unraveling it.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_14_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 4.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1", "summary": "The scene opens on the street in front of Olivia's house. Sebastian and Feste are talking, and we realize that Feste has mistaken Sebastian for Cesario. Feste insists that his mistress has sent Feste to him, meaning Cesario. Sebastian is annoyed at the jester's persistence; \"Thou art a foolish fellow,\" he says, and gives him a generous tip to send him on his way -- or else he will give Feste \"worse payment,\" meaning a kick in the rump if he doesn't leave him in peace. Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian enter, and Sir Andrew assumes that Sebastian is the \"cowardly\" Cesario; Sir Andrew strikes him, whereupon Sebastian promptly beats Sir Andrew, asking, \"Are all the people mad?\" Feste says that he is going to report to Olivia all that has happened, and she will not be pleased to learn that her favorite suitor, the reluctant Cesario, has quarreled with Olivia's uncle and with Sir Andrew. Sir Toby, meanwhile, decides that it is time for him to act; he grabs the young upstart by the hand in an effort to save Sir Andrew from greater injury. Olivia arrives, assumes that Sebastian is Cesario, and pleads with him to go into the house. She severely reprimands Sir Toby and sends him away, out of her sight, and he exits, taking the other two with him. She apologizes for the \"pranks of ruffians,\" and while she is talking, Sebastian is speechless. He cannot believe what is happening: he is being wooed in the most ardent of terms by a beautiful young countess; if this be a dream, he says, \"let fancy still my sense in Lethe . . . let me sleep.\" Olivia is insistent: \"Come, I prithee,\" she says, and begs him to marry her. Without hesitation, Sebastian accepts: \"Madame, I will,\" he says, and off they dash to look for a priest to perform the ceremony.", "analysis": "This scene begins by re-emphasizing the comic ramifications inherent in the various mistaken identities and disguises. Feste has been sent by Olivia to Cesario to deliver a message, but he delivers it to Sebastian, because Viola's twin brother looks exactly like her. Thus this is the first case of a very natural and very understandable case of mistaken identity; the comedy here lies in the fact that Sebastian does not know what Feste is talking about, and Feste feels that \"Nothing that is so is so.\" They talk at cross purposes, and we know why. This is yet another case of dramatic irony used for a delightful comic effect. Even more comic, however, is the fact that Sir Andrew, an innate coward, is convinced that Cesario is frightened of him -- which is actually true. However, this man is Sebastian, and thus this is a completely different matter. Consequently, when Sir Andrew begins striking Sebastian, Sebastian returns the blows double-fold until Sir Toby has to restrain Sebastian. Again, the comedy here derives in large part from the stage action coupled with the comedy of mistaken identities -- a theme that is now almost absurd. When Olivia arrives and discovers her uncle physically \"man handling Sebastian, whom she thinks is Cesario, her anger at her uncle will affect the comic subplot against Malvolio because Sir Toby will be out of favor with his niece and will no longer feel the freedom to torment her steward. By the time that Sebastian has been mistaken by Feste, then beaten by Sir Andrew, then restrained by Sir Toby, and then addressed in terms of soothing and passionate love by a beautiful noble lady, whom he has never seen, the youth is ready to believe that he is in the strangest country of the world, or else he has gone mad. In contrast, Olivia is delighted at the sudden turn of events; she believes that Cesario finally loves her."}

ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come. How shall I feast him? what bestow on him? I speak too loud.---- Where is Malvolio? _Mar._ He's coming, madam; But in strange manner. He is sure possessed. _Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave? _Mar._ No, madam, He does nothing but smile: your ladyship Were best have guard about you, if he come; For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. _Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA. I'm as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be.-- _Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA. How now, Malvolio? _Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._ _Oli._ Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. _Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and please all_. _Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? _Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the sweet Roman hand. _Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? _Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee. _Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? _Mar._ How do you, Malvolio? _Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws. _Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? _Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ. _Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio? _Mal._ _Some are born great_,-- _Oli._ Ha? _Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,-- _Oli._ What say'st thou? _Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._ _Oli._ Heaven restore thee! _Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;-- _Oli._ Thy yellow stockings? _Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._ _Oli._ Cross-garter'd? _Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;-- _Oli._ Am I made? _Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._ _Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness. _Enter_ FABIAN. _Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned; I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure. _Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN. Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And, when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. _Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him. _Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA. _Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man? _Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off. _Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. _Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so? _Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind. _Mal._ Do you know what you say? _Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd. _Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman. _Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him? let me alone with him. _Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. _Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck? _Mal._ Sir? _Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier! _Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby. _Mal._ My prayers, minx? _Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness. _Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha! ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO. _Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha! _Sir To._ Is't possible? _Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. _Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. _Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint. _Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed. _Mar._ The house will be the quieter. _Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA. But see, but see. _Fab._ More matter for a May morning. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_. _Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in't. _Fab._ Is't so saucy? _Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read. _Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ _Fab._ Good and valiant. _Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._ _Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. _Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge thee for._ _Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less. _Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me_,-- _Fab._ Good. _Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._ _Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good. _Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him. _Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. _Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away. _Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. _Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take leave, and presently after him. _Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA. _Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary out: There's something in me, that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. _Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears, Go on my master's griefs. _Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you: And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny; That honour, saved, may upon asking give? _Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master. _Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? _Vio._ I will acquit you. _Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well! [_Exit_ OLIVIA. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee. _Vio._ And you, sir. _Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. _Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. _Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. _Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he? _Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't. _Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. _Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me, which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or forswear to wear iron about you. _Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. _Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? _Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. _Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he? _Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him, if I can. _Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_Exeunt._

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1

The scene opens on the street in front of Olivia's house. Sebastian and Feste are talking, and we realize that Feste has mistaken Sebastian for Cesario. Feste insists that his mistress has sent Feste to him, meaning Cesario. Sebastian is annoyed at the jester's persistence; "Thou art a foolish fellow," he says, and gives him a generous tip to send him on his way -- or else he will give Feste "worse payment," meaning a kick in the rump if he doesn't leave him in peace. Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian enter, and Sir Andrew assumes that Sebastian is the "cowardly" Cesario; Sir Andrew strikes him, whereupon Sebastian promptly beats Sir Andrew, asking, "Are all the people mad?" Feste says that he is going to report to Olivia all that has happened, and she will not be pleased to learn that her favorite suitor, the reluctant Cesario, has quarreled with Olivia's uncle and with Sir Andrew. Sir Toby, meanwhile, decides that it is time for him to act; he grabs the young upstart by the hand in an effort to save Sir Andrew from greater injury. Olivia arrives, assumes that Sebastian is Cesario, and pleads with him to go into the house. She severely reprimands Sir Toby and sends him away, out of her sight, and he exits, taking the other two with him. She apologizes for the "pranks of ruffians," and while she is talking, Sebastian is speechless. He cannot believe what is happening: he is being wooed in the most ardent of terms by a beautiful young countess; if this be a dream, he says, "let fancy still my sense in Lethe . . . let me sleep." Olivia is insistent: "Come, I prithee," she says, and begs him to marry her. Without hesitation, Sebastian accepts: "Madame, I will," he says, and off they dash to look for a priest to perform the ceremony.

This scene begins by re-emphasizing the comic ramifications inherent in the various mistaken identities and disguises. Feste has been sent by Olivia to Cesario to deliver a message, but he delivers it to Sebastian, because Viola's twin brother looks exactly like her. Thus this is the first case of a very natural and very understandable case of mistaken identity; the comedy here lies in the fact that Sebastian does not know what Feste is talking about, and Feste feels that "Nothing that is so is so." They talk at cross purposes, and we know why. This is yet another case of dramatic irony used for a delightful comic effect. Even more comic, however, is the fact that Sir Andrew, an innate coward, is convinced that Cesario is frightened of him -- which is actually true. However, this man is Sebastian, and thus this is a completely different matter. Consequently, when Sir Andrew begins striking Sebastian, Sebastian returns the blows double-fold until Sir Toby has to restrain Sebastian. Again, the comedy here derives in large part from the stage action coupled with the comedy of mistaken identities -- a theme that is now almost absurd. When Olivia arrives and discovers her uncle physically "man handling Sebastian, whom she thinks is Cesario, her anger at her uncle will affect the comic subplot against Malvolio because Sir Toby will be out of favor with his niece and will no longer feel the freedom to torment her steward. By the time that Sebastian has been mistaken by Feste, then beaten by Sir Andrew, then restrained by Sir Toby, and then addressed in terms of soothing and passionate love by a beautiful noble lady, whom he has never seen, the youth is ready to believe that he is in the strangest country of the world, or else he has gone mad. In contrast, Olivia is delighted at the sudden turn of events; she believes that Cesario finally loves her.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_15_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 4.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-2", "summary": "In order to fully appreciate this scene, you should recall that Olivia gave Sir Toby and the household staff orders to take care of Malvolio and the \"midsummer madness\" that turned him into a grinning zany, tightly cross-gartered, and garbed in yellow stockings. They locked him in a dark room, and now Maria and Feste prepare to pull a few more pranks on the supercilious, overbearing Malvolio. Feste disguises himself as a parson and plans to make a \"mercy call\" on the \"poor mad prisoner.\" He will assume the role of Sir Topas, the curate. The interview is a masterpiece of low, broad comedy. Feste, as Sir Topas, knows just enough Latin phrases to lace them into his interview, along with pedantic nonsense and pseudo-metaphysical drivel concerning the philosophy of existence. The imprisoned steward, of course, is extremely relieved to hear what he believes to be the parson's voice, for he fondly imagines that his deliverance from this darkened room of a prison is near. This is not the case, however; he will \"remain in his darkness\" for some time to come. When Feste slips out for a moment, Sir Toby suggests that Feste use his natural voice to speak with Malvolio; things have taken a turn for the worse, and he wants to release Malvolio and end this charade. He is afraid that Olivia might turn him out of the house, and he \"cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot.\" Feste is having too much fun, though, to pay much attention to Toby's fears; he enters Malvolio's room, assumes his ecclesiastical voice, and tries to convince the steward that there are two visitors in the room instead of one. Malvolio pleads that he is not insane, and finally Feste is persuaded to bring Malvolio some ink, a pen, and some writing paper so that he can \"set down to lady\" proof of his sanity.", "analysis": "Once again, disguise is used to create comic effect. This time, Feste disguises himself as a parson and appears before Malvolio. The disguise utilizes a black gown, the same type of gown that Malvolio had worn earlier. The comedy is multifold: Malvolio thinks that with the appearance of the parson some light will be shed upon his insanity, but actually, Malvolio will have to remain in darkness for some time to come. As Feste says: \"There is no darkness but ignorance,\" and certainly Malvolio was ignorant to think that Olivia could ever be attracted to him."}

SCENE II. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_. _Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;-- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,---- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they say, he has been fencer to the Sophy. _Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him. _Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. _Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet. _Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you. _Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA. I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded him, the youth's a devil. _Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants, as if a bear were at his heels. _Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you. _Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. _Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious. _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to 't. _Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath! _Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will. [_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me; If you offend him, I for him defy you. _Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you? _Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will. _Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. [SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.] [SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a little_.] _Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the officers. _Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir Andrew,-- _Sir And._ Here I am. _Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.] _Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your sword, if you please. _Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well. _Enter two Officers of Justice._ _1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office. _2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Duke Orsino. _Ant._ You do mistake me, sir. _1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.-- Take him away; he knows, I know him well. _Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you; But there's no remedy. Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me Much more, for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed; But be of comfort. _1 Off._ Come, sir, away. _Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money. _Vio._ What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have showed me here, And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I'll lend you something: my having is not much; I'll make division of my present with you; Hold, there is half my coffer. _Ant._ Will you deny me now? Is't possible, that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery; Lest that it make me so unsound a man, As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you. _Vio._ I know of none; Nor know I you by voice, or any feature. _Ant._ O heavens themselves! _1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go. _Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here, I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death; And to his image, which, methought, did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!-- Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.-- In nature there's no blemish, but the mind; None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind: Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_. _Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. [_They retire together._ _Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such, and so, In favour was my brother; and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament; For him I imitate: O, if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_Exit_ VIOLA. [_They advance._] _Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. _Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. _Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him. _Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword. _Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-2

In order to fully appreciate this scene, you should recall that Olivia gave Sir Toby and the household staff orders to take care of Malvolio and the "midsummer madness" that turned him into a grinning zany, tightly cross-gartered, and garbed in yellow stockings. They locked him in a dark room, and now Maria and Feste prepare to pull a few more pranks on the supercilious, overbearing Malvolio. Feste disguises himself as a parson and plans to make a "mercy call" on the "poor mad prisoner." He will assume the role of Sir Topas, the curate. The interview is a masterpiece of low, broad comedy. Feste, as Sir Topas, knows just enough Latin phrases to lace them into his interview, along with pedantic nonsense and pseudo-metaphysical drivel concerning the philosophy of existence. The imprisoned steward, of course, is extremely relieved to hear what he believes to be the parson's voice, for he fondly imagines that his deliverance from this darkened room of a prison is near. This is not the case, however; he will "remain in his darkness" for some time to come. When Feste slips out for a moment, Sir Toby suggests that Feste use his natural voice to speak with Malvolio; things have taken a turn for the worse, and he wants to release Malvolio and end this charade. He is afraid that Olivia might turn him out of the house, and he "cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot." Feste is having too much fun, though, to pay much attention to Toby's fears; he enters Malvolio's room, assumes his ecclesiastical voice, and tries to convince the steward that there are two visitors in the room instead of one. Malvolio pleads that he is not insane, and finally Feste is persuaded to bring Malvolio some ink, a pen, and some writing paper so that he can "set down to lady" proof of his sanity.

Once again, disguise is used to create comic effect. This time, Feste disguises himself as a parson and appears before Malvolio. The disguise utilizes a black gown, the same type of gown that Malvolio had worn earlier. The comedy is multifold: Malvolio thinks that with the appearance of the parson some light will be shed upon his insanity, but actually, Malvolio will have to remain in darkness for some time to come. As Feste says: "There is no darkness but ignorance," and certainly Malvolio was ignorant to think that Olivia could ever be attracted to him.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Twelfth Night/section_16_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night.act 4.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-3", "summary": "Sitting in Olivia's garden, Sebastian is enjoying the bliss of being loved by a beautiful and rich countess, although he is still thoroughly confused about why all this has happened to him. As he sits alone, he admires the lovely pearl which Olivia has given to him, and he wonders why Antonio did not meet him at The Elephant Inn, where they had agreed to meet. All of this seems truly like a dream; yet, looking at the pearl, he holds tangible proof that this is not a dream at all. He wishes that Antonio were with him to advise him; he heard that the sea captain did stay at the inn. Yet where is he now? And he wonders if the beautiful Olivia is mad -- and, of course, there is another possibility: perhaps he himself is mad. Olivia enters with a priest and tells Sebastian that she wants him to accompany her and the priest \"into the chantry\" . There, \"before him / And underneath that consecrated roof,\" Sebastian will \"plight the fullest assurance of faith.\" Sebastian agrees to marry Olivia; the marriage will be kept secret until later, when they will have a splendid, public ceremony, befitting Olivia's rank. They exit, arm in arm, for the private ceremony, as the fourth act comes to a close.", "analysis": "The audience can readily sympathize with Sebastian's confusion and astonishment over the course of events that have taken place, and at the same time they can vicariously experience the great bliss of being loved. Sebastian tries to question reality, but he looks at the pearl that has been given him, and we must remember that Olivia is a person of great beauty; one could easily fall in love with her on first sight. For some modern critics, Sebastian's love for Olivia might strain one's belief, but we must remember that this is a romantic comedy, set in faraway Illyria, and Sebastian himself questions the plausibility of the events. The mistaken identities are, of course, a stock element of romantic comedies, and the forthcoming marriage between Olivia and Sebastian will provide the basis for all of the complications that will be unraveled in the next act."}

SCENE III. _The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN. _Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you? _Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of thee. _Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is so. _Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not me. _Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming? _Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment. _Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you. [_Striking_ SEBASTIAN. _Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and there:--Are all the people mad? [_Beating_ SIR ANDREW. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house. _Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [_Exit_ CLOWN. _Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN. _Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that. _Seb._ Let go thy hand. _Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on. _Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee. --What would'st thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. _Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._ _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_. _Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here! [_Exit_ FABIAN. _Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold. _Sir To._ Madam? _Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario:---- Rudesby, be gone!-- _Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Oli._ And you, sir, follow him. _Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,-- [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house; And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; Do not deny. _Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:-- Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! _Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me! _Seb._ Madam, I will. _Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201123194129/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/twelfth-night/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-3

Sitting in Olivia's garden, Sebastian is enjoying the bliss of being loved by a beautiful and rich countess, although he is still thoroughly confused about why all this has happened to him. As he sits alone, he admires the lovely pearl which Olivia has given to him, and he wonders why Antonio did not meet him at The Elephant Inn, where they had agreed to meet. All of this seems truly like a dream; yet, looking at the pearl, he holds tangible proof that this is not a dream at all. He wishes that Antonio were with him to advise him; he heard that the sea captain did stay at the inn. Yet where is he now? And he wonders if the beautiful Olivia is mad -- and, of course, there is another possibility: perhaps he himself is mad. Olivia enters with a priest and tells Sebastian that she wants him to accompany her and the priest "into the chantry" . There, "before him / And underneath that consecrated roof," Sebastian will "plight the fullest assurance of faith." Sebastian agrees to marry Olivia; the marriage will be kept secret until later, when they will have a splendid, public ceremony, befitting Olivia's rank. They exit, arm in arm, for the private ceremony, as the fourth act comes to a close.

The audience can readily sympathize with Sebastian's confusion and astonishment over the course of events that have taken place, and at the same time they can vicariously experience the great bliss of being loved. Sebastian tries to question reality, but he looks at the pearl that has been given him, and we must remember that Olivia is a person of great beauty; one could easily fall in love with her on first sight. For some modern critics, Sebastian's love for Olivia might strain one's belief, but we must remember that this is a romantic comedy, set in faraway Illyria, and Sebastian himself questions the plausibility of the events. The mistaken identities are, of course, a stock element of romantic comedies, and the forthcoming marriage between Olivia and Sebastian will provide the basis for all of the complications that will be unraveled in the next act.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_0_part_1.txt

Twelfth Night.act i.scene i

act i, scene i

{"name": "act i, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section1/", "summary": "If music be the food of love, play on,. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh are thou. In the land of Illyria, Duke Orsino enters, attended by his lords. Orsino is hopelessly in love with the beautiful Lady Olivia and pines away for her. He refuses to hunt and orders musicians to entertain him while he thinks about his desire for Olivia. His servant Valentine reminds him that Olivia does not return his love or even listen to the messages he sends her. We learn from Valentine that Olivia is in mourning for her brother, who has recently died. She wears a dark veil, and she has vowed that no one will see her face for another seven years--and she refuses to marry anyone until then. Orsino, obsessed with the woman who keeps refusing him, wants only to lie around on beds of flowers, listening to sweet music and dreaming of Olivia", "analysis": "Act I, scenes i-ii Viola's plan for disguising herself in Act I, scene ii introduces one of the central motifs of the play: disguise and the identity confusion related to it. Similarly, Orsino's mournful speech in Act I, scene i lets us know that the play will also concern matters of love: emotion, desire, and rejection. Put together, the two scenes suggest the extra twist that is the hallmark of Twelfth Night: mistaken gender identity. Twelfth Night is one of the plays referred to as Shakespeare's \"transvestite comedies,\" and Viola's gender deception leads to all kinds of romantic complications. The opening lines of Twelfth Night, in which a moping Orsino, attended by his servants and musicians, says, \"If music be the food of love, play on,\" establish how love has conquered Orsino . His speech on this subject is rather complicated, as he employs a metaphor to try to establish some control over love. He asks for the musicians to give him so much music--the \"food of love\"--that he will overdose ) and not be hungry for love any longer. Orsino's trick proves too simple, however; while it makes him tire of the music, it fails to stop him from thinking about love. Orsino also makes a pertinent comment about the relationship between romance and imagination: \"So full of shapes is fancy / That it alone is high fantastical\" . This comment relates the idea of overpowering love to that of imagination , a connection that is appropriate for both Orsino and Twelfth Night as a whole. Beginning in this scene, the play repeatedly raises the question of whether romantic love has more to do with the person who is loved or with the lover's own imagination--whether love is real or merely something that the human mind creates for the sake of entertainment and delight. In the case of Orsino, the latter seems to be true, as he is less in love with Olivia herself than he is with the idea of being in love with Olivia. He claims to be devastated because she will not have him, but as the audience watches him wallow in his seeming misery, it is difficult to escape the impression that he is enjoying himself--flopping about on rose-covered beds, listening to music, and waxing eloquent about Olivia's beauty to his servants. The genuineness of Orsino's emotions comes into question even further when he later switches his affections from Olivia to Viola without a second thought; the audience then suspects that he does not care whom he is in love with, as long as he can be in love. Meanwhile, Viola's decision to disguise herself as a young man in order to find a job seems somewhat improbable. Surely this elaborate ploy isn't necessary; even if Orsino only hires young men, there must be ladies other than Olivia in Illyria who are hiring servants. But Viola's act of disguising herself generates an endless number of interesting situations to advance the plot. Shakespeare's comedies frequently rely on similar improbabilities, ranging from absurd coincidences to identical twins. We can interpret Viola's disguise as something that makes the unprotected young woman feel safer in the strange land into which she has wandered. When she first describes her plan in this scene, she asks the ship's captain to disguise her as a eunuch--a castrated man. This part of the plan is never mentioned again, and Shakespeare seems to have changed his mind or forgotten about it: Viola later presents herself as simply a delicate young man. Still, the idea of a eunuch is important to the play, since it stands as yet another symbol of gender uncertainty. In noting the gender confusion that pervades Twelfth Night, it is important to realize that, for Shakespeare's audiences, the idea of a girl successfully disguising herself as a boy wasn't as ludicrous as it might seem to us. In Shakespeare's day, all the parts in a play were acted by men: women weren't allowed to perform on the English stage until the late 1600s, more than half a century after Shakespeare flourished. Thus, every acting company included several delicate young boys, who played the female characters. Renaissance audiences were open to the idea that a young man could convincingly disguise himself as a woman, and vice versa. Such fluidity in portraying characters of either gender adds an extra dimension to the complexity of Shakespeare's cross-dressing characters."}

ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. _The Sea-coast._ _Enter_ VIOLA, ROBERTO, _and two Sailors, carrying a Trunk_. _Vio._ What country, friends, is this? _Rob._ This is Illyria, lady. _Vio._ And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance, he is not drown'd:--What think you, sailors? _Rob._ It is perchance, that you yourself were saved. _Vio._ O my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be. _Rob._ True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and that poor number saved with you, Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, So long as I could see. _Vio._ Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know'st thou this country? _Rob._ Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born, Not three hours travel from this very place. _Vio._ Who governs here? _Rob._ A noble duke, in nature, As in his name. _Vio._ What is his name? _Rob._ Orsino. _Vio._ Orsino!--I have heard my father name him: He was a bachelor then. _Rob._ And so is now, Or was so very late: for but a month Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do, The less will prattle of,) that he did seek The love of fair Olivia. _Vio._ What is she? _Rob._ A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died: for whose dear love, They say, she hath abjured the company And sight of men. _Vio._ Oh, that I served that lady! And might not be deliver'd to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is! _Rob._ That were hard to compass; Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the duke's. _Vio._ There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; And, I believe, thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am; and be my aid For such disguise as, haply, shall become The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke; Thou shalt present me as a page unto him, Of gentle breeding, and my name, Cesario:-- That trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother, Will furnish man's apparel to my need:-- It may be worth thy pains: for I can sing, And speak to him in many sorts of music, That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. _Rob._ Be you his page, and I your mute will be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see! _Vio._ I thank thee:--Lead me on. [_Exeunt._

act i, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section1/

If music be the food of love, play on,. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh are thou. In the land of Illyria, Duke Orsino enters, attended by his lords. Orsino is hopelessly in love with the beautiful Lady Olivia and pines away for her. He refuses to hunt and orders musicians to entertain him while he thinks about his desire for Olivia. His servant Valentine reminds him that Olivia does not return his love or even listen to the messages he sends her. We learn from Valentine that Olivia is in mourning for her brother, who has recently died. She wears a dark veil, and she has vowed that no one will see her face for another seven years--and she refuses to marry anyone until then. Orsino, obsessed with the woman who keeps refusing him, wants only to lie around on beds of flowers, listening to sweet music and dreaming of Olivia

Act I, scenes i-ii Viola's plan for disguising herself in Act I, scene ii introduces one of the central motifs of the play: disguise and the identity confusion related to it. Similarly, Orsino's mournful speech in Act I, scene i lets us know that the play will also concern matters of love: emotion, desire, and rejection. Put together, the two scenes suggest the extra twist that is the hallmark of Twelfth Night: mistaken gender identity. Twelfth Night is one of the plays referred to as Shakespeare's "transvestite comedies," and Viola's gender deception leads to all kinds of romantic complications. The opening lines of Twelfth Night, in which a moping Orsino, attended by his servants and musicians, says, "If music be the food of love, play on," establish how love has conquered Orsino . His speech on this subject is rather complicated, as he employs a metaphor to try to establish some control over love. He asks for the musicians to give him so much music--the "food of love"--that he will overdose ) and not be hungry for love any longer. Orsino's trick proves too simple, however; while it makes him tire of the music, it fails to stop him from thinking about love. Orsino also makes a pertinent comment about the relationship between romance and imagination: "So full of shapes is fancy / That it alone is high fantastical" . This comment relates the idea of overpowering love to that of imagination , a connection that is appropriate for both Orsino and Twelfth Night as a whole. Beginning in this scene, the play repeatedly raises the question of whether romantic love has more to do with the person who is loved or with the lover's own imagination--whether love is real or merely something that the human mind creates for the sake of entertainment and delight. In the case of Orsino, the latter seems to be true, as he is less in love with Olivia herself than he is with the idea of being in love with Olivia. He claims to be devastated because she will not have him, but as the audience watches him wallow in his seeming misery, it is difficult to escape the impression that he is enjoying himself--flopping about on rose-covered beds, listening to music, and waxing eloquent about Olivia's beauty to his servants. The genuineness of Orsino's emotions comes into question even further when he later switches his affections from Olivia to Viola without a second thought; the audience then suspects that he does not care whom he is in love with, as long as he can be in love. Meanwhile, Viola's decision to disguise herself as a young man in order to find a job seems somewhat improbable. Surely this elaborate ploy isn't necessary; even if Orsino only hires young men, there must be ladies other than Olivia in Illyria who are hiring servants. But Viola's act of disguising herself generates an endless number of interesting situations to advance the plot. Shakespeare's comedies frequently rely on similar improbabilities, ranging from absurd coincidences to identical twins. We can interpret Viola's disguise as something that makes the unprotected young woman feel safer in the strange land into which she has wandered. When she first describes her plan in this scene, she asks the ship's captain to disguise her as a eunuch--a castrated man. This part of the plan is never mentioned again, and Shakespeare seems to have changed his mind or forgotten about it: Viola later presents herself as simply a delicate young man. Still, the idea of a eunuch is important to the play, since it stands as yet another symbol of gender uncertainty. In noting the gender confusion that pervades Twelfth Night, it is important to realize that, for Shakespeare's audiences, the idea of a girl successfully disguising herself as a boy wasn't as ludicrous as it might seem to us. In Shakespeare's day, all the parts in a play were acted by men: women weren't allowed to perform on the English stage until the late 1600s, more than half a century after Shakespeare flourished. Thus, every acting company included several delicate young boys, who played the female characters. Renaissance audiences were open to the idea that a young man could convincingly disguise himself as a woman, and vice versa. Such fluidity in portraying characters of either gender adds an extra dimension to the complexity of Shakespeare's cross-dressing characters.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_0_part_2.txt

Twelfth Night.act i.scene ii

act i, scene ii

{"name": "act i, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section1/", "summary": "Meanwhile, on the Illyrian sea coast, a young noblewoman named Viola speaks with the captain whose crew has just rescued her from a shipwreck. Although Viola was found and rescued, her brother, Sebastian, seems to have vanished in the storm. The captain tells Viola that Sebastian may still be alive. He says that he saw Sebastian trying to keep afloat by tying himself to a broken mast. But Viola does not know whether or not it is worth holding onto hope. In the meantime, however, she needs to find a way to support herself in this strange land. The ship's captain tells Viola all about Duke Orsino, who rules Illyria. Viola remarks that she has heard of this duke and mentions that he used to be a bachelor. The captain says that Orsino still is a bachelor, but then goes on to tell Viola about the Lady Olivia, whom the duke is courting. Again, we hear the tale of how Lady Olivia's brother died, leading her to cut herself off from the world. Viola expresses a wish that she could become a servant in the house of Olivia and hide herself away from the world as well. The captain responds that it is unlikely that Viola will enter Olivia's service because Olivia refuses to see any visitors, the duke included. Viola decides that, in that case, she will disguise herself as a young man and seek service with Duke Orsino instead. When she promises to pay him well, the captain agrees to help her, and they go off together in order to find a disguise for her", "analysis": "Act I, scenes i-ii Viola's plan for disguising herself in Act I, scene ii introduces one of the central motifs of the play: disguise and the identity confusion related to it. Similarly, Orsino's mournful speech in Act I, scene i lets us know that the play will also concern matters of love: emotion, desire, and rejection. Put together, the two scenes suggest the extra twist that is the hallmark of Twelfth Night: mistaken gender identity. Twelfth Night is one of the plays referred to as Shakespeare's \"transvestite comedies,\" and Viola's gender deception leads to all kinds of romantic complications. The opening lines of Twelfth Night, in which a moping Orsino, attended by his servants and musicians, says, \"If music be the food of love, play on,\" establish how love has conquered Orsino . His speech on this subject is rather complicated, as he employs a metaphor to try to establish some control over love. He asks for the musicians to give him so much music--the \"food of love\"--that he will overdose ) and not be hungry for love any longer. Orsino's trick proves too simple, however; while it makes him tire of the music, it fails to stop him from thinking about love. Orsino also makes a pertinent comment about the relationship between romance and imagination: \"So full of shapes is fancy / That it alone is high fantastical\" . This comment relates the idea of overpowering love to that of imagination , a connection that is appropriate for both Orsino and Twelfth Night as a whole. Beginning in this scene, the play repeatedly raises the question of whether romantic love has more to do with the person who is loved or with the lover's own imagination--whether love is real or merely something that the human mind creates for the sake of entertainment and delight. In the case of Orsino, the latter seems to be true, as he is less in love with Olivia herself than he is with the idea of being in love with Olivia. He claims to be devastated because she will not have him, but as the audience watches him wallow in his seeming misery, it is difficult to escape the impression that he is enjoying himself--flopping about on rose-covered beds, listening to music, and waxing eloquent about Olivia's beauty to his servants. The genuineness of Orsino's emotions comes into question even further when he later switches his affections from Olivia to Viola without a second thought; the audience then suspects that he does not care whom he is in love with, as long as he can be in love. Meanwhile, Viola's decision to disguise herself as a young man in order to find a job seems somewhat improbable. Surely this elaborate ploy isn't necessary; even if Orsino only hires young men, there must be ladies other than Olivia in Illyria who are hiring servants. But Viola's act of disguising herself generates an endless number of interesting situations to advance the plot. Shakespeare's comedies frequently rely on similar improbabilities, ranging from absurd coincidences to identical twins. We can interpret Viola's disguise as something that makes the unprotected young woman feel safer in the strange land into which she has wandered. When she first describes her plan in this scene, she asks the ship's captain to disguise her as a eunuch--a castrated man. This part of the plan is never mentioned again, and Shakespeare seems to have changed his mind or forgotten about it: Viola later presents herself as simply a delicate young man. Still, the idea of a eunuch is important to the play, since it stands as yet another symbol of gender uncertainty. In noting the gender confusion that pervades Twelfth Night, it is important to realize that, for Shakespeare's audiences, the idea of a girl successfully disguising herself as a boy wasn't as ludicrous as it might seem to us. In Shakespeare's day, all the parts in a play were acted by men: women weren't allowed to perform on the English stage until the late 1600s, more than half a century after Shakespeare flourished. Thus, every acting company included several delicate young boys, who played the female characters. Renaissance audiences were open to the idea that a young man could convincingly disguise himself as a woman, and vice versa. Such fluidity in portraying characters of either gender adds an extra dimension to the complexity of Shakespeare's cross-dressing characters."}

SCENE II. _A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _The Duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ CURIO, _and Gentlemen_. _Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.---- [_Music._] That strain again;--it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing, and giving odours.-- [_Music._] Enough; no more; [_He rises._ 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. _Cur._ Will you go hunt, my lord? _Duke._ What, Curio? _Cur._ The hart. _Duke._ Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought, she purged the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn'd into a hart; And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er since pursue me. _Enter_ VALENTINE. How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak. _Val._ So please my lord, I might not be admitted; But from her handmaid do return this answer; The element itself, till seven years heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this, to season A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh, And lasting, in her sad remembrance. _Duke._ O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame, To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else That live in her!-- Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._

act i, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section1/

Meanwhile, on the Illyrian sea coast, a young noblewoman named Viola speaks with the captain whose crew has just rescued her from a shipwreck. Although Viola was found and rescued, her brother, Sebastian, seems to have vanished in the storm. The captain tells Viola that Sebastian may still be alive. He says that he saw Sebastian trying to keep afloat by tying himself to a broken mast. But Viola does not know whether or not it is worth holding onto hope. In the meantime, however, she needs to find a way to support herself in this strange land. The ship's captain tells Viola all about Duke Orsino, who rules Illyria. Viola remarks that she has heard of this duke and mentions that he used to be a bachelor. The captain says that Orsino still is a bachelor, but then goes on to tell Viola about the Lady Olivia, whom the duke is courting. Again, we hear the tale of how Lady Olivia's brother died, leading her to cut herself off from the world. Viola expresses a wish that she could become a servant in the house of Olivia and hide herself away from the world as well. The captain responds that it is unlikely that Viola will enter Olivia's service because Olivia refuses to see any visitors, the duke included. Viola decides that, in that case, she will disguise herself as a young man and seek service with Duke Orsino instead. When she promises to pay him well, the captain agrees to help her, and they go off together in order to find a disguise for her

Act I, scenes i-ii Viola's plan for disguising herself in Act I, scene ii introduces one of the central motifs of the play: disguise and the identity confusion related to it. Similarly, Orsino's mournful speech in Act I, scene i lets us know that the play will also concern matters of love: emotion, desire, and rejection. Put together, the two scenes suggest the extra twist that is the hallmark of Twelfth Night: mistaken gender identity. Twelfth Night is one of the plays referred to as Shakespeare's "transvestite comedies," and Viola's gender deception leads to all kinds of romantic complications. The opening lines of Twelfth Night, in which a moping Orsino, attended by his servants and musicians, says, "If music be the food of love, play on," establish how love has conquered Orsino . His speech on this subject is rather complicated, as he employs a metaphor to try to establish some control over love. He asks for the musicians to give him so much music--the "food of love"--that he will overdose ) and not be hungry for love any longer. Orsino's trick proves too simple, however; while it makes him tire of the music, it fails to stop him from thinking about love. Orsino also makes a pertinent comment about the relationship between romance and imagination: "So full of shapes is fancy / That it alone is high fantastical" . This comment relates the idea of overpowering love to that of imagination , a connection that is appropriate for both Orsino and Twelfth Night as a whole. Beginning in this scene, the play repeatedly raises the question of whether romantic love has more to do with the person who is loved or with the lover's own imagination--whether love is real or merely something that the human mind creates for the sake of entertainment and delight. In the case of Orsino, the latter seems to be true, as he is less in love with Olivia herself than he is with the idea of being in love with Olivia. He claims to be devastated because she will not have him, but as the audience watches him wallow in his seeming misery, it is difficult to escape the impression that he is enjoying himself--flopping about on rose-covered beds, listening to music, and waxing eloquent about Olivia's beauty to his servants. The genuineness of Orsino's emotions comes into question even further when he later switches his affections from Olivia to Viola without a second thought; the audience then suspects that he does not care whom he is in love with, as long as he can be in love. Meanwhile, Viola's decision to disguise herself as a young man in order to find a job seems somewhat improbable. Surely this elaborate ploy isn't necessary; even if Orsino only hires young men, there must be ladies other than Olivia in Illyria who are hiring servants. But Viola's act of disguising herself generates an endless number of interesting situations to advance the plot. Shakespeare's comedies frequently rely on similar improbabilities, ranging from absurd coincidences to identical twins. We can interpret Viola's disguise as something that makes the unprotected young woman feel safer in the strange land into which she has wandered. When she first describes her plan in this scene, she asks the ship's captain to disguise her as a eunuch--a castrated man. This part of the plan is never mentioned again, and Shakespeare seems to have changed his mind or forgotten about it: Viola later presents herself as simply a delicate young man. Still, the idea of a eunuch is important to the play, since it stands as yet another symbol of gender uncertainty. In noting the gender confusion that pervades Twelfth Night, it is important to realize that, for Shakespeare's audiences, the idea of a girl successfully disguising herself as a boy wasn't as ludicrous as it might seem to us. In Shakespeare's day, all the parts in a play were acted by men: women weren't allowed to perform on the English stage until the late 1600s, more than half a century after Shakespeare flourished. Thus, every acting company included several delicate young boys, who played the female characters. Renaissance audiences were open to the idea that a young man could convincingly disguise himself as a woman, and vice versa. Such fluidity in portraying characters of either gender adds an extra dimension to the complexity of Shakespeare's cross-dressing characters.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_1_part_1.txt

Twelfth Night.act i.scene iii

act i, scene iii

{"name": "act i, scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section2/", "summary": "In the house of Lady Olivia, we meet Olivia's uncle, Sir Toby Belch, and Olivia's waiting-gentlewoman, Maria. Sir Toby lives at Olivia's house and is cheerful, amusing, and usually tipsy. Maria warns Sir Toby that Olivia is annoyed by his drinking, but Sir Toby shrugs off this admonition. Maria also tells him that she has heard that he has brought a foolish friend to court Olivia: Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who shares Sir Toby's disreputable habits. Sir Toby protests that Sir Andrew is a perfect match for his niece, because he is very rich and is also accomplished in music and languages, but Maria doesn't care: in her view, Sir Andrew is a fool, a brawler, and a drunk. Sir Andrew enters and, while Sir Toby is trying to introduce him to Maria, makes a fool of himself by repeatedly getting her name wrong. Evidently, Sir Andrew is a bumbling idiot. After Maria leaves, Sir Andrew and Sir Toby talk and joke like old friends. But Sir Andrew tells Sir Toby that he is discouraged and that he does not think that Olivia likes him. He plans to leave the next morning, and he remarks that Olivia will probably choose Orsino over him. Sir Toby persuades him to stay by flattering him. He says that Olivia will never marry \"above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit,\" so Sir Andrew has a good chance with her. Sir Toby compliments his friend's dancing and, through his encouragement, gets the vain and weak-minded--but good-hearted--Sir Andrew to show off his dancing skills", "analysis": "Act I, scenes iii-iv Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria are Twelfth Night's most explicitly comic characters, since they take themselves less seriously than the play's romantic leads. These three provide amusement in different ways, however: Sir Toby seems to be an intelligent man and makes witty puns, to which the equally clever Maria is quick to respond. Sir Andrew Aguecheek, however, appears to be a fool. He doesn't understand Toby and Maria's wit, as we see when he is forced to ask Maria, \"What's your metaphor?\" and \"hat's your jest?\" . He is also easily flattered and doesn't realize certain painful truths--that he is not very witty, that Toby and Maria are making fun of him, and that he does not stand a chance with Olivia. Act I, scene iv shows us the developing relationship between Orsino and Cesario. In another useful improbability, we find that, after only three days, Cesario has become a great favorite of the duke. As Orsino's servant Valentine tells Cesario, \"If the Duke continues these favours towards you, . . . you are like to be much advanced\" . In the same conversation, Valentine assures Cesario that Orsino isn't fickle--that he remains steady and constant in his love. Since we have heard Orsino's flowery speeches about Olivia in Act I, scene i, we may question how sincere or steady his love really is, an uncertainty that grows as the play progresses. Regardless, the way Orsino talks to Cesario makes it clear that Orsino likes Cesario very much--and his language is closer to that of romantic love than that of ordinary friendship. \"Cesario,\" he tells him, \"Thou know'st no less but all. I have unclasped / To thee the book even of my secret soul\" . Clearly, Orsino already seems to be attracted to Cesario in a way that defies our expectations of how male friends interact with one another. This peculiar attraction is further developed when Orsino tells Cesario why he plans to send him to woo Olivia. Orsino explains that Olivia is more likely to listen to Cesario: \"She will attend better in thy youth / Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect\" . Cesario denies Orsino's claim, but Orsino tells him that he should believe it, because, in his youthfulness, Cesario is as pretty as a young woman. \"Diana's lip / Is not more smooth and rubious \" than Cesario's, Orsino tells him, comparing him favorably to the goddess Diana; and Cesario's voice, Orsino claims, \"s as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, / And all is semblative a woman's part\" . This series of compliments is both intriguing and complicated. In praising Cesario's attractiveness, Orsino tells Cesario that he looks like a woman. His interest in having Cesario go to Olivia suggests his belief that Cesario's womanly beauty will somehow entice Olivia. At the same time, it is difficult not to read in -Orsino's words the suggestion that he too finds Cesario attractive: after all, Cesario reminds him strongly of a beautiful young woman."}

SCENE III. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ MARIA _and_ SIR TOBY BELCH. _Sir To._ What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life. _Mar._ By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. _Sir To._ Why, let her except before excepted. _Mar._ Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. _Sir To._ Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. _Mar._ That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in here, to be her wooer. _Sir To._ Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek? _Mar._ Ay, he. _Sir To._ He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. _Mar._ What's that to the purpose? _Sir To._ Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year. _Mar._ Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. _Sir To._ Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and hath all the good gifts of nature. _Mar._ He hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave. _Sir To._ By this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that say so of him. Who are they? _Mar._ They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company. _Sir To._ With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top--See, here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. [SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, _without_. _Sir And._ Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch? _Sir To._ Sweet Sir Andrew! _Enter_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir And._ Bless you, fair shrew. _Mar._ And you too, sir. _Sir To._ Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. _Sir And._ What's that? _Sir To._ My niece's chamber-maid. _Sir And._ Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. _Mar._ My name is Mary, sir. _Sir And._ Good Mistress Mary Accost,---- _Sir To._ You mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her. _Sir And._ By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost? _Mar._ Fare you well, gentlemen. _Sir To._ An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 'would thou might'st never draw sword again. _Sir And._ An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? _Mar._ Sir, I have not you by the hand. _Sir And._ Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. _Mar._ [_Takes his hand._] Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. _Sir And._ Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor? _Mar._ It's dry, sir. _Sir And._ Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? _Mar._ A dry jest, sir. _Sir And._ Are you full of them? _Mar._ Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_Lets go his hand._] now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Sir To._ O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down? _Sir And._ Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down: Methinks, sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit. _Sir To._ No question. _Sir And._ An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. _Sir To._ _Pourquoy_, my dear knight? _Sir And._ What is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? I would I had bestow'd that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but follow'd the arts! _Sir To._ Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. _Sir And._ Why, would that have mended my hair? _Sir To._ Past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by nature. _Sir And._ But it becomes me well enough, does't not? _Sir To._ Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. _Sir And._ 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke himself, here hard by, wooes her. _Sir To._ She'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. _Sir And._ I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. _Sir To._ Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? _Sir And._ As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I'll not compare with an old man. _Sir To._ What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? _Sir And._ 'Faith, I can cut a caper. _Sir To._ And I can cut the mutton to't. _Sir And._ And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria. _Sir To._ Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard. _Sir And._ Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels? _Sir To._ What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus? _Sir And._ Taurus? that's sides and heart. _Sir To._ No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper:--Ha! higher:--Ha, ha!--excellent! [_Exeunt._

act i, scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section2/

In the house of Lady Olivia, we meet Olivia's uncle, Sir Toby Belch, and Olivia's waiting-gentlewoman, Maria. Sir Toby lives at Olivia's house and is cheerful, amusing, and usually tipsy. Maria warns Sir Toby that Olivia is annoyed by his drinking, but Sir Toby shrugs off this admonition. Maria also tells him that she has heard that he has brought a foolish friend to court Olivia: Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who shares Sir Toby's disreputable habits. Sir Toby protests that Sir Andrew is a perfect match for his niece, because he is very rich and is also accomplished in music and languages, but Maria doesn't care: in her view, Sir Andrew is a fool, a brawler, and a drunk. Sir Andrew enters and, while Sir Toby is trying to introduce him to Maria, makes a fool of himself by repeatedly getting her name wrong. Evidently, Sir Andrew is a bumbling idiot. After Maria leaves, Sir Andrew and Sir Toby talk and joke like old friends. But Sir Andrew tells Sir Toby that he is discouraged and that he does not think that Olivia likes him. He plans to leave the next morning, and he remarks that Olivia will probably choose Orsino over him. Sir Toby persuades him to stay by flattering him. He says that Olivia will never marry "above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit," so Sir Andrew has a good chance with her. Sir Toby compliments his friend's dancing and, through his encouragement, gets the vain and weak-minded--but good-hearted--Sir Andrew to show off his dancing skills

Act I, scenes iii-iv Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria are Twelfth Night's most explicitly comic characters, since they take themselves less seriously than the play's romantic leads. These three provide amusement in different ways, however: Sir Toby seems to be an intelligent man and makes witty puns, to which the equally clever Maria is quick to respond. Sir Andrew Aguecheek, however, appears to be a fool. He doesn't understand Toby and Maria's wit, as we see when he is forced to ask Maria, "What's your metaphor?" and "hat's your jest?" . He is also easily flattered and doesn't realize certain painful truths--that he is not very witty, that Toby and Maria are making fun of him, and that he does not stand a chance with Olivia. Act I, scene iv shows us the developing relationship between Orsino and Cesario. In another useful improbability, we find that, after only three days, Cesario has become a great favorite of the duke. As Orsino's servant Valentine tells Cesario, "If the Duke continues these favours towards you, . . . you are like to be much advanced" . In the same conversation, Valentine assures Cesario that Orsino isn't fickle--that he remains steady and constant in his love. Since we have heard Orsino's flowery speeches about Olivia in Act I, scene i, we may question how sincere or steady his love really is, an uncertainty that grows as the play progresses. Regardless, the way Orsino talks to Cesario makes it clear that Orsino likes Cesario very much--and his language is closer to that of romantic love than that of ordinary friendship. "Cesario," he tells him, "Thou know'st no less but all. I have unclasped / To thee the book even of my secret soul" . Clearly, Orsino already seems to be attracted to Cesario in a way that defies our expectations of how male friends interact with one another. This peculiar attraction is further developed when Orsino tells Cesario why he plans to send him to woo Olivia. Orsino explains that Olivia is more likely to listen to Cesario: "She will attend better in thy youth / Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect" . Cesario denies Orsino's claim, but Orsino tells him that he should believe it, because, in his youthfulness, Cesario is as pretty as a young woman. "Diana's lip / Is not more smooth and rubious " than Cesario's, Orsino tells him, comparing him favorably to the goddess Diana; and Cesario's voice, Orsino claims, "s as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, / And all is semblative a woman's part" . This series of compliments is both intriguing and complicated. In praising Cesario's attractiveness, Orsino tells Cesario that he looks like a woman. His interest in having Cesario go to Olivia suggests his belief that Cesario's womanly beauty will somehow entice Olivia. At the same time, it is difficult not to read in -Orsino's words the suggestion that he too finds Cesario attractive: after all, Cesario reminds him strongly of a beautiful young woman.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_1_part_2.txt

Twelfth Night.act i.scene iv

act i, scene iv

{"name": "act i, scene iv", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section2/", "summary": "Meanwhile, at the house of Duke Orsino, Viola has adopted a new name--Cesario--to go with her new persona as a teenage boy. After only three days in Orsino's service, Cesario has already become a favorite of Orsino. Indeed, so much does Orsino favor his new servant that he insists on picking Cesario to go on his most important errand: to carry his messages of love to Olivia. Cesario protests that Olivia, who has ignored Orsino for a long time, is not likely to start listening to his love messages now. But Orsino points out that Cesario is extremely young and handsome--so beautiful, in his lips and features, that he resembles a woman--and that Olivia is sure to be impressed by his attractiveness. Orsino tells Cesario to \"act my woes\" when he goes to see Olivia--to behave as if he shares Orsino's adoration for the noblewoman. After some discussion, Cesario reluctantly agrees to carry the message--reluctantly because, as she tells the audience in a quick aside, Viola herself has fallen in love with Orsino and wishes that she could be his wife", "analysis": "Act I, scenes iii-iv Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria are Twelfth Night's most explicitly comic characters, since they take themselves less seriously than the play's romantic leads. These three provide amusement in different ways, however: Sir Toby seems to be an intelligent man and makes witty puns, to which the equally clever Maria is quick to respond. Sir Andrew Aguecheek, however, appears to be a fool. He doesn't understand Toby and Maria's wit, as we see when he is forced to ask Maria, \"What's your metaphor?\" and \"hat's your jest?\" . He is also easily flattered and doesn't realize certain painful truths--that he is not very witty, that Toby and Maria are making fun of him, and that he does not stand a chance with Olivia. Act I, scene iv shows us the developing relationship between Orsino and Cesario. In another useful improbability, we find that, after only three days, Cesario has become a great favorite of the duke. As Orsino's servant Valentine tells Cesario, \"If the Duke continues these favours towards you, . . . you are like to be much advanced\" . In the same conversation, Valentine assures Cesario that Orsino isn't fickle--that he remains steady and constant in his love. Since we have heard Orsino's flowery speeches about Olivia in Act I, scene i, we may question how sincere or steady his love really is, an uncertainty that grows as the play progresses. Regardless, the way Orsino talks to Cesario makes it clear that Orsino likes Cesario very much--and his language is closer to that of romantic love than that of ordinary friendship. \"Cesario,\" he tells him, \"Thou know'st no less but all. I have unclasped / To thee the book even of my secret soul\" . Clearly, Orsino already seems to be attracted to Cesario in a way that defies our expectations of how male friends interact with one another. This peculiar attraction is further developed when Orsino tells Cesario why he plans to send him to woo Olivia. Orsino explains that Olivia is more likely to listen to Cesario: \"She will attend better in thy youth / Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect\" . Cesario denies Orsino's claim, but Orsino tells him that he should believe it, because, in his youthfulness, Cesario is as pretty as a young woman. \"Diana's lip / Is not more smooth and rubious \" than Cesario's, Orsino tells him, comparing him favorably to the goddess Diana; and Cesario's voice, Orsino claims, \"s as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, / And all is semblative a woman's part\" . This series of compliments is both intriguing and complicated. In praising Cesario's attractiveness, Orsino tells Cesario that he looks like a woman. His interest in having Cesario go to Olivia suggests his belief that Cesario's womanly beauty will somehow entice Olivia. At the same time, it is difficult not to read in -Orsino's words the suggestion that he too finds Cesario attractive: after all, Cesario reminds him strongly of a beautiful young woman."}

SCENE IV. _A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _Enter_ VALENTINE, _and_ VIOLA _in Man's Attire_. _Val._ If the duke continue these favors towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced. _Vio._ You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? _Val._ No, believe me. _Vio._ I thank you.--Here comes the duke. _Enter_ DUKE, CURIO, _and Gentlemen_. _Duke._ Who saw Cesario, ho? _Vio._ On your attendance, my lord; here. _Duke._ Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario, Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd To thee the book even of my secret soul: Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, Till thou have audience. _Vio._ Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. _Duke._ Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. _Vio._ Say, I do speak with her, my lord. What then? _Duke._ O, then unfold the passion of my love. Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. _Vio._ I think not so, my lord. _Duke._ Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound: I know, thy constellation is right apt For this affair:--Go:--prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. [_Exeunt_ DUKE, CURIO, VALENTINE, _and Gentlemen_. _Vio._ I'll do my best, To woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!-- Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [_Exit._

act i, scene iv

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section2/

Meanwhile, at the house of Duke Orsino, Viola has adopted a new name--Cesario--to go with her new persona as a teenage boy. After only three days in Orsino's service, Cesario has already become a favorite of Orsino. Indeed, so much does Orsino favor his new servant that he insists on picking Cesario to go on his most important errand: to carry his messages of love to Olivia. Cesario protests that Olivia, who has ignored Orsino for a long time, is not likely to start listening to his love messages now. But Orsino points out that Cesario is extremely young and handsome--so beautiful, in his lips and features, that he resembles a woman--and that Olivia is sure to be impressed by his attractiveness. Orsino tells Cesario to "act my woes" when he goes to see Olivia--to behave as if he shares Orsino's adoration for the noblewoman. After some discussion, Cesario reluctantly agrees to carry the message--reluctantly because, as she tells the audience in a quick aside, Viola herself has fallen in love with Orsino and wishes that she could be his wife

Act I, scenes iii-iv Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria are Twelfth Night's most explicitly comic characters, since they take themselves less seriously than the play's romantic leads. These three provide amusement in different ways, however: Sir Toby seems to be an intelligent man and makes witty puns, to which the equally clever Maria is quick to respond. Sir Andrew Aguecheek, however, appears to be a fool. He doesn't understand Toby and Maria's wit, as we see when he is forced to ask Maria, "What's your metaphor?" and "hat's your jest?" . He is also easily flattered and doesn't realize certain painful truths--that he is not very witty, that Toby and Maria are making fun of him, and that he does not stand a chance with Olivia. Act I, scene iv shows us the developing relationship between Orsino and Cesario. In another useful improbability, we find that, after only three days, Cesario has become a great favorite of the duke. As Orsino's servant Valentine tells Cesario, "If the Duke continues these favours towards you, . . . you are like to be much advanced" . In the same conversation, Valentine assures Cesario that Orsino isn't fickle--that he remains steady and constant in his love. Since we have heard Orsino's flowery speeches about Olivia in Act I, scene i, we may question how sincere or steady his love really is, an uncertainty that grows as the play progresses. Regardless, the way Orsino talks to Cesario makes it clear that Orsino likes Cesario very much--and his language is closer to that of romantic love than that of ordinary friendship. "Cesario," he tells him, "Thou know'st no less but all. I have unclasped / To thee the book even of my secret soul" . Clearly, Orsino already seems to be attracted to Cesario in a way that defies our expectations of how male friends interact with one another. This peculiar attraction is further developed when Orsino tells Cesario why he plans to send him to woo Olivia. Orsino explains that Olivia is more likely to listen to Cesario: "She will attend better in thy youth / Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect" . Cesario denies Orsino's claim, but Orsino tells him that he should believe it, because, in his youthfulness, Cesario is as pretty as a young woman. "Diana's lip / Is not more smooth and rubious " than Cesario's, Orsino tells him, comparing him favorably to the goddess Diana; and Cesario's voice, Orsino claims, "s as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, / And all is semblative a woman's part" . This series of compliments is both intriguing and complicated. In praising Cesario's attractiveness, Orsino tells Cesario that he looks like a woman. His interest in having Cesario go to Olivia suggests his belief that Cesario's womanly beauty will somehow entice Olivia. At the same time, it is difficult not to read in -Orsino's words the suggestion that he too finds Cesario attractive: after all, Cesario reminds him strongly of a beautiful young woman.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_3_part_1.txt

Twelfth Night.act ii.scene i

act ii, scene i

{"name": "act ii, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section4/", "summary": "Somewhere near the coast of Illyria, we meet two men who have not yet appeared in the play. One of them is called Antonio, and he has been hosting the other in his home. This other man is none other than Sebastian, the twin brother of Viola, who she believes has drowned. It seems that Antonio took Sebastian into his home when he washed up after the shipwreck and has been caring for him ever since. At first, Sebastian gave him a false name, but now that he plans to leave Antonio and go wandering, he decides to tell his benefactor his true identity and the tale of his sister, who he assumes drowned in their shipwreck. We learn here that Sebastian and Viola's father is long dead, and so Sebastian assumes that he has no family left. He is still devastated by the loss of his sister and is preparing to go wandering through the world, with little care as to what the future will hold. Antonio urges Sebastian to let him come with him on his journey. It is clear that Antonio has become very fond of Sebastian and does not want to lose him. But Sebastian is afraid that his travels will be dangerous, and he urges Antonio to let him go alone. After Sebastian leaves to go to Orsino's court, Antonio ponders the situation: he wants to follow his friend and help him, but he has many enemies in Orsino's court and is afraid to go there. He cares about Sebastian so much, however, that he decides to face the danger and follow him to Orsino's court anyway", "analysis": "Act II, scenes i-ii It comes as no surprise to any reader of Shakespeare's -comedies that Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, has turned up alive. His reappearance and resemblance to his sister sets the stage for later mix-ups and mistaken identities, common elements in Shakespeare's comic plays. The relationship between Antonio and Sebastian, meanwhile, though it is a minor part of the play, offers fertile ground for critical attention. Antonio and Sebastian are clearly close, dear friends. Yet the language Antonio uses, along with his behavior, suggests something even stronger. Antonio appears willing to sacrifice everything for his friend, giving up his time, money, and safety to follow and protect him. He begs Sebastian to let him be his servant and travel into danger with him, and Antonio decides to go even when he learns that Sebastian is headed for a dangerous place filled with Antonio's enemies. Moreover, Antonio's language carries a strong emotional charge: \"If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant\" . His implication that separation from Sebastian would be equivalent to a violent death demonstrates how deeply important to him his relationship with Sebastian is. Powerful male friendships were more the norm in Shakespeare's day than in our own, and Antonio's language can be seen as simply the expression of a purely platonic passion. However, Antonio's words can also be seen as carrying an obvious homoerotic charge. It seems safe to say here that if Antonio were a woman, we would read her speech and actions as an unambiguous expression of her love for Sebastian and hope that he would return this love. In a play so concerned with bending gender roles--a play in which Orsino can seem to be attracted to Viola, for instance, even before she reveals herself to be a woman and not a man, and in which Olivia can fall for a man who is really a woman--Antonio's passion for Sebastian is erotic rather than platonic. Leaving Antonio and Sebastian, the play returns to Viola, who is the central character in the action, and thus the only one who understands the entirety of the complicated love triangle. Orsino loves Olivia, who loves Viola, who in turn loves Orsino--but matters are hardly this simple, because both Orsino and Olivia are mistaken about Viola's real gender. Viola knows that romantic love, ideally, should lead to marriage. But in this particular triangle, there seems to be no hope of a resolution anywhere. Calling herself a \"poor monster\"--implying not that she is ugly but rather something not quite human, halfway between man and woman--Viola puts her finger on the problem . Homoerotic love is not a real or final option in Shakespeare's comedies: as a man, Viola cannot win Orsino's love, but as a woman, she cannot return Olivia's. Finally giving herself up into the hands of fate, she says despairingly, \"O time, thou must untangle this, not I. / It is too hard a knot for me t'untie\" . But fate--or, more accurately, the playwright--has already set the untangling forces in motion."}

ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I. _A Sea-port._ _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO. _Ant._ Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not, that I go with you? _Seb._ By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone: It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. _Ant._ Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. _Seb._ O, good Antonio, pardon me your trouble. _Ant._ Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. _Seb._ No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy.--But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself.--You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of: He left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. _Ant._ Alas, the day! _Seb._ A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. [_He weeps._] _Ant._ If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. _Seb._ If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Duke Orsino's court, farewell. _Ant._ The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! _Seb._ Fare ye well. [_Exeunt._

act ii, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section4/

Somewhere near the coast of Illyria, we meet two men who have not yet appeared in the play. One of them is called Antonio, and he has been hosting the other in his home. This other man is none other than Sebastian, the twin brother of Viola, who she believes has drowned. It seems that Antonio took Sebastian into his home when he washed up after the shipwreck and has been caring for him ever since. At first, Sebastian gave him a false name, but now that he plans to leave Antonio and go wandering, he decides to tell his benefactor his true identity and the tale of his sister, who he assumes drowned in their shipwreck. We learn here that Sebastian and Viola's father is long dead, and so Sebastian assumes that he has no family left. He is still devastated by the loss of his sister and is preparing to go wandering through the world, with little care as to what the future will hold. Antonio urges Sebastian to let him come with him on his journey. It is clear that Antonio has become very fond of Sebastian and does not want to lose him. But Sebastian is afraid that his travels will be dangerous, and he urges Antonio to let him go alone. After Sebastian leaves to go to Orsino's court, Antonio ponders the situation: he wants to follow his friend and help him, but he has many enemies in Orsino's court and is afraid to go there. He cares about Sebastian so much, however, that he decides to face the danger and follow him to Orsino's court anyway

Act II, scenes i-ii It comes as no surprise to any reader of Shakespeare's -comedies that Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, has turned up alive. His reappearance and resemblance to his sister sets the stage for later mix-ups and mistaken identities, common elements in Shakespeare's comic plays. The relationship between Antonio and Sebastian, meanwhile, though it is a minor part of the play, offers fertile ground for critical attention. Antonio and Sebastian are clearly close, dear friends. Yet the language Antonio uses, along with his behavior, suggests something even stronger. Antonio appears willing to sacrifice everything for his friend, giving up his time, money, and safety to follow and protect him. He begs Sebastian to let him be his servant and travel into danger with him, and Antonio decides to go even when he learns that Sebastian is headed for a dangerous place filled with Antonio's enemies. Moreover, Antonio's language carries a strong emotional charge: "If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant" . His implication that separation from Sebastian would be equivalent to a violent death demonstrates how deeply important to him his relationship with Sebastian is. Powerful male friendships were more the norm in Shakespeare's day than in our own, and Antonio's language can be seen as simply the expression of a purely platonic passion. However, Antonio's words can also be seen as carrying an obvious homoerotic charge. It seems safe to say here that if Antonio were a woman, we would read her speech and actions as an unambiguous expression of her love for Sebastian and hope that he would return this love. In a play so concerned with bending gender roles--a play in which Orsino can seem to be attracted to Viola, for instance, even before she reveals herself to be a woman and not a man, and in which Olivia can fall for a man who is really a woman--Antonio's passion for Sebastian is erotic rather than platonic. Leaving Antonio and Sebastian, the play returns to Viola, who is the central character in the action, and thus the only one who understands the entirety of the complicated love triangle. Orsino loves Olivia, who loves Viola, who in turn loves Orsino--but matters are hardly this simple, because both Orsino and Olivia are mistaken about Viola's real gender. Viola knows that romantic love, ideally, should lead to marriage. But in this particular triangle, there seems to be no hope of a resolution anywhere. Calling herself a "poor monster"--implying not that she is ugly but rather something not quite human, halfway between man and woman--Viola puts her finger on the problem . Homoerotic love is not a real or final option in Shakespeare's comedies: as a man, Viola cannot win Orsino's love, but as a woman, she cannot return Olivia's. Finally giving herself up into the hands of fate, she says despairingly, "O time, thou must untangle this, not I. / It is too hard a knot for me t'untie" . But fate--or, more accurately, the playwright--has already set the untangling forces in motion.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_3_part_2.txt

Twelfth Night.act ii.scene ii

act ii, scene ii

{"name": "act ii, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section4/", "summary": "Meanwhile, outside Olivia's house, Malvolio has caught up with Viola. Malvolio gives Cesario the ring that Olivia has sent with him, rebuking him for having left it with Olivia. Viola realizes Olivia's deception and plays along with it, pretending that she did indeed give the ring to Olivia. She tells Malvolio that Olivia took the ring and insists that Olivia must keep it. Malvolio throws the ring onto the ground and exits. Alone, the confused Viola picks up the ring and wonders why Olivia has given it to her. She wonders if it means that Olivia has fallen in love with Cesario. If such is the case, Viola reflects, then events have indeed taken an ironic turn, because Olivia has unknowingly fallen in love with another woman. Poor lady, she were better love a dream,\" Viola says to herself. Apparently loved by Olivia and in love with Orsino, who loves Olivia, Viola expresses her hope that time will untangle these problems since she certainly cannot figure out how to solve them", "analysis": "Act II, scenes i-ii It comes as no surprise to any reader of Shakespeare's -comedies that Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, has turned up alive. His reappearance and resemblance to his sister sets the stage for later mix-ups and mistaken identities, common elements in Shakespeare's comic plays. The relationship between Antonio and Sebastian, meanwhile, though it is a minor part of the play, offers fertile ground for critical attention. Antonio and Sebastian are clearly close, dear friends. Yet the language Antonio uses, along with his behavior, suggests something even stronger. Antonio appears willing to sacrifice everything for his friend, giving up his time, money, and safety to follow and protect him. He begs Sebastian to let him be his servant and travel into danger with him, and Antonio decides to go even when he learns that Sebastian is headed for a dangerous place filled with Antonio's enemies. Moreover, Antonio's language carries a strong emotional charge: \"If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant\" . His implication that separation from Sebastian would be equivalent to a violent death demonstrates how deeply important to him his relationship with Sebastian is. Powerful male friendships were more the norm in Shakespeare's day than in our own, and Antonio's language can be seen as simply the expression of a purely platonic passion. However, Antonio's words can also be seen as carrying an obvious homoerotic charge. It seems safe to say here that if Antonio were a woman, we would read her speech and actions as an unambiguous expression of her love for Sebastian and hope that he would return this love. In a play so concerned with bending gender roles--a play in which Orsino can seem to be attracted to Viola, for instance, even before she reveals herself to be a woman and not a man, and in which Olivia can fall for a man who is really a woman--Antonio's passion for Sebastian is erotic rather than platonic. Leaving Antonio and Sebastian, the play returns to Viola, who is the central character in the action, and thus the only one who understands the entirety of the complicated love triangle. Orsino loves Olivia, who loves Viola, who in turn loves Orsino--but matters are hardly this simple, because both Orsino and Olivia are mistaken about Viola's real gender. Viola knows that romantic love, ideally, should lead to marriage. But in this particular triangle, there seems to be no hope of a resolution anywhere. Calling herself a \"poor monster\"--implying not that she is ugly but rather something not quite human, halfway between man and woman--Viola puts her finger on the problem . Homoerotic love is not a real or final option in Shakespeare's comedies: as a man, Viola cannot win Orsino's love, but as a woman, she cannot return Olivia's. Finally giving herself up into the hands of fate, she says despairingly, \"O time, thou must untangle this, not I. / It is too hard a knot for me t'untie\" . But fate--or, more accurately, the playwright--has already set the untangling forces in motion."}

SCENE II. _A Dining-room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW _discovered, drinking and smoking_. _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,---- _Sir And._ Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late, is to be up late. _Sir To._ A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can: To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives consist of the four elements? _Sir And._ 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking. _Sir To._ Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.--Maria, I say!----a stoop of wine! [_The_ CLOWN _sings without_. [SIR ANDREW _and_ SIR TOBY _rise_. _Sir And._ Here comes the fool, i'faith. _Enter_ CLOWN. _Clo._ How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three? _Sir To._ Welcome, ass. _Sir And._ I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it? _Clo._ I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle ale-houses. _Sir And._ Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. _Sir To._ Come on: Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that? _Sir And._ An you love me, let's do 't: I am dog at a catch. _Clo._ By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. _Sir And._ Begin, fool: it begins,--[_Sings._] _Hold thy peace._ _Clo._ Hold my peace!--I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. _Sir And._ Good, i'faith!--Come, begin:--that, or something else,--or what you will. [_They all three sing._ _Christmas comes but once a year, And therefore we'll be merry._ _Enter_ MARIA. _Mar._ What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. _Sir To._ My lady's a Cataian; we are politicians. Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsay:--[_Sings._]--_And three merry men be we._ _Sir And._ [_Sings._] _And three merry men be we._ _Sir To._ Am I not consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley, lady!--[_Sings._]--_There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!_ _Sir And._ [_Sings_] _Lady_,---- _Clo._ Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. _Sir And._ Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. [_Sings_.] _Lady_,-- _Sir To._ Let us have another. [_They all three sing and dance._ _Which is the properest day to drink? Saturday,--Sunday,--Monday_,-- _Mar._ For the love of heaven, peace. _Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in a Gown and Cap, with a Light_. _Mal._ My masters, are you mad? or what are you? _Sir And._ [_Sings._] _Monday_,-- _Mal._ Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Saturday_,-- _Mal._ Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? _Sir To._ We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! _Mal._ Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone._ _Mar._ Nay, good Sir Toby. _Clo._ [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._ _Mal._ Is't even so? _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ [_Falls on the floor._ _Clo._ [_Sings._] _Sir Toby,--O, Sir Toby,--there you lie._ _Mal._ This is much credit to you. [CLOWN _raises_ SIR TOBY. _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _You lie._--Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? _Clo._ Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too. _Sir To._ Thou'rt i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with crums:--A stoop of wine, Maria! _Mal._ Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: She shall know of it, by this hand. [_Exit_ MALVOLIO, _followed by the_ CLOWN, _mocking him_. _Mar._ Go shake your ears. _Sir And._ 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry, to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him. _Sir To._ Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. _Mar._ Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the Duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it. _Sir To._ Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him. _Mar._ Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. _Sir And._ O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog. _Sir To._ What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight? _Sir And._ I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough. _Mar._ The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. _Sir To._ What wilt thou do? _Mar._ I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. _Sir To._ Excellent! I smell a device. _Sir And._ I have't in my nose too. _Sir To._ He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him? _Sir And._ O, 'twill be admirable. _Mar._ Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let Fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Sir To._ Good night, Penthesilea. _Sir And._ Before me, she's a good wench. _Sir To._ She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; What o' that? _Sir And._ I was adored once too. _Sir To._ Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more money. _Sir And._ If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. _Sir To._ Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut. _Sir And._ If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. _Sir To._ Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now. _Sir And._ I'll call you Cut. _Sir To._ Come, knight,--come, knight. _Sir And._ I'll call you Cut. [_Exeunt._

act ii, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section4/

Meanwhile, outside Olivia's house, Malvolio has caught up with Viola. Malvolio gives Cesario the ring that Olivia has sent with him, rebuking him for having left it with Olivia. Viola realizes Olivia's deception and plays along with it, pretending that she did indeed give the ring to Olivia. She tells Malvolio that Olivia took the ring and insists that Olivia must keep it. Malvolio throws the ring onto the ground and exits. Alone, the confused Viola picks up the ring and wonders why Olivia has given it to her. She wonders if it means that Olivia has fallen in love with Cesario. If such is the case, Viola reflects, then events have indeed taken an ironic turn, because Olivia has unknowingly fallen in love with another woman. Poor lady, she were better love a dream," Viola says to herself. Apparently loved by Olivia and in love with Orsino, who loves Olivia, Viola expresses her hope that time will untangle these problems since she certainly cannot figure out how to solve them

Act II, scenes i-ii It comes as no surprise to any reader of Shakespeare's -comedies that Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, has turned up alive. His reappearance and resemblance to his sister sets the stage for later mix-ups and mistaken identities, common elements in Shakespeare's comic plays. The relationship between Antonio and Sebastian, meanwhile, though it is a minor part of the play, offers fertile ground for critical attention. Antonio and Sebastian are clearly close, dear friends. Yet the language Antonio uses, along with his behavior, suggests something even stronger. Antonio appears willing to sacrifice everything for his friend, giving up his time, money, and safety to follow and protect him. He begs Sebastian to let him be his servant and travel into danger with him, and Antonio decides to go even when he learns that Sebastian is headed for a dangerous place filled with Antonio's enemies. Moreover, Antonio's language carries a strong emotional charge: "If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant" . His implication that separation from Sebastian would be equivalent to a violent death demonstrates how deeply important to him his relationship with Sebastian is. Powerful male friendships were more the norm in Shakespeare's day than in our own, and Antonio's language can be seen as simply the expression of a purely platonic passion. However, Antonio's words can also be seen as carrying an obvious homoerotic charge. It seems safe to say here that if Antonio were a woman, we would read her speech and actions as an unambiguous expression of her love for Sebastian and hope that he would return this love. In a play so concerned with bending gender roles--a play in which Orsino can seem to be attracted to Viola, for instance, even before she reveals herself to be a woman and not a man, and in which Olivia can fall for a man who is really a woman--Antonio's passion for Sebastian is erotic rather than platonic. Leaving Antonio and Sebastian, the play returns to Viola, who is the central character in the action, and thus the only one who understands the entirety of the complicated love triangle. Orsino loves Olivia, who loves Viola, who in turn loves Orsino--but matters are hardly this simple, because both Orsino and Olivia are mistaken about Viola's real gender. Viola knows that romantic love, ideally, should lead to marriage. But in this particular triangle, there seems to be no hope of a resolution anywhere. Calling herself a "poor monster"--implying not that she is ugly but rather something not quite human, halfway between man and woman--Viola puts her finger on the problem . Homoerotic love is not a real or final option in Shakespeare's comedies: as a man, Viola cannot win Orsino's love, but as a woman, she cannot return Olivia's. Finally giving herself up into the hands of fate, she says despairingly, "O time, thou must untangle this, not I. / It is too hard a knot for me t'untie" . But fate--or, more accurately, the playwright--has already set the untangling forces in motion.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_4_part_1.txt

Twelfth Night.act ii.scene iii

act ii, scene iii

{"name": "act ii, scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section5/", "summary": "Sir Toby and Sir Andrew stay up late drinking in Olivia's house. Feste appears, and Sir Andrew compliments the clown on his singing. Both noblemen encourage Feste to sing another song. While he sings, Maria enters, warning them to keep their voices down or Olivia will call her steward, Malvolio, and tell him to kick them out. But the tipsy Sir Toby and Sir Andrew cheerfully ignore her. Malvolio comes into the room. He criticizes the men for being drunk at all hours of the night and for singing so loudly. He warns Sir Toby that his behavior is intolerably rude and that, while Olivia is willing to let him be her guest , if Sir Toby does not change his behavior, he will be asked to leave. But Sir Toby, along with Sir Andrew and Feste, responds by making jokes and insulting Malvolio. After making a final threat, this one directed at Maria, Malvolio leaves, warning them all that he will let Olivia know about their behavior. Sir Andrew suggests challenging Malvolio to a duel, but Maria has a better idea: to play a practical joke on him. As she explains to Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, Malvolio is a puritan, but at the same time his biggest weakness is his enormous ego: he believes that everybody loves him. Maria will use that weakness to get her revenge on him for spoiling their fun. Since Maria's handwriting is almost identical to Olivia's, Maria plans to leave letters lying around that will appear to have come from Olivia and will make Malvolio think that Olivia is in love with him. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew are amazed by Maria's cleverness, and they admire the plan. Maria goes off to bed, planning to get started on her joke the next day. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, deciding that it is now too late to go to sleep, head off to warm up more wine", "analysis": "Act II, scenes iii-iv These scenes give us the first of the play's many songs. Twelfth Night is full of music, which is linked to romance from Orsino's command in the play's very first line: \"If music be the food of love, play on\" . Most of the songs are sung either by the drunken Sir Toby and Sir Andrew or by Feste the clown, who is a professional singer and entertainer as well as a joker. In Shakespeare's time, love was often associated with the emotional expressiveness of music, so the love songs in this comedy are quite appropriate. The clash between Malvolio on the one hand and Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria on the other is a central conflict in Twelfth Night. On the face of things, it does not seem to be Malvolio's fault that he has to break up their party. After all, the men's drunken singing in their host's house in the middle of the night is unquestionably rude. But Twelfth Night is a play that ultimately celebrates chaos--whether it is brought on by romantic ardor, by alcohol, or simply by general enthusiasm--over the straitlaced order that Malvolio represents. The play's title refers to the Feast of the Epiphany, the twelfth day after Christmas, which in Shakespeare's England was a time for revelry and even anarchy--a day when servants impersonated their masters, alcohol flowed freely, and all of the customary social hierarchies were turned upside down. The puritanical, order-loving, and pleasure-hating spirit of Malvolio contrasts greatly with this anarchic spirit that flows through Sir Toby and Maria, Feste, and Sir Andrew. Malvolio, we realize, does not merely object to the circumstances of Sir Toby's revelry--he objects to revelry, music, and alcohol entirely. His sharp questions--\"Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house?\" --prompt a bitter retort from Sir Toby, who asks. \"Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?\" . Sir Toby seems to understand Malvolio's attitude: because Malvolio himself detests merrymaking, he thinks that no one should be allowed to make merry. His very name consists of elements--\"Mal\" and \"volio\"--that essentially mean, in Italian, \"ill will,\" suggesting his profound contempt for others' pleasures. Maria, however, proves more than a match for Malvolio. She knows his faults well: for one thing, he is a hypocrite, always trying to impress other people; worse, he is puffed up with pride, a weakness that she plans to take advantage of in exacting her revenge. Her comment that \"it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him\" remind us of Olivia's earlier comment that Malvolio is \"sick of self-love\" . Maria's trust in the all-consuming nature of Malvolio's egotism leads her to believe that it will be easy to make him think--foolishly-- that Olivia loves him. The revenge seems appropriate--Malvolio, who loathes folly, will be tricked into displaying it. The dialogue between Orsino and the disguised Viola in Act II, scene iv further develops the curious relationship between Orsino and his seemingly male servant. Their discussion of the relative power of men's and women's love is one of the most often-quoted passages in the play. The complicated ironies built into the scene--in which the audience knows that Cesario is really a woman in love with Orsino but Orsino remains unaware--add both a rich complexity and a sense of teasing to the discussions, even as the seeming hopelessness of Viola's position adds a hint of pathos. Still, one cannot find her plight too pathetic--the audience knows that the play is a comedy, in which romantic love must lead to married happiness. Moreover, we have already heard Orsino's comments to Cesario in Act I, scene iv, praising Cesario's female-like beauty, so we know that Viola's disguise has not entirely prevented Orsino from being attracted to her. Orsino's claim that men love more strongly than women was a commonplace one in Shakespeare's day, but Viola eloquently refutes it. In a very famous passage, she tells Orsino about how her fictional sister pined in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholyShe sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. . . . \"Patience on a monument\" refers to statues of the allegorical figure of Patience, which often adorned Renaissance tombstones. By comparing her imaginary sister to this stone figure, Viola subtly contrasts her own passion with the self-indulgent and grandiose lovesickness from which Orsino claims to suffer. She depicts herself as bearing a love that is, unlike the duke's, patient, silent, and eternally enduring. Of course, the image of a tombstone suggests that such a love is ultimately fatal, leading to Orsino's question--\"But died thy sister of her love, my boy?\" . This question is appropriately left open: we do not know yet whether Viola will die of her love for Orsino, and so she can only respond, ambiguously yet cleverly, \"I am all the daughters of my father's house, / And all the brothers too; and yet I know not\" . We, like Viola , must wait to see how this tangle of desires and disguises will unravel."}

SCENE III. _A Hall in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _Enter_ DUKE, _and_ VIOLA. _Duke._ Come hither, boy:--If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it, remember me: For, such as I am, all true lovers are.-- My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy? _Vio._ A little, by your favour. _Duke._ What kind of woman is't? _Vio._ Of your complexion. _Duke._ She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith? _Vio._ About your years, my lord. _Duke._ Too old, by heaven.--Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty: Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her, Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems, That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. _Vio._ But, if she cannot love you, sir? _Duke._ I cannot be so answered. _Vio._ Sooth, but you must. Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so: Must she not then be answered? _Duke._ There is no woman's sides, Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart:--make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me, And that I owe Olivia. _Vio._ Ay, but I know,-- _Duke._ What dost thou know? _Vio._ Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. _Duke._ And what's her history? _Vio._ A blank, my lord: She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, Our shows are more than will, for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. _Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy? _Vio._ I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too.-- Sir, shall I to this lady? _Duke._ Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._

act ii, scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section5/

Sir Toby and Sir Andrew stay up late drinking in Olivia's house. Feste appears, and Sir Andrew compliments the clown on his singing. Both noblemen encourage Feste to sing another song. While he sings, Maria enters, warning them to keep their voices down or Olivia will call her steward, Malvolio, and tell him to kick them out. But the tipsy Sir Toby and Sir Andrew cheerfully ignore her. Malvolio comes into the room. He criticizes the men for being drunk at all hours of the night and for singing so loudly. He warns Sir Toby that his behavior is intolerably rude and that, while Olivia is willing to let him be her guest , if Sir Toby does not change his behavior, he will be asked to leave. But Sir Toby, along with Sir Andrew and Feste, responds by making jokes and insulting Malvolio. After making a final threat, this one directed at Maria, Malvolio leaves, warning them all that he will let Olivia know about their behavior. Sir Andrew suggests challenging Malvolio to a duel, but Maria has a better idea: to play a practical joke on him. As she explains to Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, Malvolio is a puritan, but at the same time his biggest weakness is his enormous ego: he believes that everybody loves him. Maria will use that weakness to get her revenge on him for spoiling their fun. Since Maria's handwriting is almost identical to Olivia's, Maria plans to leave letters lying around that will appear to have come from Olivia and will make Malvolio think that Olivia is in love with him. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew are amazed by Maria's cleverness, and they admire the plan. Maria goes off to bed, planning to get started on her joke the next day. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, deciding that it is now too late to go to sleep, head off to warm up more wine

Act II, scenes iii-iv These scenes give us the first of the play's many songs. Twelfth Night is full of music, which is linked to romance from Orsino's command in the play's very first line: "If music be the food of love, play on" . Most of the songs are sung either by the drunken Sir Toby and Sir Andrew or by Feste the clown, who is a professional singer and entertainer as well as a joker. In Shakespeare's time, love was often associated with the emotional expressiveness of music, so the love songs in this comedy are quite appropriate. The clash between Malvolio on the one hand and Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria on the other is a central conflict in Twelfth Night. On the face of things, it does not seem to be Malvolio's fault that he has to break up their party. After all, the men's drunken singing in their host's house in the middle of the night is unquestionably rude. But Twelfth Night is a play that ultimately celebrates chaos--whether it is brought on by romantic ardor, by alcohol, or simply by general enthusiasm--over the straitlaced order that Malvolio represents. The play's title refers to the Feast of the Epiphany, the twelfth day after Christmas, which in Shakespeare's England was a time for revelry and even anarchy--a day when servants impersonated their masters, alcohol flowed freely, and all of the customary social hierarchies were turned upside down. The puritanical, order-loving, and pleasure-hating spirit of Malvolio contrasts greatly with this anarchic spirit that flows through Sir Toby and Maria, Feste, and Sir Andrew. Malvolio, we realize, does not merely object to the circumstances of Sir Toby's revelry--he objects to revelry, music, and alcohol entirely. His sharp questions--"Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house?" --prompt a bitter retort from Sir Toby, who asks. "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" . Sir Toby seems to understand Malvolio's attitude: because Malvolio himself detests merrymaking, he thinks that no one should be allowed to make merry. His very name consists of elements--"Mal" and "volio"--that essentially mean, in Italian, "ill will," suggesting his profound contempt for others' pleasures. Maria, however, proves more than a match for Malvolio. She knows his faults well: for one thing, he is a hypocrite, always trying to impress other people; worse, he is puffed up with pride, a weakness that she plans to take advantage of in exacting her revenge. Her comment that "it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him" remind us of Olivia's earlier comment that Malvolio is "sick of self-love" . Maria's trust in the all-consuming nature of Malvolio's egotism leads her to believe that it will be easy to make him think--foolishly-- that Olivia loves him. The revenge seems appropriate--Malvolio, who loathes folly, will be tricked into displaying it. The dialogue between Orsino and the disguised Viola in Act II, scene iv further develops the curious relationship between Orsino and his seemingly male servant. Their discussion of the relative power of men's and women's love is one of the most often-quoted passages in the play. The complicated ironies built into the scene--in which the audience knows that Cesario is really a woman in love with Orsino but Orsino remains unaware--add both a rich complexity and a sense of teasing to the discussions, even as the seeming hopelessness of Viola's position adds a hint of pathos. Still, one cannot find her plight too pathetic--the audience knows that the play is a comedy, in which romantic love must lead to married happiness. Moreover, we have already heard Orsino's comments to Cesario in Act I, scene iv, praising Cesario's female-like beauty, so we know that Viola's disguise has not entirely prevented Orsino from being attracted to her. Orsino's claim that men love more strongly than women was a commonplace one in Shakespeare's day, but Viola eloquently refutes it. In a very famous passage, she tells Orsino about how her fictional sister pined in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholyShe sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. . . . "Patience on a monument" refers to statues of the allegorical figure of Patience, which often adorned Renaissance tombstones. By comparing her imaginary sister to this stone figure, Viola subtly contrasts her own passion with the self-indulgent and grandiose lovesickness from which Orsino claims to suffer. She depicts herself as bearing a love that is, unlike the duke's, patient, silent, and eternally enduring. Of course, the image of a tombstone suggests that such a love is ultimately fatal, leading to Orsino's question--"But died thy sister of her love, my boy?" . This question is appropriately left open: we do not know yet whether Viola will die of her love for Orsino, and so she can only respond, ambiguously yet cleverly, "I am all the daughters of my father's house, / And all the brothers too; and yet I know not" . We, like Viola , must wait to see how this tangle of desires and disguises will unravel.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_6_part_1.txt

Twelfth Night.act iii.scene i

act iii, scene i

{"name": "act iii, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section7/", "summary": "Viola, still in disguise as Cesario, has returned to Lady Olivia's house to bring her another message of love from Orsino. Outside Olivia's house, Cesario meets Feste, the clown. Feste jokes and makes puns with him. Cesario jokes with comparable skill and good-naturedly gives Feste some coins for his trouble. Feste goes inside to announce the arrival of Cesario to Olivia. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew arrive in the garden and, meeting Cesario for the first time, make some rather awkward conversation with him. The situation is made awkward by the fact that Sir Andrew behaves foolishly, as usual, and both men are slightly drunk. Sir Toby invites Cesario into the house, but before they can enter, Olivia comes down to the garden, accompanied by Maria. She sends everyone else away in order to listen to what Cesario has to say. Once alone with Cesario, Olivia suddenly begs him not to give her any more love messages from Orsino. She lets Cesario know how deeply in love with him she is. Cesario tells Olivia as politely as he can that he cannot love her. Olivia seems to accept this rejection, but she realizes privately that she cannot so easily get rid of her love for this beautiful young man, even if he scorns her. Cesario swears to Olivia that no woman shall ever be mistress of his heart and turns to go. But Olivia begs him to come back again, suggesting desperately that maybe Cesario can convince her to love Orsino after all", "analysis": "Act III, scenes i-iii Once again we meet Feste the clown, and once again we notice that beneath his nonsense, he is obviously intelligent. In fact, Viola is inspired to comment on this after her conversation with Feste: \"This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit,\" she notes . She realizes that a good clown must be able to judge the personalities and moods of all the people with whom he interacts, and to know when to talk, what to say, and when to keep quiet. Her remark that \"his is a practice / As full of labour as a wise man's art\" reminds us of Feste's earlier comments about his own professionalism: \"Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents\" . There is an irony here--Feste is skilled as a fool, yet he is also one of the play's most intelligent characters. Olivia's character, meanwhile, has undergone a startling shift. When we first meet her, she is deep in mourning, dismissive of romantic love, and somewhat close in spirit to the dour Malvolio. Indeed, her early grief seems as self-indulgent as Orsino's lovesickness. But Viola has won Olivia over; she has replaced her grief with infatuation, and Olivia now willingly gives herself over to the zany shamelessness that fills the play. She behaves in a remarkably forward fashion in these scenes: when they are speaking alone, for instance, she takes Cesario's hand--a very unusual action for a noblewoman to perform. By the end of the scene, Olivia is reduced to begging Cesario to come back again, saying that perhaps she will change her mind about Orsino after all. Passion has conquered dignity and order, at least in Olivia's heart. Of course, while Viola has broken the spell of grief and has convinced Olivia to give herself over to romantic desire, she herself cannot fulfill Olivia's yearnings. She can only reply \"I pity you\" to the noblewoman's pleadings, and offer vague explanations for her rejection of Olivia--\"I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, / And that no woman has, nor never none / Shall mistress be of it save I alone\" . Her reliance on rather abstract terms reflects the emotional distance that she maintains from Olivia. Antonio's love for Sebastian, meanwhile, remains as strong as ever, as he risks his life to pursue Sebastian. His remark that he follows Sebastian out of his \"desire, / More sharp than filed steel\" has the same violently passionate twinge as his earlier comparison of separation from Sebastian with \"murder\" . He seeks also to protect Sebastian, owing to his \"jealousy what might befall your travel, / . . . in these parts . . . / . . . / Rough and unhospitable\" . Antonio's attachment to Sebastian comprises not only concern for his safety but also a willingness to spend money on him . \"our store / I think is not for idle markets, sir,\" Antonio tells Sebastian, a statement with a double meaning . The more apparent meaning is that Sebastian doesn't have enough money to spend on trivial things, but the words also suggest that Sebastian is too good to spend time with just anyone and deserves the best. Once again, Antonio's passion for his male friend--and the words he uses, like \"jealousy\" and \"desire\"--strongly suggest that he feels an erotic attraction to Sebastian."}

ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. _Fab._ Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. _Sir To._ Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? _Fab._ I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here. _Sir To._ To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue:--Shall we not, Sir Andrew? _Sir And._ An we do not, it is pity of our lives. _Enter_ MARIA, _with a Letter_. _Sir To._ Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India? _Mar._ Get ye all three behind yon clump: Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.--Close, in the name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._]--Lie thou there; [_Throws down a letter._] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Enter_ MALVOLIO. _Mal._ 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't? _Sir To._ Here's an over-weening rogue! _Fab._ Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! _Sir And._ 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:-- _Mal._ To be Count Malvolio;-- _Sir To._ Ah, rogue! _Sir And._ Pistol him, pistol him. _Sir To._ Peace, peace! _Mal._ There is example for't; the lady of the strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. _Sir And._ Fie on him, Jezebel! _Fab._ Now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him. _Mal._ Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,-- _Sir To._ O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! _Mal._ Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;--having come from a day-bed, where I left Olivia sleeping;-- _Sir To._ Fire and brimstone! _Fab._ O peace, peace! _Mal._ And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard,--telling them, I know my place, as I would they should do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby:-- _Sir To._ Bolts and shackles! _Fab._ O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. _Mal._ Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches: courtsies there to me:-- _Sir To._ Shall this fellow live? _Fab._ Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. _Mal._ I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control-- _Sir To._ And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then? _Mal._ Saying, _Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech_:-- _Sir To._ What, what? _Mal._ _You must amend your drunkenness._ _Sir To._ Out, scab! _Fab._ Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. _Mal._ _Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight_;-- _Sir And._ That's me, I warrant you. _Mal._ _One Sir Andrew_:-- _Sir And._ I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool. _Mal._ What employment have we here? [_Taking up the letter._ _Fab._ Now is the woodcock near the gin. _Sir To._ O peace! an the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him,-- _Mal._ By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very _C's_, her _U's_, and her _T's_; and thus makes she her great _P's_. It is, in contempt of question, her hand. _Sir And._ Her _C's_, her _U's_, and her _T's_: Why that? _Mal._ [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes_: her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady: To whom should this be? [_Opens the letter._] _Fab._ This wins him, liver and all. _Mal._ [_Reads._] _Jove knows, I love: But who? Lips do not move, No man must know. No man must know._--If this should be thee, Malvolio? _Sir To._ Marry, hang thee, brock! _Mal._ [_Reads._] _I may command, where I adore: But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore_; M,O,A,I, _doth sway my life_. _Fab._ A fustian riddle! _Sir To._ Excellent wench, say I. _Mal._ M,O,A,I, _doth sway my life_.--Nay, but first, let me see,--let me see,--let me see. _Fab._ What a dish of poison has she dressed him! _Sir To._ And with what wing the stanniel checks at it! _Mal._ _I may command where I adore._ Why, she may command me; I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this:--And the end,--What should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me.--Softly!--M,O,A,I. _Sir To._ O, ay! make up that:--he is now at a cold scent. _Mal._ _M_,--Malvolio;--_M_,--why, that begins my name. _Fab._ I thought he would work it out: the cur is excellent at faults. _Mal._ _M_,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: _A_ should follow, but _O_ does. _Fab._ And _O_ shall end, I hope. _Sir To._ Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry, _O_. _Mal._ And then _I_ comes behind. _Fab._ Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you. _Mal._ _M_,_O_,_A_,_I_;--This simulation is not as the former:--and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--[_Reads. If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. To enure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. She thus advises thee, that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings; and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee._ _The fortunate-unhappy._ Day-light and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be proud, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-de-vice, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered:--I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a postscript--[_Reads._] _Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee._ Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do every thing that thou wilt have me. [_Exit_ MALVOLIO. [_They advance from behind the Trees._] _Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha! _Fab._ I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the sophy. _Sir To._ I could marry this wench for this device. _Sir And._ So could I too. _Sir To._ And ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest. _Sir And._ Nor I neither. _Fab._ Here comes my noble gull-catcher. _Enter_ MARIA. _Sir To._ Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck? _Sir And._ Or o' mine either? _Sir To._ Shall I become thy bond-slave? _Sir And._ Or I either? _Sir To._ Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad. _Mar._ Nay, but say true; does it work upon him? _Sir To._ Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. _Mar._ If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will see it, follow me. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Sir To._ To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit. _Sir And._ I'll make one too. _Fab._ And I. _Omnes._ Huzza! huzza! huzza! [_Exeunt._

act iii, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section7/

Viola, still in disguise as Cesario, has returned to Lady Olivia's house to bring her another message of love from Orsino. Outside Olivia's house, Cesario meets Feste, the clown. Feste jokes and makes puns with him. Cesario jokes with comparable skill and good-naturedly gives Feste some coins for his trouble. Feste goes inside to announce the arrival of Cesario to Olivia. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew arrive in the garden and, meeting Cesario for the first time, make some rather awkward conversation with him. The situation is made awkward by the fact that Sir Andrew behaves foolishly, as usual, and both men are slightly drunk. Sir Toby invites Cesario into the house, but before they can enter, Olivia comes down to the garden, accompanied by Maria. She sends everyone else away in order to listen to what Cesario has to say. Once alone with Cesario, Olivia suddenly begs him not to give her any more love messages from Orsino. She lets Cesario know how deeply in love with him she is. Cesario tells Olivia as politely as he can that he cannot love her. Olivia seems to accept this rejection, but she realizes privately that she cannot so easily get rid of her love for this beautiful young man, even if he scorns her. Cesario swears to Olivia that no woman shall ever be mistress of his heart and turns to go. But Olivia begs him to come back again, suggesting desperately that maybe Cesario can convince her to love Orsino after all

Act III, scenes i-iii Once again we meet Feste the clown, and once again we notice that beneath his nonsense, he is obviously intelligent. In fact, Viola is inspired to comment on this after her conversation with Feste: "This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit," she notes . She realizes that a good clown must be able to judge the personalities and moods of all the people with whom he interacts, and to know when to talk, what to say, and when to keep quiet. Her remark that "his is a practice / As full of labour as a wise man's art" reminds us of Feste's earlier comments about his own professionalism: "Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents" . There is an irony here--Feste is skilled as a fool, yet he is also one of the play's most intelligent characters. Olivia's character, meanwhile, has undergone a startling shift. When we first meet her, she is deep in mourning, dismissive of romantic love, and somewhat close in spirit to the dour Malvolio. Indeed, her early grief seems as self-indulgent as Orsino's lovesickness. But Viola has won Olivia over; she has replaced her grief with infatuation, and Olivia now willingly gives herself over to the zany shamelessness that fills the play. She behaves in a remarkably forward fashion in these scenes: when they are speaking alone, for instance, she takes Cesario's hand--a very unusual action for a noblewoman to perform. By the end of the scene, Olivia is reduced to begging Cesario to come back again, saying that perhaps she will change her mind about Orsino after all. Passion has conquered dignity and order, at least in Olivia's heart. Of course, while Viola has broken the spell of grief and has convinced Olivia to give herself over to romantic desire, she herself cannot fulfill Olivia's yearnings. She can only reply "I pity you" to the noblewoman's pleadings, and offer vague explanations for her rejection of Olivia--"I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, / And that no woman has, nor never none / Shall mistress be of it save I alone" . Her reliance on rather abstract terms reflects the emotional distance that she maintains from Olivia. Antonio's love for Sebastian, meanwhile, remains as strong as ever, as he risks his life to pursue Sebastian. His remark that he follows Sebastian out of his "desire, / More sharp than filed steel" has the same violently passionate twinge as his earlier comparison of separation from Sebastian with "murder" . He seeks also to protect Sebastian, owing to his "jealousy what might befall your travel, / . . . in these parts . . . / . . . / Rough and unhospitable" . Antonio's attachment to Sebastian comprises not only concern for his safety but also a willingness to spend money on him . "our store / I think is not for idle markets, sir," Antonio tells Sebastian, a statement with a double meaning . The more apparent meaning is that Sebastian doesn't have enough money to spend on trivial things, but the words also suggest that Sebastian is too good to spend time with just anyone and deserves the best. Once again, Antonio's passion for his male friend--and the words he uses, like "jealousy" and "desire"--strongly suggest that he feels an erotic attraction to Sebastian.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_6_part_2.txt

Twelfth Night.act iii.scene ii

act iii, scene ii

{"name": "act iii, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section7/", "summary": "Back in Olivia's house, Sir Andrew tells Sir Toby that he has decided to leave. He says that he has seen Olivia fawning over Cesario in the orchard, and he seems to realize at last that Olivia is not likely to marry him. But Sir Toby--who wants to keep Andrew around because he has been spending Sir Andrew's money--tells Sir Andrew that he ought to stay and show off his manliness for her. Fabian helps Sir Toby in his persuasion, assuring Sir Andrew that Olivia might only have been teasing him and trying to make him jealous. Sir Andrew agrees, and Sir Toby encourages him to challenge Cesario to a duel, in order to prove his love for Olivia. Maria comes in and reports that Malvolio is behaving like an absolute ass--he has been doing everything that the letter has asked him to do. He is wearing yellow stockings and crossed garters and will not stop smiling--all in all, he is more ridiculous than ever before. Sir Toby and Fabian eagerly follow Maria to see what is going on", "analysis": "Act III, scenes i-iii Once again we meet Feste the clown, and once again we notice that beneath his nonsense, he is obviously intelligent. In fact, Viola is inspired to comment on this after her conversation with Feste: \"This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit,\" she notes . She realizes that a good clown must be able to judge the personalities and moods of all the people with whom he interacts, and to know when to talk, what to say, and when to keep quiet. Her remark that \"his is a practice / As full of labour as a wise man's art\" reminds us of Feste's earlier comments about his own professionalism: \"Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents\" . There is an irony here--Feste is skilled as a fool, yet he is also one of the play's most intelligent characters. Olivia's character, meanwhile, has undergone a startling shift. When we first meet her, she is deep in mourning, dismissive of romantic love, and somewhat close in spirit to the dour Malvolio. Indeed, her early grief seems as self-indulgent as Orsino's lovesickness. But Viola has won Olivia over; she has replaced her grief with infatuation, and Olivia now willingly gives herself over to the zany shamelessness that fills the play. She behaves in a remarkably forward fashion in these scenes: when they are speaking alone, for instance, she takes Cesario's hand--a very unusual action for a noblewoman to perform. By the end of the scene, Olivia is reduced to begging Cesario to come back again, saying that perhaps she will change her mind about Orsino after all. Passion has conquered dignity and order, at least in Olivia's heart. Of course, while Viola has broken the spell of grief and has convinced Olivia to give herself over to romantic desire, she herself cannot fulfill Olivia's yearnings. She can only reply \"I pity you\" to the noblewoman's pleadings, and offer vague explanations for her rejection of Olivia--\"I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, / And that no woman has, nor never none / Shall mistress be of it save I alone\" . Her reliance on rather abstract terms reflects the emotional distance that she maintains from Olivia. Antonio's love for Sebastian, meanwhile, remains as strong as ever, as he risks his life to pursue Sebastian. His remark that he follows Sebastian out of his \"desire, / More sharp than filed steel\" has the same violently passionate twinge as his earlier comparison of separation from Sebastian with \"murder\" . He seeks also to protect Sebastian, owing to his \"jealousy what might befall your travel, / . . . in these parts . . . / . . . / Rough and unhospitable\" . Antonio's attachment to Sebastian comprises not only concern for his safety but also a willingness to spend money on him . \"our store / I think is not for idle markets, sir,\" Antonio tells Sebastian, a statement with a double meaning . The more apparent meaning is that Sebastian doesn't have enough money to spend on trivial things, but the words also suggest that Sebastian is too good to spend time with just anyone and deserves the best. Once again, Antonio's passion for his male friend--and the words he uses, like \"jealousy\" and \"desire\"--strongly suggest that he feels an erotic attraction to Sebastian."}

SCENE II. _A public Square._ _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO. _Seb._ I would not, by my will, have troubled you; But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you. _Ant._ I could not stay behind you; my desire, More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; I fear'd besides what might befall your travel, Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, Unguided, and unfriended, often prove Rough and unhospitable: My willing love, The rather by these arguments of doubt, Set forth in your pursuit. _Seb._ My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make, but thanks, And thanks, and ever thanks.--What is to do? Shall we go see the reliques of this town? _Ant._ To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging. _Seb._ I am not weary, and 'tis long to night; I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes With the memorials, and the things of fame, That do renown this city. _Ant._ 'Would, you'd pardon me; I do not without danger walk these streets: Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst Orsino's gallies, I did some service; of such note indeed, That were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered. _Seb._ Do not then walk too open. _Ant._ It doth not fit me.--Hold, sir, here's my purse; In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge, With viewing of the town; there shall you have me. _Seb._ Why I your purse? _Ant._ Haply, your eye shall light upon some toy You have desire to purchase; and your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir. _Seb._ I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour. _Ant._ To the Elephant. _Seb._ I do remember. [_Exeunt._

act iii, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section7/

Back in Olivia's house, Sir Andrew tells Sir Toby that he has decided to leave. He says that he has seen Olivia fawning over Cesario in the orchard, and he seems to realize at last that Olivia is not likely to marry him. But Sir Toby--who wants to keep Andrew around because he has been spending Sir Andrew's money--tells Sir Andrew that he ought to stay and show off his manliness for her. Fabian helps Sir Toby in his persuasion, assuring Sir Andrew that Olivia might only have been teasing him and trying to make him jealous. Sir Andrew agrees, and Sir Toby encourages him to challenge Cesario to a duel, in order to prove his love for Olivia. Maria comes in and reports that Malvolio is behaving like an absolute ass--he has been doing everything that the letter has asked him to do. He is wearing yellow stockings and crossed garters and will not stop smiling--all in all, he is more ridiculous than ever before. Sir Toby and Fabian eagerly follow Maria to see what is going on

Act III, scenes i-iii Once again we meet Feste the clown, and once again we notice that beneath his nonsense, he is obviously intelligent. In fact, Viola is inspired to comment on this after her conversation with Feste: "This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit," she notes . She realizes that a good clown must be able to judge the personalities and moods of all the people with whom he interacts, and to know when to talk, what to say, and when to keep quiet. Her remark that "his is a practice / As full of labour as a wise man's art" reminds us of Feste's earlier comments about his own professionalism: "Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents" . There is an irony here--Feste is skilled as a fool, yet he is also one of the play's most intelligent characters. Olivia's character, meanwhile, has undergone a startling shift. When we first meet her, she is deep in mourning, dismissive of romantic love, and somewhat close in spirit to the dour Malvolio. Indeed, her early grief seems as self-indulgent as Orsino's lovesickness. But Viola has won Olivia over; she has replaced her grief with infatuation, and Olivia now willingly gives herself over to the zany shamelessness that fills the play. She behaves in a remarkably forward fashion in these scenes: when they are speaking alone, for instance, she takes Cesario's hand--a very unusual action for a noblewoman to perform. By the end of the scene, Olivia is reduced to begging Cesario to come back again, saying that perhaps she will change her mind about Orsino after all. Passion has conquered dignity and order, at least in Olivia's heart. Of course, while Viola has broken the spell of grief and has convinced Olivia to give herself over to romantic desire, she herself cannot fulfill Olivia's yearnings. She can only reply "I pity you" to the noblewoman's pleadings, and offer vague explanations for her rejection of Olivia--"I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, / And that no woman has, nor never none / Shall mistress be of it save I alone" . Her reliance on rather abstract terms reflects the emotional distance that she maintains from Olivia. Antonio's love for Sebastian, meanwhile, remains as strong as ever, as he risks his life to pursue Sebastian. His remark that he follows Sebastian out of his "desire, / More sharp than filed steel" has the same violently passionate twinge as his earlier comparison of separation from Sebastian with "murder" . He seeks also to protect Sebastian, owing to his "jealousy what might befall your travel, / . . . in these parts . . . / . . . / Rough and unhospitable" . Antonio's attachment to Sebastian comprises not only concern for his safety but also a willingness to spend money on him . "our store / I think is not for idle markets, sir," Antonio tells Sebastian, a statement with a double meaning . The more apparent meaning is that Sebastian doesn't have enough money to spend on trivial things, but the words also suggest that Sebastian is too good to spend time with just anyone and deserves the best. Once again, Antonio's passion for his male friend--and the words he uses, like "jealousy" and "desire"--strongly suggest that he feels an erotic attraction to Sebastian.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_6_part_3.txt

Twelfth Night.act iii.scene iii

act iii, scene iii

{"name": "act iii, scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section7/", "summary": "Elsewhere, in the streets of Illyria, we find that Sebastian and Antonio have at last arrived at their destination. We learn that Antonio is not safe in Illyria: it seems that Duke Orsino's men are hostile to him, for many years ago Antonio was involved in a sea fight against Orsino in which he did them much damage. But Antonio's love for Sebastian has caused him to defy the danger and come with Sebastian to Illyria. Sebastian is not yet tired, so he and Antonio agree that Antonio find lodging for the two of them at an inn. Sebastian, meanwhile, will roam the streets, taking in the sights of the town. Knowing that Sebastian doesn't have much money, Antonio gives Sebastian his purse so that Sebastian can buy himself something if he spots a trinket he likes. They agree to meet again in an hour at the inn", "analysis": "Act III, scenes i-iii Once again we meet Feste the clown, and once again we notice that beneath his nonsense, he is obviously intelligent. In fact, Viola is inspired to comment on this after her conversation with Feste: \"This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit,\" she notes . She realizes that a good clown must be able to judge the personalities and moods of all the people with whom he interacts, and to know when to talk, what to say, and when to keep quiet. Her remark that \"his is a practice / As full of labour as a wise man's art\" reminds us of Feste's earlier comments about his own professionalism: \"Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents\" . There is an irony here--Feste is skilled as a fool, yet he is also one of the play's most intelligent characters. Olivia's character, meanwhile, has undergone a startling shift. When we first meet her, she is deep in mourning, dismissive of romantic love, and somewhat close in spirit to the dour Malvolio. Indeed, her early grief seems as self-indulgent as Orsino's lovesickness. But Viola has won Olivia over; she has replaced her grief with infatuation, and Olivia now willingly gives herself over to the zany shamelessness that fills the play. She behaves in a remarkably forward fashion in these scenes: when they are speaking alone, for instance, she takes Cesario's hand--a very unusual action for a noblewoman to perform. By the end of the scene, Olivia is reduced to begging Cesario to come back again, saying that perhaps she will change her mind about Orsino after all. Passion has conquered dignity and order, at least in Olivia's heart. Of course, while Viola has broken the spell of grief and has convinced Olivia to give herself over to romantic desire, she herself cannot fulfill Olivia's yearnings. She can only reply \"I pity you\" to the noblewoman's pleadings, and offer vague explanations for her rejection of Olivia--\"I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, / And that no woman has, nor never none / Shall mistress be of it save I alone\" . Her reliance on rather abstract terms reflects the emotional distance that she maintains from Olivia. Antonio's love for Sebastian, meanwhile, remains as strong as ever, as he risks his life to pursue Sebastian. His remark that he follows Sebastian out of his \"desire, / More sharp than filed steel\" has the same violently passionate twinge as his earlier comparison of separation from Sebastian with \"murder\" . He seeks also to protect Sebastian, owing to his \"jealousy what might befall your travel, / . . . in these parts . . . / . . . / Rough and unhospitable\" . Antonio's attachment to Sebastian comprises not only concern for his safety but also a willingness to spend money on him . \"our store / I think is not for idle markets, sir,\" Antonio tells Sebastian, a statement with a double meaning . The more apparent meaning is that Sebastian doesn't have enough money to spend on trivial things, but the words also suggest that Sebastian is too good to spend time with just anyone and deserves the best. Once again, Antonio's passion for his male friend--and the words he uses, like \"jealousy\" and \"desire\"--strongly suggest that he feels an erotic attraction to Sebastian."}

SCENE III. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ CLOWN, _playing on a Tabor, and_ VIOLA. _Vio._ Save thee, friend, and thy music: Dost thou live by thy tabor? _Clo._ No, sir, I live by the church. _Vio._ Art thou a churchman? _Clo._ No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. _Vio._ Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool? _Clo._ No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. _Vio._ I saw thee late at the Duke Orsino's. _Clo._ Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master, as with my mistress: I think, I saw your wisdom there. _Vio._ Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold, there's expences for thee. [_Gives him money._ _Clo._ Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! _Vio._ By my troth, I'll tell thee; I am almost sick for one.--Is thy lady within? _Clo._ Would not a pair of these have bred, sir? _Vio._ Yes, being kept together, and put to use. _Clo._ I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. _Vio._ I understand you, sir: [_Gives him more money._] 'tis well begged. _Clo._ My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you came: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: I might say, element; but the word is over-worn. [_Exit_ CLOWN. _Vio._ This fellow's wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time; And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice, As full of labour as a wise man's art. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _and_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir To._ Save you, gentleman. _Vio._ And you, sir. _Sir To._ My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. _Vio._ I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my voyage. _Sir To._ Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion. _Vio._ My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. _Sir To._ I mean,--to go, sir, to enter. _Vio._ I will answer you with gait and entrance: But we are prevented. _Enter_ OLIVIA. Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! _Sir And._ That youth's a rare courtier!--_Rain odours!_--well. _Vio._ My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. _Sir And._ _Odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--I'll get 'em all three ready. _Oli._ Leave me to my hearing. _Sir And._ _Odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._ [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW. _Oli._ Give me your hand, sir. _Vio._ My duty, madam, and most humble service. _Oli._ What is your name? _Vio._ Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess. _Oli._ My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was called compliment: You are servant to the Duke Orsino, youth. _Vio._ And he is yours, and his must needs be yours; Your servant's servant is your servant, madam. _Oli._ For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, 'Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me! _Vio._ Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:-- _Oli._ O, by your leave, I pray you; I bade you never speak again of him: But, would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that, Than music from the spheres. _Vio._ Dear lady,---- _Oli._ Give me leave, I beseech you: I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you: Under your hard construction must I sit, To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours: What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom, Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak. _Vio._ I pity you. _Oli._ That's a degree to love. _Vio._ No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof, That very oft we pity enemies. _Oli._ Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again: O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! [_Clock strikes._ The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.-- Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you: And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your wife is like to reap a proper man: There lies your way, due west. _Vio._ Then westward-hoe: Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship! You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? _Oli._ Stay: I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me. _Vio._ That you do think, you are not what you are. _Oli._ If I think so, I think the same of you. _Vio._ Then think you right; I am not what I am. _Oli._ I would, you were as I would have you be! _Vio._ Would it be better, madam, than I am, I wish it might; for now I am your fool. _Oli._ O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing, I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. _Vio._ By innocence, I swear, and by my youth. I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master's tears to you deplore. _Oli._ Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_Exeunt._

act iii, scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section7/

Elsewhere, in the streets of Illyria, we find that Sebastian and Antonio have at last arrived at their destination. We learn that Antonio is not safe in Illyria: it seems that Duke Orsino's men are hostile to him, for many years ago Antonio was involved in a sea fight against Orsino in which he did them much damage. But Antonio's love for Sebastian has caused him to defy the danger and come with Sebastian to Illyria. Sebastian is not yet tired, so he and Antonio agree that Antonio find lodging for the two of them at an inn. Sebastian, meanwhile, will roam the streets, taking in the sights of the town. Knowing that Sebastian doesn't have much money, Antonio gives Sebastian his purse so that Sebastian can buy himself something if he spots a trinket he likes. They agree to meet again in an hour at the inn

Act III, scenes i-iii Once again we meet Feste the clown, and once again we notice that beneath his nonsense, he is obviously intelligent. In fact, Viola is inspired to comment on this after her conversation with Feste: "This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit," she notes . She realizes that a good clown must be able to judge the personalities and moods of all the people with whom he interacts, and to know when to talk, what to say, and when to keep quiet. Her remark that "his is a practice / As full of labour as a wise man's art" reminds us of Feste's earlier comments about his own professionalism: "Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents" . There is an irony here--Feste is skilled as a fool, yet he is also one of the play's most intelligent characters. Olivia's character, meanwhile, has undergone a startling shift. When we first meet her, she is deep in mourning, dismissive of romantic love, and somewhat close in spirit to the dour Malvolio. Indeed, her early grief seems as self-indulgent as Orsino's lovesickness. But Viola has won Olivia over; she has replaced her grief with infatuation, and Olivia now willingly gives herself over to the zany shamelessness that fills the play. She behaves in a remarkably forward fashion in these scenes: when they are speaking alone, for instance, she takes Cesario's hand--a very unusual action for a noblewoman to perform. By the end of the scene, Olivia is reduced to begging Cesario to come back again, saying that perhaps she will change her mind about Orsino after all. Passion has conquered dignity and order, at least in Olivia's heart. Of course, while Viola has broken the spell of grief and has convinced Olivia to give herself over to romantic desire, she herself cannot fulfill Olivia's yearnings. She can only reply "I pity you" to the noblewoman's pleadings, and offer vague explanations for her rejection of Olivia--"I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, / And that no woman has, nor never none / Shall mistress be of it save I alone" . Her reliance on rather abstract terms reflects the emotional distance that she maintains from Olivia. Antonio's love for Sebastian, meanwhile, remains as strong as ever, as he risks his life to pursue Sebastian. His remark that he follows Sebastian out of his "desire, / More sharp than filed steel" has the same violently passionate twinge as his earlier comparison of separation from Sebastian with "murder" . He seeks also to protect Sebastian, owing to his "jealousy what might befall your travel, / . . . in these parts . . . / . . . / Rough and unhospitable" . Antonio's attachment to Sebastian comprises not only concern for his safety but also a willingness to spend money on him . "our store / I think is not for idle markets, sir," Antonio tells Sebastian, a statement with a double meaning . The more apparent meaning is that Sebastian doesn't have enough money to spend on trivial things, but the words also suggest that Sebastian is too good to spend time with just anyone and deserves the best. Once again, Antonio's passion for his male friend--and the words he uses, like "jealousy" and "desire"--strongly suggest that he feels an erotic attraction to Sebastian.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_8_part_1.txt

Twelfth Night.act iv.scene i

act iv, scene i

{"name": "act iv, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section9/", "summary": "Near Olivia's house, Feste the clown comes across the person who he thinks is Cesario and tries to bring him to Olivia's house. This individual, however, is actually Viola's twin brother, Sebastian. Sebastian, of course, is confused by Feste's claims to know him. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew then find them. Sir Andrew, thinking that Sebastian is the same person he was about to duel a few minutes before, attacks him. But Sebastian, unlike Viola, is a scrappy fighter, and starts to beat Sir Andrew with his dagger, leading the foolish nobleman to cry for mercy. The bewildered Sebastian wonders if he is surrounded by madmen and tries to leave. But Sir Toby grabs him to prevent him from going. The two exchange insults, and Sebastian and Sir Toby draw their swords and prepare to fight. Suddenly, Olivia enters. She sees Sir Toby preparing to fight the person who she thinks is Cesario. Angrily, she orders Sir Toby to put away his sword and sends away all the others. She begs Cesario to come into her house with her. Sebastian is bewildered, but Olivia does not give him time to think, and the still-confused Sebastian agrees to follow her, saying, \"If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep", "analysis": "Act IV, scenes i-iii Sebastian briefly takes center stage in these scenes, but he fails to make much of an impression as a character in his own right: his principal role is to serve as a male substitute for his resourceful and attractive twin sister, Viola. Sebastian's primary state of mind in these scenes is total confusion, which is understandable. Having arrived in a country that he has never seen before, he is suddenly surrounded by people who seem to think they know him and who have extreme attitudes toward him: some want to kill him, while others appear to be in love with him. It is not surprising that, after trying to fend off the insistent Feste and being abruptly attacked by Sir Andrew, Sebastian asks in bewilderment, \"Are all the people mad?\" . Olivia's approach forces him to wonder about his own state of mind: \"Or I am mad, or else this is a dream\" . These references to insanity are significant. As he does with Antonio and Malvolio, Shakespeare suggests here that madness and the chaos associated with comedy are closely linked. By Act IV, scene iii, however, Sebastian begins to come to terms with his situation. He decides that the sun that he sees is real, as are the air that he breathes and the pearl that Olivia has given him. \"hough 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, / Yet 'tis not madness,\" he decides . He even reasons out the situation with the beautiful woman who claims to love him. If Olivia were mad, he figures, surely her servants wouldn't obey her--so she must be sane. All the same, he realizes, \"There's something in't / That is deceivable\" . He is right, of course; he just hasn't figured out yet exactly what the deception is. Meanwhile, issues of madness and identity are addressed in a different way in the dialogue between Feste and the unfortunate Malvolio. In this scene, Feste proves himself a master of disguise by imitating the curate's voice and speech patterns. But there is something very strange in his disguise: there seems no reason for Feste to dress up in a priest's robes if Malvolio, locked in the darkness as he is, cannot even see him. Again, as with Viola's male clothes and Malvolio's fantasies about wearing a nobleman's garments, Shakespeare seems to suggest a link between garments and identity.To impersonate Sir Topas, Feste must dress like him, so closely are clothes and public personae bound together. Feste also uses tactics of confusion on poor Malvolio, telling him outright lies to make him think his senses deceive him and, thus, trying to make Malvolio himself believe that he is insane. He adds the final insult after Malvolio angrily claims that he is as sane as Feste himself, telling Malvolio, \"Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool\" . Again, we are impressed with Feste's cleverness; yet, as he torments Malvolio, we begin to wonder if he is employing his talents to a good end. The steward, whose earlier humiliation is perhaps well deserved, now seems a helpless victim. It is as if Malvolio, as the embodiment of order and sobriety, must be sacrificed so that the rest of the characters can indulge in the topsy-turvy spirit of the Feast of the Twelfth Night that suffuses the play. Malvolio is hardly a tragic figure. After all, he is only being asked to endure a single night in darkness. But he earns our respect, nevertheless, as he stubbornly clings to his sanity, even in the face of Feste's insistence that he is mad. Malvolio, perhaps more than anyone else in this frenetic, zany play, knows that he is sane, and he will not allow the madness swirling in the air of Olivia's home to destroy his sense of his own sanity. One cannot help pitying him, in spite of his flaws. He seems to be punished for not being as mad as everyone else, more than he is for any real sin. He cries, \"I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused,\" making the darkness of his prison a powerful symbol for the madness that seems to have taken over the world of the play . Malvolio is right--but being right avails him nothing. Twelfth Night is a play filled with absurdity and madcap fun, and Malvolio suffers his unhappy fate because he is unable to put his scruples, his puritanism, and his pride aside to join in the revelry."}

ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come. How shall I feast him? what bestow on him? I speak too loud.---- Where is Malvolio? _Mar._ He's coming, madam; But in strange manner. He is sure possessed. _Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave? _Mar._ No, madam, He does nothing but smile: your ladyship Were best have guard about you, if he come; For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. _Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA. I'm as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be.-- _Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA. How now, Malvolio? _Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._ _Oli._ Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. _Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and please all_. _Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? _Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the sweet Roman hand. _Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? _Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee. _Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? _Mar._ How do you, Malvolio? _Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws. _Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? _Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ. _Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio? _Mal._ _Some are born great_,-- _Oli._ Ha? _Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,-- _Oli._ What say'st thou? _Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._ _Oli._ Heaven restore thee! _Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;-- _Oli._ Thy yellow stockings? _Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._ _Oli._ Cross-garter'd? _Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;-- _Oli._ Am I made? _Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._ _Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness. _Enter_ FABIAN. _Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned; I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure. _Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN. Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And, when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. _Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him. _Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA. _Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man? _Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off. _Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. _Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so? _Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind. _Mal._ Do you know what you say? _Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd. _Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman. _Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him? let me alone with him. _Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. _Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck? _Mal._ Sir? _Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier! _Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby. _Mal._ My prayers, minx? _Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness. _Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha! ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO. _Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha! _Sir To._ Is't possible? _Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. _Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. _Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint. _Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed. _Mar._ The house will be the quieter. _Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA. But see, but see. _Fab._ More matter for a May morning. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_. _Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in't. _Fab._ Is't so saucy? _Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read. _Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ _Fab._ Good and valiant. _Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._ _Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. _Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge thee for._ _Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less. _Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me_,-- _Fab._ Good. _Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._ _Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good. _Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him. _Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. _Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away. _Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. _Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take leave, and presently after him. _Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA. _Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary out: There's something in me, that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. _Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears, Go on my master's griefs. _Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you: And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny; That honour, saved, may upon asking give? _Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master. _Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? _Vio._ I will acquit you. _Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well! [_Exit_ OLIVIA. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee. _Vio._ And you, sir. _Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. _Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. _Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. _Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he? _Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't. _Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. _Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me, which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or forswear to wear iron about you. _Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. _Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? _Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. _Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he? _Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him, if I can. _Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_Exeunt._

act iv, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section9/

Near Olivia's house, Feste the clown comes across the person who he thinks is Cesario and tries to bring him to Olivia's house. This individual, however, is actually Viola's twin brother, Sebastian. Sebastian, of course, is confused by Feste's claims to know him. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew then find them. Sir Andrew, thinking that Sebastian is the same person he was about to duel a few minutes before, attacks him. But Sebastian, unlike Viola, is a scrappy fighter, and starts to beat Sir Andrew with his dagger, leading the foolish nobleman to cry for mercy. The bewildered Sebastian wonders if he is surrounded by madmen and tries to leave. But Sir Toby grabs him to prevent him from going. The two exchange insults, and Sebastian and Sir Toby draw their swords and prepare to fight. Suddenly, Olivia enters. She sees Sir Toby preparing to fight the person who she thinks is Cesario. Angrily, she orders Sir Toby to put away his sword and sends away all the others. She begs Cesario to come into her house with her. Sebastian is bewildered, but Olivia does not give him time to think, and the still-confused Sebastian agrees to follow her, saying, "If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep

Act IV, scenes i-iii Sebastian briefly takes center stage in these scenes, but he fails to make much of an impression as a character in his own right: his principal role is to serve as a male substitute for his resourceful and attractive twin sister, Viola. Sebastian's primary state of mind in these scenes is total confusion, which is understandable. Having arrived in a country that he has never seen before, he is suddenly surrounded by people who seem to think they know him and who have extreme attitudes toward him: some want to kill him, while others appear to be in love with him. It is not surprising that, after trying to fend off the insistent Feste and being abruptly attacked by Sir Andrew, Sebastian asks in bewilderment, "Are all the people mad?" . Olivia's approach forces him to wonder about his own state of mind: "Or I am mad, or else this is a dream" . These references to insanity are significant. As he does with Antonio and Malvolio, Shakespeare suggests here that madness and the chaos associated with comedy are closely linked. By Act IV, scene iii, however, Sebastian begins to come to terms with his situation. He decides that the sun that he sees is real, as are the air that he breathes and the pearl that Olivia has given him. "hough 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, / Yet 'tis not madness," he decides . He even reasons out the situation with the beautiful woman who claims to love him. If Olivia were mad, he figures, surely her servants wouldn't obey her--so she must be sane. All the same, he realizes, "There's something in't / That is deceivable" . He is right, of course; he just hasn't figured out yet exactly what the deception is. Meanwhile, issues of madness and identity are addressed in a different way in the dialogue between Feste and the unfortunate Malvolio. In this scene, Feste proves himself a master of disguise by imitating the curate's voice and speech patterns. But there is something very strange in his disguise: there seems no reason for Feste to dress up in a priest's robes if Malvolio, locked in the darkness as he is, cannot even see him. Again, as with Viola's male clothes and Malvolio's fantasies about wearing a nobleman's garments, Shakespeare seems to suggest a link between garments and identity.To impersonate Sir Topas, Feste must dress like him, so closely are clothes and public personae bound together. Feste also uses tactics of confusion on poor Malvolio, telling him outright lies to make him think his senses deceive him and, thus, trying to make Malvolio himself believe that he is insane. He adds the final insult after Malvolio angrily claims that he is as sane as Feste himself, telling Malvolio, "Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool" . Again, we are impressed with Feste's cleverness; yet, as he torments Malvolio, we begin to wonder if he is employing his talents to a good end. The steward, whose earlier humiliation is perhaps well deserved, now seems a helpless victim. It is as if Malvolio, as the embodiment of order and sobriety, must be sacrificed so that the rest of the characters can indulge in the topsy-turvy spirit of the Feast of the Twelfth Night that suffuses the play. Malvolio is hardly a tragic figure. After all, he is only being asked to endure a single night in darkness. But he earns our respect, nevertheless, as he stubbornly clings to his sanity, even in the face of Feste's insistence that he is mad. Malvolio, perhaps more than anyone else in this frenetic, zany play, knows that he is sane, and he will not allow the madness swirling in the air of Olivia's home to destroy his sense of his own sanity. One cannot help pitying him, in spite of his flaws. He seems to be punished for not being as mad as everyone else, more than he is for any real sin. He cries, "I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused," making the darkness of his prison a powerful symbol for the madness that seems to have taken over the world of the play . Malvolio is right--but being right avails him nothing. Twelfth Night is a play filled with absurdity and madcap fun, and Malvolio suffers his unhappy fate because he is unable to put his scruples, his puritanism, and his pride aside to join in the revelry.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_8_part_2.txt

Twelfth Night.act iv.scene ii

act iv, scene ii

{"name": "act iv, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section9/", "summary": "Inside Olivia's house, Maria, Sir Toby, and the other servants have locked Malvolio into a small, dark chamber. Maria asks Feste to put on the robes of a clergyman and pretend to be Sir Topas, a fictional curate, or priest. Sir Toby and Maria then send Feste to talk to the imprisoned Malvolio in the voice of Sir Topas while they listen in on the conversation. Pretending to be the priest, Feste addresses Malvolio, who cannot see him inside his prison. Malvolio tells Feste that he is not insane, and Malvolio begs Feste to get him out of the locked room. But Feste deliberately misunderstands and misleads the steward. He tells Malvolio that the room is not actually dark but is full of windows and light and that Malvolio must be mad or possessed if he cannot see the brightness. Malvolio denies Feste's claims, and he urges Feste to question him in the hopes of proving his sanity. But Feste uses ridiculous questions and then contradicts the steward's answers. He concludes by telling Malvolio he is still mad and must remain in the darkness. Sir Toby and Maria are delighted by the joke but are also tiring of it. Sir Toby is worried that Olivia, already offended by his drinking and carousing, might catch him in this prank. They send Feste back to Malvolio, where Feste--now using both his own voice and that of Sir Topas, as if the two are having a conversation--speaks to Malvolio again. Malvolio swears he isn't crazy, and begs for paper, ink, and light with which to write a letter to Olivia. Feste promises to fetch him the items", "analysis": "Act IV, scenes i-iii Sebastian briefly takes center stage in these scenes, but he fails to make much of an impression as a character in his own right: his principal role is to serve as a male substitute for his resourceful and attractive twin sister, Viola. Sebastian's primary state of mind in these scenes is total confusion, which is understandable. Having arrived in a country that he has never seen before, he is suddenly surrounded by people who seem to think they know him and who have extreme attitudes toward him: some want to kill him, while others appear to be in love with him. It is not surprising that, after trying to fend off the insistent Feste and being abruptly attacked by Sir Andrew, Sebastian asks in bewilderment, \"Are all the people mad?\" . Olivia's approach forces him to wonder about his own state of mind: \"Or I am mad, or else this is a dream\" . These references to insanity are significant. As he does with Antonio and Malvolio, Shakespeare suggests here that madness and the chaos associated with comedy are closely linked. By Act IV, scene iii, however, Sebastian begins to come to terms with his situation. He decides that the sun that he sees is real, as are the air that he breathes and the pearl that Olivia has given him. \"hough 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, / Yet 'tis not madness,\" he decides . He even reasons out the situation with the beautiful woman who claims to love him. If Olivia were mad, he figures, surely her servants wouldn't obey her--so she must be sane. All the same, he realizes, \"There's something in't / That is deceivable\" . He is right, of course; he just hasn't figured out yet exactly what the deception is. Meanwhile, issues of madness and identity are addressed in a different way in the dialogue between Feste and the unfortunate Malvolio. In this scene, Feste proves himself a master of disguise by imitating the curate's voice and speech patterns. But there is something very strange in his disguise: there seems no reason for Feste to dress up in a priest's robes if Malvolio, locked in the darkness as he is, cannot even see him. Again, as with Viola's male clothes and Malvolio's fantasies about wearing a nobleman's garments, Shakespeare seems to suggest a link between garments and identity.To impersonate Sir Topas, Feste must dress like him, so closely are clothes and public personae bound together. Feste also uses tactics of confusion on poor Malvolio, telling him outright lies to make him think his senses deceive him and, thus, trying to make Malvolio himself believe that he is insane. He adds the final insult after Malvolio angrily claims that he is as sane as Feste himself, telling Malvolio, \"Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool\" . Again, we are impressed with Feste's cleverness; yet, as he torments Malvolio, we begin to wonder if he is employing his talents to a good end. The steward, whose earlier humiliation is perhaps well deserved, now seems a helpless victim. It is as if Malvolio, as the embodiment of order and sobriety, must be sacrificed so that the rest of the characters can indulge in the topsy-turvy spirit of the Feast of the Twelfth Night that suffuses the play. Malvolio is hardly a tragic figure. After all, he is only being asked to endure a single night in darkness. But he earns our respect, nevertheless, as he stubbornly clings to his sanity, even in the face of Feste's insistence that he is mad. Malvolio, perhaps more than anyone else in this frenetic, zany play, knows that he is sane, and he will not allow the madness swirling in the air of Olivia's home to destroy his sense of his own sanity. One cannot help pitying him, in spite of his flaws. He seems to be punished for not being as mad as everyone else, more than he is for any real sin. He cries, \"I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused,\" making the darkness of his prison a powerful symbol for the madness that seems to have taken over the world of the play . Malvolio is right--but being right avails him nothing. Twelfth Night is a play filled with absurdity and madcap fun, and Malvolio suffers his unhappy fate because he is unable to put his scruples, his puritanism, and his pride aside to join in the revelry."}

SCENE II. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_. _Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;-- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,---- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they say, he has been fencer to the Sophy. _Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him. _Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. _Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet. _Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you. _Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA. I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded him, the youth's a devil. _Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants, as if a bear were at his heels. _Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you. _Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. _Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious. _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to 't. _Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath! _Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will. [_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me; If you offend him, I for him defy you. _Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you? _Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will. _Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. [SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.] [SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a little_.] _Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the officers. _Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir Andrew,-- _Sir And._ Here I am. _Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.] _Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your sword, if you please. _Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well. _Enter two Officers of Justice._ _1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office. _2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Duke Orsino. _Ant._ You do mistake me, sir. _1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.-- Take him away; he knows, I know him well. _Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you; But there's no remedy. Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me Much more, for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed; But be of comfort. _1 Off._ Come, sir, away. _Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money. _Vio._ What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have showed me here, And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I'll lend you something: my having is not much; I'll make division of my present with you; Hold, there is half my coffer. _Ant._ Will you deny me now? Is't possible, that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery; Lest that it make me so unsound a man, As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you. _Vio._ I know of none; Nor know I you by voice, or any feature. _Ant._ O heavens themselves! _1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go. _Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here, I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death; And to his image, which, methought, did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!-- Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.-- In nature there's no blemish, but the mind; None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind: Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_. _Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. [_They retire together._ _Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such, and so, In favour was my brother; and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament; For him I imitate: O, if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_Exit_ VIOLA. [_They advance._] _Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. _Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. _Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him. _Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword. _Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._

act iv, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section9/

Inside Olivia's house, Maria, Sir Toby, and the other servants have locked Malvolio into a small, dark chamber. Maria asks Feste to put on the robes of a clergyman and pretend to be Sir Topas, a fictional curate, or priest. Sir Toby and Maria then send Feste to talk to the imprisoned Malvolio in the voice of Sir Topas while they listen in on the conversation. Pretending to be the priest, Feste addresses Malvolio, who cannot see him inside his prison. Malvolio tells Feste that he is not insane, and Malvolio begs Feste to get him out of the locked room. But Feste deliberately misunderstands and misleads the steward. He tells Malvolio that the room is not actually dark but is full of windows and light and that Malvolio must be mad or possessed if he cannot see the brightness. Malvolio denies Feste's claims, and he urges Feste to question him in the hopes of proving his sanity. But Feste uses ridiculous questions and then contradicts the steward's answers. He concludes by telling Malvolio he is still mad and must remain in the darkness. Sir Toby and Maria are delighted by the joke but are also tiring of it. Sir Toby is worried that Olivia, already offended by his drinking and carousing, might catch him in this prank. They send Feste back to Malvolio, where Feste--now using both his own voice and that of Sir Topas, as if the two are having a conversation--speaks to Malvolio again. Malvolio swears he isn't crazy, and begs for paper, ink, and light with which to write a letter to Olivia. Feste promises to fetch him the items

Act IV, scenes i-iii Sebastian briefly takes center stage in these scenes, but he fails to make much of an impression as a character in his own right: his principal role is to serve as a male substitute for his resourceful and attractive twin sister, Viola. Sebastian's primary state of mind in these scenes is total confusion, which is understandable. Having arrived in a country that he has never seen before, he is suddenly surrounded by people who seem to think they know him and who have extreme attitudes toward him: some want to kill him, while others appear to be in love with him. It is not surprising that, after trying to fend off the insistent Feste and being abruptly attacked by Sir Andrew, Sebastian asks in bewilderment, "Are all the people mad?" . Olivia's approach forces him to wonder about his own state of mind: "Or I am mad, or else this is a dream" . These references to insanity are significant. As he does with Antonio and Malvolio, Shakespeare suggests here that madness and the chaos associated with comedy are closely linked. By Act IV, scene iii, however, Sebastian begins to come to terms with his situation. He decides that the sun that he sees is real, as are the air that he breathes and the pearl that Olivia has given him. "hough 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, / Yet 'tis not madness," he decides . He even reasons out the situation with the beautiful woman who claims to love him. If Olivia were mad, he figures, surely her servants wouldn't obey her--so she must be sane. All the same, he realizes, "There's something in't / That is deceivable" . He is right, of course; he just hasn't figured out yet exactly what the deception is. Meanwhile, issues of madness and identity are addressed in a different way in the dialogue between Feste and the unfortunate Malvolio. In this scene, Feste proves himself a master of disguise by imitating the curate's voice and speech patterns. But there is something very strange in his disguise: there seems no reason for Feste to dress up in a priest's robes if Malvolio, locked in the darkness as he is, cannot even see him. Again, as with Viola's male clothes and Malvolio's fantasies about wearing a nobleman's garments, Shakespeare seems to suggest a link between garments and identity.To impersonate Sir Topas, Feste must dress like him, so closely are clothes and public personae bound together. Feste also uses tactics of confusion on poor Malvolio, telling him outright lies to make him think his senses deceive him and, thus, trying to make Malvolio himself believe that he is insane. He adds the final insult after Malvolio angrily claims that he is as sane as Feste himself, telling Malvolio, "Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool" . Again, we are impressed with Feste's cleverness; yet, as he torments Malvolio, we begin to wonder if he is employing his talents to a good end. The steward, whose earlier humiliation is perhaps well deserved, now seems a helpless victim. It is as if Malvolio, as the embodiment of order and sobriety, must be sacrificed so that the rest of the characters can indulge in the topsy-turvy spirit of the Feast of the Twelfth Night that suffuses the play. Malvolio is hardly a tragic figure. After all, he is only being asked to endure a single night in darkness. But he earns our respect, nevertheless, as he stubbornly clings to his sanity, even in the face of Feste's insistence that he is mad. Malvolio, perhaps more than anyone else in this frenetic, zany play, knows that he is sane, and he will not allow the madness swirling in the air of Olivia's home to destroy his sense of his own sanity. One cannot help pitying him, in spite of his flaws. He seems to be punished for not being as mad as everyone else, more than he is for any real sin. He cries, "I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused," making the darkness of his prison a powerful symbol for the madness that seems to have taken over the world of the play . Malvolio is right--but being right avails him nothing. Twelfth Night is a play filled with absurdity and madcap fun, and Malvolio suffers his unhappy fate because he is unable to put his scruples, his puritanism, and his pride aside to join in the revelry.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/38901-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Twelfth Night/section_8_part_3.txt

Twelfth Night.act iv.scene iii

act iv, scene iii

{"name": "act iv, scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section9/", "summary": "Elsewhere in the house, Sebastian is wandering, dazed yet happy. He is very confused: he doesn't seem to be insane, and yet a beautiful woman--Olivia--has been giving him gifts and wants to marry him. He wishes he could find Antonio to discuss the situation with him. He states, however, that when he went back to their inn, Antonio was nowhere to be seen. Olivia now returns with a priest, asking Sebastian if he is still willing to marry her. Sebastian happily agrees, and they go off to get married", "analysis": "Act IV, scenes i-iii Sebastian briefly takes center stage in these scenes, but he fails to make much of an impression as a character in his own right: his principal role is to serve as a male substitute for his resourceful and attractive twin sister, Viola. Sebastian's primary state of mind in these scenes is total confusion, which is understandable. Having arrived in a country that he has never seen before, he is suddenly surrounded by people who seem to think they know him and who have extreme attitudes toward him: some want to kill him, while others appear to be in love with him. It is not surprising that, after trying to fend off the insistent Feste and being abruptly attacked by Sir Andrew, Sebastian asks in bewilderment, \"Are all the people mad?\" . Olivia's approach forces him to wonder about his own state of mind: \"Or I am mad, or else this is a dream\" . These references to insanity are significant. As he does with Antonio and Malvolio, Shakespeare suggests here that madness and the chaos associated with comedy are closely linked. By Act IV, scene iii, however, Sebastian begins to come to terms with his situation. He decides that the sun that he sees is real, as are the air that he breathes and the pearl that Olivia has given him. \"hough 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, / Yet 'tis not madness,\" he decides . He even reasons out the situation with the beautiful woman who claims to love him. If Olivia were mad, he figures, surely her servants wouldn't obey her--so she must be sane. All the same, he realizes, \"There's something in't / That is deceivable\" . He is right, of course; he just hasn't figured out yet exactly what the deception is. Meanwhile, issues of madness and identity are addressed in a different way in the dialogue between Feste and the unfortunate Malvolio. In this scene, Feste proves himself a master of disguise by imitating the curate's voice and speech patterns. But there is something very strange in his disguise: there seems no reason for Feste to dress up in a priest's robes if Malvolio, locked in the darkness as he is, cannot even see him. Again, as with Viola's male clothes and Malvolio's fantasies about wearing a nobleman's garments, Shakespeare seems to suggest a link between garments and identity.To impersonate Sir Topas, Feste must dress like him, so closely are clothes and public personae bound together. Feste also uses tactics of confusion on poor Malvolio, telling him outright lies to make him think his senses deceive him and, thus, trying to make Malvolio himself believe that he is insane. He adds the final insult after Malvolio angrily claims that he is as sane as Feste himself, telling Malvolio, \"Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool\" . Again, we are impressed with Feste's cleverness; yet, as he torments Malvolio, we begin to wonder if he is employing his talents to a good end. The steward, whose earlier humiliation is perhaps well deserved, now seems a helpless victim. It is as if Malvolio, as the embodiment of order and sobriety, must be sacrificed so that the rest of the characters can indulge in the topsy-turvy spirit of the Feast of the Twelfth Night that suffuses the play. Malvolio is hardly a tragic figure. After all, he is only being asked to endure a single night in darkness. But he earns our respect, nevertheless, as he stubbornly clings to his sanity, even in the face of Feste's insistence that he is mad. Malvolio, perhaps more than anyone else in this frenetic, zany play, knows that he is sane, and he will not allow the madness swirling in the air of Olivia's home to destroy his sense of his own sanity. One cannot help pitying him, in spite of his flaws. He seems to be punished for not being as mad as everyone else, more than he is for any real sin. He cries, \"I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused,\" making the darkness of his prison a powerful symbol for the madness that seems to have taken over the world of the play . Malvolio is right--but being right avails him nothing. Twelfth Night is a play filled with absurdity and madcap fun, and Malvolio suffers his unhappy fate because he is unable to put his scruples, his puritanism, and his pride aside to join in the revelry."}

SCENE III. _The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN. _Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you? _Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of thee. _Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is so. _Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not me. _Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming? _Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment. _Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you. [_Striking_ SEBASTIAN. _Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and there:--Are all the people mad? [_Beating_ SIR ANDREW. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house. _Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [_Exit_ CLOWN. _Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN. _Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that. _Seb._ Let go thy hand. _Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on. _Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee. --What would'st thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. _Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._ _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_. _Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here! [_Exit_ FABIAN. _Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold. _Sir To._ Madam? _Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario:---- Rudesby, be gone!-- _Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Oli._ And you, sir, follow him. _Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,-- [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house; And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; Do not deny. _Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:-- Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! _Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me! _Seb._ Madam, I will. _Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._

act iv, scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309223222/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/twelfthnight/section9/

Elsewhere in the house, Sebastian is wandering, dazed yet happy. He is very confused: he doesn't seem to be insane, and yet a beautiful woman--Olivia--has been giving him gifts and wants to marry him. He wishes he could find Antonio to discuss the situation with him. He states, however, that when he went back to their inn, Antonio was nowhere to be seen. Olivia now returns with a priest, asking Sebastian if he is still willing to marry her. Sebastian happily agrees, and they go off to get married

Act IV, scenes i-iii Sebastian briefly takes center stage in these scenes, but he fails to make much of an impression as a character in his own right: his principal role is to serve as a male substitute for his resourceful and attractive twin sister, Viola. Sebastian's primary state of mind in these scenes is total confusion, which is understandable. Having arrived in a country that he has never seen before, he is suddenly surrounded by people who seem to think they know him and who have extreme attitudes toward him: some want to kill him, while others appear to be in love with him. It is not surprising that, after trying to fend off the insistent Feste and being abruptly attacked by Sir Andrew, Sebastian asks in bewilderment, "Are all the people mad?" . Olivia's approach forces him to wonder about his own state of mind: "Or I am mad, or else this is a dream" . These references to insanity are significant. As he does with Antonio and Malvolio, Shakespeare suggests here that madness and the chaos associated with comedy are closely linked. By Act IV, scene iii, however, Sebastian begins to come to terms with his situation. He decides that the sun that he sees is real, as are the air that he breathes and the pearl that Olivia has given him. "hough 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, / Yet 'tis not madness," he decides . He even reasons out the situation with the beautiful woman who claims to love him. If Olivia were mad, he figures, surely her servants wouldn't obey her--so she must be sane. All the same, he realizes, "There's something in't / That is deceivable" . He is right, of course; he just hasn't figured out yet exactly what the deception is. Meanwhile, issues of madness and identity are addressed in a different way in the dialogue between Feste and the unfortunate Malvolio. In this scene, Feste proves himself a master of disguise by imitating the curate's voice and speech patterns. But there is something very strange in his disguise: there seems no reason for Feste to dress up in a priest's robes if Malvolio, locked in the darkness as he is, cannot even see him. Again, as with Viola's male clothes and Malvolio's fantasies about wearing a nobleman's garments, Shakespeare seems to suggest a link between garments and identity.To impersonate Sir Topas, Feste must dress like him, so closely are clothes and public personae bound together. Feste also uses tactics of confusion on poor Malvolio, telling him outright lies to make him think his senses deceive him and, thus, trying to make Malvolio himself believe that he is insane. He adds the final insult after Malvolio angrily claims that he is as sane as Feste himself, telling Malvolio, "Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool" . Again, we are impressed with Feste's cleverness; yet, as he torments Malvolio, we begin to wonder if he is employing his talents to a good end. The steward, whose earlier humiliation is perhaps well deserved, now seems a helpless victim. It is as if Malvolio, as the embodiment of order and sobriety, must be sacrificed so that the rest of the characters can indulge in the topsy-turvy spirit of the Feast of the Twelfth Night that suffuses the play. Malvolio is hardly a tragic figure. After all, he is only being asked to endure a single night in darkness. But he earns our respect, nevertheless, as he stubbornly clings to his sanity, even in the face of Feste's insistence that he is mad. Malvolio, perhaps more than anyone else in this frenetic, zany play, knows that he is sane, and he will not allow the madness swirling in the air of Olivia's home to destroy his sense of his own sanity. One cannot help pitying him, in spite of his flaws. He seems to be punished for not being as mad as everyone else, more than he is for any real sin. He cries, "I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused," making the darkness of his prison a powerful symbol for the madness that seems to have taken over the world of the play . Malvolio is right--but being right avails him nothing. Twelfth Night is a play filled with absurdity and madcap fun, and Malvolio suffers his unhappy fate because he is unable to put his scruples, his puritanism, and his pride aside to join in the revelry.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_0_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 1.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1", "summary": "The scene is Verona, where two well-born young friends, Valentine and Proteus, are taking leave of one another. \"He after honour hunts, I after love\" says Proteus, once Valentine has departed for Milan. The latter's efforts to persuade his friend to travel abroad with him have failed. He warned of love's caprices: \"One fading moment's mirth /With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights,\" and Proteus countered that love has a way of capturing even its cleverest detractors: Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. Proteus had sent Valentine's \"clownish servant\" to deliver a missive to his love, Julia, which Speed, as he is called, now reports on. The two banter for a short time before Proteus learns that his mistress acted \"as hard as steel.\" \"Henceforth carry your letters yourself,\" the irritated servant exclaims as he exits.", "analysis": "The first scene prepares a very conventional thematic contrast, one between the young man who boasts of his independence and seeks adventure as his \"future hope,\" and the one who is hopelessly in love. Further, the background for a conflict between friendship and love is provided. Shakespeare was, no doubt, aware of numerous contemporary Romances, many adapted from Italian sources, which dealt with similar themes and materials. The conflict between loyalties of kinship, friendship, and love preoccupied him elsewhere too, notably in his sonnets and in another \"Verona\" play, Romeo and Juliet. Important in the opening dialogue is the tone of cheerful antagonism, two good friends \"twitting' one another, rather than any serious debating between the two. Shakespeare dramatically demonstrates Proteus's frustration by having Speed draw out the anxiously awaited \"news\" from Julia. By the end of the scene, Proteus bids him to be hanged for \"failing\" in his role as go-between. Typical of the exchanges between the two is the following, which draws on the stock \"sylvan\" imagery of Romantic tales for its comedy: Speed: The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep. Proteus: The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep. Speed: Such another proof will make me cry \"baa.\""}

ACT I. SCENE I. _Verona. An open place._ _Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS._ _Val._ Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus: Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love, I rather would entreat thy company 5 To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lovest, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would, when I to love begin. 10 _Pro._ Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu! Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel: Wish me partaker in thy happiness, When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, 15 If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. _Val._ And on a love-book pray for my success? _Pro._ Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee. 20 _Val._ That's on some shallow story of deep love: How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. _Pro._ That's a deep story of a deeper love; For he was more than over shoes in love. _Val._ 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love, 25 And yet you never swum the Hellespont. _Pro._ Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots. _Val._ No, I will not, for it boots thee not. _Pro._ What? _Val._ To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth 30 With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights: If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; If lost, why then a grievous labour won; However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 35 _Pro._ So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. _Val._ So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove. _Pro._ 'Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love. _Val._ Love is your master, for he masters you: And he that is so yoked by a fool, 40 Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise. _Pro._ Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. _Val._ And writers say, as the most forward bud 45 Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes. 50 But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee, That art a votary to fond desire? Once more adieu! my father at the road Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd. _Pro._ And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 55 _Val._ Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave. To Milan let me hear from thee by letters Of thy success in love, and what news else Betideth here in absence of thy friend; And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 60 _Pro._ All happiness bechance to thee in Milan! _Val._ As much to you at home! and so, farewell. [_Exit._ _Pro._ He after honour hunts, I after love: He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. 65 Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought; Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. _Enter SPEED._ _Speed._ Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master? 70 _Pro._ But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan. _Speed._ Twenty to one, then, he is shipp'd already, And I have play'd the sheep in losing him. _Pro._ Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be awhile away. 75 _Speed._ You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then, and I a sheep? _Pro._ I do. _Speed._ Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep. 80 _Pro._ A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. _Speed._ This proves me still a sheep. _Pro._ True; and thy master a shepherd. _Speed._ Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. _Pro._ It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another. 85 _Speed._ The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me: therefore I am no sheep. _Pro._ The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for wages 90 followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep. _Speed._ Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.' _Pro._ But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia? 95 _Speed._ Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. _Pro._ Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons. _Speed._ If the ground be overcharged, you were best 100 stick her. _Pro._ Nay: in that you are astray, 'twere best pound you. _Speed._ Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. _Pro._ You mistake; I mean the pound,--a pinfold. 105 _Speed._ From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over, 'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. _Pro._ But what said she? _Speed._ [_First nodding_] Ay. _Pro._ Nod--Ay--why, that's noddy. 110 _Speed._ You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and you ask me if she did nod; and I say, 'Ay.' _Pro._ And that set together is noddy. _Speed._ Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains. 115 _Pro._ No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter. _Speed._ Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you. _Pro._ Why, sir, how do you bear with me? _Speed._ Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the word 'noddy' for my pains. 120 _Pro._ Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. _Speed._ And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. _Pro._ Come, come, open the matter in brief: what said she? _Speed._ Open your purse, that the money and the matter 125 may be both at once delivered. _Pro._ Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she? _Speed._ Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her. _Pro._ Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her? _Speed._ Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; 130 no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter: and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones; for she's as hard as steel. _Pro._ What said she? nothing? 135 _Speed._ No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself: and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master. _Pro._ Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck, 140 Which cannot perish having thee aboard, Being destined to a drier death on shore. [_Exit Speed._ I must go send some better messenger: I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post. [_Exit._ 145 Notes: I, 1. 8: _with_] _in_ Capell. 19: _my_] F1. _thy_ F2 F3 F4. 21-28: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 25: _for_] _but_ Collier MS. 28: _thee_] om. S. Walker conj. See note (II). 30: _fading_] om. Hanmer. 48: _blasting_] _blasted_ Collier MS. 57: _To_] F1. _At_ F2 F3 F4. _To Milan!--let me hear_ Malone conj. 65: _leave_] Pope. _love_ Ff. 69: _Made_] _Make_ Johnson conj. 70: SCENE II. Pope. 70-144: Put in the margin by Pope. 77: _a_] F2 F3 F4. om. F1. 89: _follow_] _follows_ Pope. 102: _astray_] _a stray_ Theobald (Thirlby conj.) _Nay: ... astray,_] Edd. _Nay, ... astray:_ Ff. 105: _a_] _the_ Delius (Capell conj.). 108, 109: Pro. _But what said she?_ Speed. [First nodding] _Ay._] Edd. Pro. _But what said she?_ Sp. _I._ Ff. Pro. _But what said she?_ Speed. _She nodded and said I._ Pope. Pro. _But what said she? Did she nod?_ [Speed nods] Speed. _I._ Theobald. Pro. _But what said she?_ [Speed _nods_] _Did she nod?_ Speed. _I._ Capell. 110: _Nod--Ay--_] _Nod--I,_ Ff. 111, 112: _say ... say_] F1. _said ... said_ F2 F3 F4. 126: _at once_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 130-134: Printed as verse in Ff. 130: _from her_] _from her better_ Collier MS. to rhyme with _letter_ in the next line. 132: _brought_] _brought to her_ Collier MS. 133: _your_] F1. _her_ F2 F3 F4. _you her_ Collier MS. 135: _What said she? nothing?_] _What said she, nothing?_ Ff. _What, said she nothing?_ Pope. 137: _as 'Take ... I thank you_] _as 'I thank you; take ..._ Edd. conj. _testerned_] F2 F3 F4. _cestern'd_ F1. 138: _henceforth_] F1 F3 F4. _hencefore_ F2. _letters_] F1. _letter_ F2 F3 F4.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1

The scene is Verona, where two well-born young friends, Valentine and Proteus, are taking leave of one another. "He after honour hunts, I after love" says Proteus, once Valentine has departed for Milan. The latter's efforts to persuade his friend to travel abroad with him have failed. He warned of love's caprices: "One fading moment's mirth /With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights," and Proteus countered that love has a way of capturing even its cleverest detractors: Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. Proteus had sent Valentine's "clownish servant" to deliver a missive to his love, Julia, which Speed, as he is called, now reports on. The two banter for a short time before Proteus learns that his mistress acted "as hard as steel." "Henceforth carry your letters yourself," the irritated servant exclaims as he exits.

The first scene prepares a very conventional thematic contrast, one between the young man who boasts of his independence and seeks adventure as his "future hope," and the one who is hopelessly in love. Further, the background for a conflict between friendship and love is provided. Shakespeare was, no doubt, aware of numerous contemporary Romances, many adapted from Italian sources, which dealt with similar themes and materials. The conflict between loyalties of kinship, friendship, and love preoccupied him elsewhere too, notably in his sonnets and in another "Verona" play, Romeo and Juliet. Important in the opening dialogue is the tone of cheerful antagonism, two good friends "twitting' one another, rather than any serious debating between the two. Shakespeare dramatically demonstrates Proteus's frustration by having Speed draw out the anxiously awaited "news" from Julia. By the end of the scene, Proteus bids him to be hanged for "failing" in his role as go-between. Typical of the exchanges between the two is the following, which draws on the stock "sylvan" imagery of Romantic tales for its comedy: Speed: The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep. Proteus: The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep. Speed: Such another proof will make me cry "baa."

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_1_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 1.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-2", "summary": "Julia asks her \"waiting woman,\" Lucetta, if she \"counsels\" her \"to fall in love,\" after which the servant appraises the eligible suitors named by her mistress. Sir Eglamour is \"well-spoken, neat, and fine,\" Mercatio is wealthy, but Proteus is most favored. Asked to explain why, Lucetta responds: I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so because I think him so. Julia apparently grows angry with Lucetta when she learns of Proteus's letter: Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? But with Lucetta out of the room, she has second thoughts, and she calls after her to return with the letter. The scene ends as Julia tears the letter to shreds, only desperately to try piecing it together again. The servant wryly tells her mistress that she knows exactly what is going on: \"I see things too, although you judge I wink\" .", "analysis": "The scene is structured around Julia's two solo passages on stage. In the first, she wrestles with her feelings in the after-flush of excitement, having learned that the man who most occupies her thoughts has just sent his regards through a messenger. Lucetta, who certainly timed her revelation to achieve full shock effect on the tender Julia, must secretly be amused at her mistress's wild overreaction. The \"real\" feelings emerge when Julia is alone: \"Inward joy enforced my heart to smile.\" Shakespeare has crafted the scene in such a way to allow maximum pleasure for the audience -- at Julia's pleasant/unpleasant consternation. Notice the way she pulls herself together, playing the part of perfect indifference when she bids Lucetta. to return. \"What would your ladyship?\" asks the servant, holding back her amusement. Julia tries small talk: \"Is it near dinnertime?\" she asks, but Lucetta is not fooled. When Julia tears up the letter, it is with much the same frustration that Proteus showed in the previous scene. Alone on stage a second time, Julia gushes with emotion, toying with the scraps of shredded paper as if they were doll-like representatives of herself and her lover: \"Poor forlorn Proteus,\" she reads, \"passionate Proteus,/To the sweet Julia!': That I'll tear away. -- And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another. Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. In this short scene, one gets a glimpse of the type of heroine Shakespeare was to enhance in charm and complexity in his future comedies."}

SCENE II. _The same. Garden of JULIA'S house._ _Enter JULIA and LUCETTA._ _Jul._ But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love? _Luc._ Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully. _Jul._ Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, 5 In thy opinion which is worthiest love? _Luc._ Please you repeat their names, I'll show my mind According to my shallow simple skill. _Jul._ What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour? _Luc._ As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; 10 But, were I you, he never should be mine. _Jul._ What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio? _Luc._ Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so. _Jul._ What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus? _Luc._ Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us! 15 _Jul._ How now! what means this passion at his name? _Luc._ Pardon, dear madam: 'tis a passing shame That I, unworthy body as I am, Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. _Jul._ Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 20 _Luc._ Then thus,--of many good I think him best. _Jul._ Your reason? _Luc._ I have no other but a woman's reason; I think him so, because I think him so. _Jul._ And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him? 25 _Luc._ Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. _Jul._ Why, he, of all the rest, hath never moved me. _Luc._ Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. _Jul._ His little speaking shows his love but small. _Luc._ Fire that's closest kept burns most of all. 30 _Jul._ They do not love that do not show their love. _Luc._ O, they love least that let men know their love. _Jul._ I would I knew his mind. _Luc._ Peruse this paper, madam. _Jul._ 'To Julia.'--Say, from whom? 35 _Luc._ That the contents will show. _Jul._ Say, say, who gave it thee? _Luc._ Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus. He would have given it you; but I, being in the way, Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault, I pray. 40 _Jul._ Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth, And you an officer fit for the place. 45 There, take the paper: see it be return'd; Or else return no more into my sight. _Luc._ To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. _Jul._ Will ye be gone? _Luc._ That you may ruminate. [_Exit._ _Jul._ And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the letter: 50 It were a shame to call her back again, And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid, And would not force the letter to my view! Since maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that 55 Which they would have the profferer construe 'ay.' Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love, That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 60 When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is, to call Lucetta back, And ask remission for my folly past. 65 What, ho! Lucetta! _Re-enter LUCETTA._ _Luc._ What would your ladyship? _Jul._ Is't near dinner-time? _Luc._ I would it were; That you might kill your stomach on your meat, And not upon your maid. _Jul._ What is't that you took up so gingerly? 70 _Luc._ Nothing. _Jul._ Why didst thou stoop, then? _Luc._ To take a paper up that I let fall. _Jul._ And is that paper nothing? _Luc._ Nothing concerning me. 75 _Jul._ Then let it lie for those that it concerns. _Luc._ Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. _Jul._ Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. _Luc._ That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. 80 Give me a note: your ladyship can set. _Jul._ --As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' love.' _Luc._ It is too heavy for so light a tune. _Jul._ Heavy! belike it hath some burden, then? 85 _Luc._ Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it. _Jul._ And why not you? _Luc._ I cannot reach so high. _Jul._ Let's see your song. How now, minion! _Luc._ Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 90 _Jul._ You do not? _Luc._ No, madam; it is too sharp. _Jul._ You, minion, are too saucy. _Luc._ Nay, now you are too flat, And mar the concord with too harsh a descant: There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 95 _Jul._ The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass. _Luc._ Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. _Jul._ This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [_Tears the letter._ Go get you gone, and let the papers lie: 100 You would be fingering them, to anger me. _Luc._ She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased To be so anger'd with another letter. [_Exit._ _Jul._ Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same! O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! 105 Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey, And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings! I'll kiss each several paper for amends. Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 110 I throw thy name against the bruising stones, Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.' Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed, Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal'd; 115 And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down. Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away, Till I have found each letter in the letter, Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear 120 Unto a ragged, fearful-hanging rock, And throw it thence into the raging sea! Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, 'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet Julia':--that I'll tear away.-- 125 And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another: Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. _Re-enter LUCETTA._ _Luc._ Madam, 130 Dinner is ready, and your father stays. _Jul._ Well, let us go. _Luc._ What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? _Jul._ If you respect them, best to take them up. _Luc._ Nay, I was taken up for laying them down: 135 Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. _Jul._ I see you have a month's mind to them. _Luc._ Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; I see things too, although you judge I wink. _Jul._ Come, come; will't please you go? [_Exeunt._ 140 Notes: I, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope. Garden &c.] Malone. Changes to Julia's chamber. Pope. 1: _now we are_] F1. _now are we_ F2 F3 F4. 5: _parle_] _par'le_ Ff. 15: _reigns_] _feigns_ Anon. conj. 18: _am_] _can_ Collier MS. 19: _censure ... gentlemen_] _censure on a lovely gentleman_ S. Verges conj. _censure on this lovely gentleman_ Edd. conj. _thus_] _pass_ Hanmer. _on lovely gentlemen_] _a lovely gentleman_ Pope. _a loving gentleman_ Collier MS. 20: _of_] _on_ S. Verges conj. 30: _Fire_] Ff. _The fire_ Pope. _that's_] _that is_ Johnson. 39: _being in the way_] _being by_ Pope. 40: _pardon the fault, I pray_] _pardon me_ Pope. 53: _What a fool_] _What 'foole_ F1 F2 F3. _What fool_ F4. See note (III). 67: _Is't_] _Is it_ Capell. _near_] om. Boswell. 81: F1 omits the stop after _set_. 83: _o' Love_] Theobald. _O, Love_ F1 F2. _O Love_ F3 F4. 88: _How now_] _Why, how now_ Hanmer. After this line Hanmer adds a stage direction [Gives her a box on the ear]. 96: _your_] _you_ F1. 99: [Tears the letter.] [Tears it. Pope. 102: _best pleased_] _pleased better_ Collier MS. 103: [Exit] F2. 121: _fearful-hanging_] Delius. _fearful, hanging_ Ff. 130, 131: _Madam, Dinner is_] _Madam, dinner's_ Capell conj. 137: _to_] _unto_ Collier MS. _them._] _them, minion._ Hanmer. 138: _say what sights you see_] _see what sights you think_ Collier MS.

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-2

Julia asks her "waiting woman," Lucetta, if she "counsels" her "to fall in love," after which the servant appraises the eligible suitors named by her mistress. Sir Eglamour is "well-spoken, neat, and fine," Mercatio is wealthy, but Proteus is most favored. Asked to explain why, Lucetta responds: I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so because I think him so. Julia apparently grows angry with Lucetta when she learns of Proteus's letter: Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? But with Lucetta out of the room, she has second thoughts, and she calls after her to return with the letter. The scene ends as Julia tears the letter to shreds, only desperately to try piecing it together again. The servant wryly tells her mistress that she knows exactly what is going on: "I see things too, although you judge I wink" .

The scene is structured around Julia's two solo passages on stage. In the first, she wrestles with her feelings in the after-flush of excitement, having learned that the man who most occupies her thoughts has just sent his regards through a messenger. Lucetta, who certainly timed her revelation to achieve full shock effect on the tender Julia, must secretly be amused at her mistress's wild overreaction. The "real" feelings emerge when Julia is alone: "Inward joy enforced my heart to smile." Shakespeare has crafted the scene in such a way to allow maximum pleasure for the audience -- at Julia's pleasant/unpleasant consternation. Notice the way she pulls herself together, playing the part of perfect indifference when she bids Lucetta. to return. "What would your ladyship?" asks the servant, holding back her amusement. Julia tries small talk: "Is it near dinnertime?" she asks, but Lucetta is not fooled. When Julia tears up the letter, it is with much the same frustration that Proteus showed in the previous scene. Alone on stage a second time, Julia gushes with emotion, toying with the scraps of shredded paper as if they were doll-like representatives of herself and her lover: "Poor forlorn Proteus," she reads, "passionate Proteus,/To the sweet Julia!': That I'll tear away. -- And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another. Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. In this short scene, one gets a glimpse of the type of heroine Shakespeare was to enhance in charm and complexity in his future comedies.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_2_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 1.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-3", "summary": "Proteus's father decides to send his son abroad to Milan, where Valentine has gone, to gain experience of the world. When Proteus comes onto the stage, he is obviously in a daydream, clutching a love letter and warbling in such a way as to make his father even more determined to \"make a man of him.\" Proteus lies about the letter, saying it is from Valentine. Antonio will not listen to his son's plea for a short reprieve to prepare for his trip: \"For what I will, I will, and there an end.\"", "analysis": "Fathers traditionally block the paths of lovers in romantic comedy, and so it is at this moment of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The blow to Proteus, however, spurs him to utter some of the finest lines of poetry in the play: O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away!"}

SCENE III. _The same. ANTONIO'S house._ _Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO._ _Ant._ Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? _Pan._ 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. _Ant._ Why, what of him? _Pan._ He wonder'd that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, 5 While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars, to try their fortune there; Some to discover islands far away; Some to the studious universities. 10 For any, or for all these exercises, He said that Proteus your son was meet; And did request me to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age, 15 In having known no travel in his youth. _Ant._ Nor need'st thou much importune me to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have consider'd well his loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, 20 Not being tried and tutor'd in the world: Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time. Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him? _Pan._ I think your lordship is not ignorant 25 How his companion, youthful Valentine, Attends the emperor in his royal court. _Ant._ I know it well. _Pan._ 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither: There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 30 Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, And be in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. _Ant._ I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised: And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it 35 The execution of it shall make known. Even with the speediest expedition I will dispatch him to the emperor's court. _Pan._ To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso, With other gentlemen of good esteem, 40 Are journeying to salute the emperor, And to commend their service to his will. _Ant._ Good company; with them shall Proteus go: And, in good time! now will we break with him. _Enter PROTEUS._ _Pro._ Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life! 45 Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn. O, that our fathers would applaud our loves, To seal our happiness with their consents! O heavenly Julia! 50 _Ant._ How now! what letter are you reading there? _Pro._ May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine, Deliver'd by a friend that came from him. _Ant._ Lend me the letter; let me see what news. 55 _Pro._ There is no news, my lord; but that he writes How happily he lives, how well beloved, And daily graced by the emperor; Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. _Ant._ And how stand you affected to his wish? 60 _Pro._ As one relying on your lordship's will, And not depending on his friendly wish. _Ant._ My will is something sorted with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; For what I will, I will, and there an end. 65 I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus in the emperor's court: What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. To-morrow be in readiness to go: 70 Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. _Pro._ My lord, I cannot be so soon provided: Please you, deliberate a day or two. _Ant._ Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee: No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go. 75 Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd To hasten on his expedition. [_Exeunt Ant. and Pan._ _Pro._ Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning, And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd. I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter, 80 Lest he should take exceptions to my love; And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, 85 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away! _Re-enter PANTHINO._ _Pan._ Sir Proteus, your father calls for you: He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. _Pro._ Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto, 90 And yet a thousand times it answers 'no.' [_Exeunt._ Notes: I, 3. SCENE III.] SCENE IV. Pope. Antonio's House.] Theobald. 1: _Panthino_] F1 F2. _Panthion_ F3 F4. 21: _and_] F1. _nor_ F2 F3 F4. 24: _whither_] F2 F3 F4. _whether_ F1. 44: _And, in good time!_] _And in good time:_ F1. _And in good time,_ F2 F3 F4. _And,--in good time:_--Dyce. 44: Enter Proteus] F2. 45: _sweet life_] _sweet life! sweet Julia_ Capell. 49: _To_] _And_ Collier MS. 65: _there_] F1 F2. _there's_ F3 F4. 67: _Valentinus_] F1. _Valentino_ F2 F3 F4. _Valentine_ Warburton. 77: [Exeunt Ant. and Pan.]. Rowe. 84: _resembleth_] _resembleth well_ Pope. _resembleth right_ Johnson conj. 86: _sun_] _light_ Johnson conj. 88: Re-enter Panthino.] om. F1. Enter. F2. _father_] _fathers_ F1. 91: [Exeunt.] Exeunt. Finis. Ff.

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-3

Proteus's father decides to send his son abroad to Milan, where Valentine has gone, to gain experience of the world. When Proteus comes onto the stage, he is obviously in a daydream, clutching a love letter and warbling in such a way as to make his father even more determined to "make a man of him." Proteus lies about the letter, saying it is from Valentine. Antonio will not listen to his son's plea for a short reprieve to prepare for his trip: "For what I will, I will, and there an end."

Fathers traditionally block the paths of lovers in romantic comedy, and so it is at this moment of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The blow to Proteus, however, spurs him to utter some of the finest lines of poetry in the play: O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away!

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_3_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1", "summary": "In Milan, we find Speed taking great pleasure in aggravating his master, who shows all the external signs of being in love. \"You have learned,\" he tells Valentine, to wreathe your arms, like a malcontent; torelish a lovesong, like a robin redbreast;to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence;to sigh, like a schoolboy that had lost his A B C. . . . When the object of his affections requests the letter she had commissioned him to write for her to a \"third party,\" it is obvious to Speed that the love letter was really meant for Valentine himself, an indirect expression of affection from Silvia. Valentine, however, does not seem to catch on. The previous words exchanged with Speed are all too appropriate: Speed: If you love her, you cannot see her. Valentine: Why? Speed: Because Love is blind. Speed turns the talk to more practical matters, in the tradition of eternally hungry comic servants, \"though the chamelon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat,\" and the two exit.", "analysis": "With quick, almost too obvious irony, Valentine has fallen in love. Silvia is well worth the fall, it seems, as she cleverly \"woos by a figure,\" as Speed puts it. \"Eating love' has indeed begun to take possession of this \"fine wit' Valentine. In Speed's delineation of lovers! affectations, Shakespeare pokes gentle fun at youthful folly."}

ACT II. SCENE I. _Milan. The DUKE'S Palace._ _Enter VALENTINE and SPEED._ _Speed._ Sir, your glove. _Val._ Not mine; my gloves are on. _Speed._ Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. _Val._ Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine: Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia! 5 _Speed._ Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! _Val._ How now, sirrah? _Speed._ She is not within hearing, sir. _Val._ Why, sir, who bade you call her? _Speed._ Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. 10 _Val._ Well, you'll still be too forward. _Speed._ And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. _Val._ Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Silvia? _Speed._ She that your worship loves? _Val._ Why, how know you that I am in love? 15 _Speed._ Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young 20 wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after 25 dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. _Val._ Are all these things perceived in me? _Speed._ They are all perceived without ye. 30 _Val._ Without me? they cannot. _Speed._ Without you? nay, that's certain, for, without you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that 35 sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. _Val._ But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? _Speed._ She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper? _Val._ Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean. _Speed._ Why, sir, I know her not. 40 _Val._ Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not? _Speed._ Is she not hard-favoured, sir? _Val._ Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. _Speed._ Sir, I know that well enough. 45 _Val._ What dost thou know? _Speed._ That she is not so fair as, of you, well favoured. _Val._ I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite. _Speed._ That's because the one is painted, and the other 50 out of all count. _Val._ How painted? and how out of count? _Speed._ Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. _Val._ How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty. 55 _Speed._ You never saw her since she was deformed. _Val._ How long hath she been deformed? _Speed._ Ever since you loved her. _Val._ I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful. 60 _Speed._ If you love her, you cannot see her. _Val._ Why? _Speed._ Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! 65 _Val._ What should I see then? _Speed._ Your own present folly, and her passing deformity: for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. _Val._ Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last morning 70 you could not see to wipe my shoes. _Speed._ True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. _Val._ In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 75 _Speed._ I would you were set, so your affection would cease. _Val._ Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves. _Speed._ And have you? 80 _Val._ I have. _Speed._ Are they not lamely writ? _Val._ No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace! here she comes. _Speed._ [_Aside_] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! 85 Now will he interpret to her. _Enter SILVIA._ _Val._ Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows. _Speed._ [_Aside_] O, give ye good even! here's a million of manners. _Sil._ Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. 90 _Speed._ [_Aside_] He should give her interest, and she gives it him. _Val._ As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in, 95 But for my duty to your ladyship. _Sil._ I thank you, gentle servant: 'tis very clerkly done. _Val._ Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully. 100 _Sil._ Perchance you think too much of so much pains? _Val._ No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet-- _Sil._ A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel; 105 And yet I will not name it;--and yet I care not;-- And yet take this again:--and yet I thank you; Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. _Speed._ [_Aside_] And yet you will; and yet another 'yet.' _Val._ What means your ladyship? do you not like it? 110 _Sil._ Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ; But since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. _Val._ Madam, they are for you. _Sil._ Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request; 115 But I will none of them; they are for you; I would have had them writ more movingly. _Val._ Please you, I'll write your ladyship another. _Sil._ And when it's writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. 120 _Val._ If it please me, madam, what then? _Sil._ Why, if it please you, take it for your labour: And so, good morrow, servant. [_Exit._ _Speed._ O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple! 125 My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! was there ever heard a better, That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter? _Val._ How now, sir? what are you reasoning with 130 yourself? _Speed._ Nay. I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason. _Val._ To do what? _Speed._ To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. 135 _Val._ To whom? _Speed._ To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure. _Val._ What figure? _Speed._ By a letter, I should say. _Val._ Why, she hath not writ to me? 140 _Speed._ What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? _Val._ No, believe me. _Speed._ No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest? 145 _Val._ She gave me none, except an angry word. _Speed._ Why, she hath given you a letter. _Val._ That's the letter I writ to her friend. _Speed._ And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. 150 _Val._ I would it were no worse. _Speed._ I'll warrant you, 'tis as well: For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty, Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply; Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover, 155 Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? 'tis dinner-time. _Val._ I have dined. _Speed._ Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon 160 Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved. [_Exeunt._ Notes: II, 1. 19: _had_] _hath_ Collier MS. 21: _buried_] F1. _lost_ F2 F3 F4. 27: _you are_] _you are so_ Collier MS. 32: _Without you?_] _Without you!_ Dyce. 33: _would_] _would be_ Collier MS. 41: _my_] F1 F2. om. F3 F4. 68, 69: See note (IV). 76: _set,_] _set;_ Malone. 85, 88, 91: [Aside] Capell. 91: Speed.] F1 F4. Sil. F2 F3. 96: _for_] om. F3 F4. 102: _stead_] _steed_ Ff. 106: _name it_] _name 't_ Capell. _and yet_] _yet_ Pope. 109: [Aside] Rowe. 114: _for_] _writ for_ Anon. conj. 124, 125: Printed as prose by Pope. 129: _scribe_] _the scribe_ Pope. 137: _wooes_] _woes_ Ff. (IV. ii. 138. _woe_ F1. _wooe_ F2 F3 F4.) 149: _there_] F1. _there's_ F2 F3 F4.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1

In Milan, we find Speed taking great pleasure in aggravating his master, who shows all the external signs of being in love. "You have learned," he tells Valentine, to wreathe your arms, like a malcontent; torelish a lovesong, like a robin redbreast;to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence;to sigh, like a schoolboy that had lost his A B C. . . . When the object of his affections requests the letter she had commissioned him to write for her to a "third party," it is obvious to Speed that the love letter was really meant for Valentine himself, an indirect expression of affection from Silvia. Valentine, however, does not seem to catch on. The previous words exchanged with Speed are all too appropriate: Speed: If you love her, you cannot see her. Valentine: Why? Speed: Because Love is blind. Speed turns the talk to more practical matters, in the tradition of eternally hungry comic servants, "though the chamelon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat," and the two exit.

With quick, almost too obvious irony, Valentine has fallen in love. Silvia is well worth the fall, it seems, as she cleverly "woos by a figure," as Speed puts it. "Eating love' has indeed begun to take possession of this "fine wit' Valentine. In Speed's delineation of lovers! affectations, Shakespeare pokes gentle fun at youthful folly.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/act_2_chapters_2_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_4_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scenes 2-3

scenes 2-3

{"name": "Scenes 2-3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scenes-23", "summary": "Julia gives Proteus a ring to remember her by as he prepares to depart by ship for Milan. Forcing back tears, they say goodbye: Proteus: The tide is now -- nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. Proteus's servant, Launce, also suffers an emotional separation too -- from his ungrateful dog, Crab. Launce's sentimentality is congenital, it seems: \"all the kind of the Launces have this very fault.\" This makes him all the more upset at his dog's stiff upper lip: My mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear.", "analysis": "Shakespeare's genius in his greatest plays resides in his ability to straddle the range of human experience like some colossus. In sharply contrasting scenes, he evokes the complexity of life and love and death and hate. When Hamlet is on the way to his inevitable demise, Shakespeare introduces a clownish/wise gravedigger who jauntily philosophizes, unearthed skull in hand. Nothing approaching the same effect is achieved in The Two Gentlemen of Verona; however, the simple technique of juxtaposing contrasting moods within a single human experience is comparable, and typical of Shakespearean playwriting. Launce's hilarious bellowing acts as a gloss on the bittersweet parting of Julia and Proteus."}

SCENE II. _Verona. JULIA'S house._ _Enter PROTEUS and JULIA._ _Pro._ Have patience, gentle Julia. _Jul._ I must, where is no remedy. _Pro._ When possibly I can, I will return. _Jul._ If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. 5 [_Giving a ring._ _Pro._ Why, then, we'll make exchange; here, take you this. _Jul._ And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. _Pro._ Here is my hand for my true constancy; And when that hour o'erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 10 The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love's forgetfulness! My father stays my coming; answer not; The tide is now:--nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. 15 Julia, farewell! [_Exit Julia._ What, gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak; For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. _Enter PANTHINO._ _Pan._ Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for. _Pro._ Go; I come, I come. 20 Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [_Exeunt._ Notes: II, 2. 5: [Giving a ring] Rowe. 16: [Exit Julia] Rowe. 20: _I come, I come_] _I come_ Pope. SCENE III. _The same. A street._ _Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog._ _Launce._ Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother 5 weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear: he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have 10 seen our parting; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll shew you the manner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser 15 sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance on't! there 'tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I am the dog: no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog,--Oh! the dog is 20 me, and I am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing: now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother: O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; 25 why, there 'tis; here's my mother's breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. _Enter PANTHINO._ _Pan._ Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, 30 and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you'll lose the tide, if you tarry any longer. _Launce._ It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. 35 _Pan._ What's the unkindest tide? _Launce._ Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog. _Pan._ Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood: and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, 40 and, in losing thy service,--Why dost thou stop my mouth? _Launce._ For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. _Pan._ Where should I lose my tongue? _Launce._ In thy tale. _Pan._ In thy tail! 45 _Launce._ Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. _Pan._ Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee. 50 _Launce._ Sir, call me what thou darest. _Pan._ Wilt thou go? _Launce._ Well, I will go. [_Exeunt._ Notes: II, 3. 9: _pebble_] _pibble_ Ff. 20: _I am the dog_] _I am me_ Hanmer. _Oh, the dog is me_] _Ay, the dog is the dog_ Hanmer. 25: _she_] _the shoe_ Hanmer. _a wood woman_] Theobald. _a would woman_ Ff. _an ould woman_ Pope. _a wild woman_ Collier MS. Malone (Blackstone conj.) punctuates (_O that she could speak now!_) 35: _tied ... tied_] _Tide ... tide_ F1. _Tide ... tyde_ F2 F3 F4. 45: _thy tail!_] _my tail?_ Hanmer. [Kicking him. Anon. conj. 46: _tide_] _Tide_ F1 F4. _Tyde_ F2 F3. _flood_ Pope. _tied_ Collier. 47: _and the tied_] Singer. _and the tide_ Ff. om. Capell. _The tide!_ Steevens. _indeed!_ S. Verges conj.

Scenes 2-3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scenes-23

Julia gives Proteus a ring to remember her by as he prepares to depart by ship for Milan. Forcing back tears, they say goodbye: Proteus: The tide is now -- nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. Proteus's servant, Launce, also suffers an emotional separation too -- from his ungrateful dog, Crab. Launce's sentimentality is congenital, it seems: "all the kind of the Launces have this very fault." This makes him all the more upset at his dog's stiff upper lip: My mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear.

Shakespeare's genius in his greatest plays resides in his ability to straddle the range of human experience like some colossus. In sharply contrasting scenes, he evokes the complexity of life and love and death and hate. When Hamlet is on the way to his inevitable demise, Shakespeare introduces a clownish/wise gravedigger who jauntily philosophizes, unearthed skull in hand. Nothing approaching the same effect is achieved in The Two Gentlemen of Verona; however, the simple technique of juxtaposing contrasting moods within a single human experience is comparable, and typical of Shakespearean playwriting. Launce's hilarious bellowing acts as a gloss on the bittersweet parting of Julia and Proteus.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_5_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-4", "summary": "At Silvia's instigation, two of her suitors, Thurio and Valentine, engage in verbal fisticuffs to cull her favor. The level of debate is not particularly high: Silvia: What, angry, Sir Thurio! Do you change color! Valentine: Give him leave, Madam; he is a kind of chameleon. Thurio: That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. Silvia's father interrupts the proceedings to tell them of the unexpected arrival of Sir Proteus; he is assured of Proteus's upstanding good character by Valentine: He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentleman. Hardly has he finished when Proteus comes onto the stage and is warmly greeted by his friend, who introduces him to Silvia. Proteus greets her with conventional good manners, telling her that he is \"too mean a servant/To have a look of such a worthy mistress.\" When Silvia exits, Valentine inquires after friends and relations in Verona, including Julia. Proteus soon learns that his friend has fallen in love with Silvia: Proteus: Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? Valentine: Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? Proteus: No, but she is an earthly paragon. He further learns of their betrothal and that Valentine is troubled by a wealthy rival. Left alone, Proteus reveals in a monologue his own infatuation with Silvia, something he feels to such an extent that his love for Julia, . . . like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. The scene ends on his somewhat shocking remark: If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.", "analysis": "The entire scene would be quite ordinary, if not downright dull, if it weren't for the fact that we know by Pretens's last lines that once he meets Silvia a strange and ambiguous undercurrent colors the action and dialogue. The usually matter-of-fact Valentine asks Proteus about Julia, but, with love of Silvia very much on his mind, Proteus tries to change the subject: \"I know you joy not in a love discourse.\" Then later, when the two friends argue the relative merits of their ladies -- standard behavior for friends -- Proteus becomes quite abrupt: Proteus: Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? Valentine: Pardon me, Proteus. All I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone.Proteus: Then let her alone.Valentine: Not for the world. Shakespeare, like others before him, uses the idea of \"love at first sight\" to stir the ashes of a dying plot, and, here, he manufactures an inner conflict to enhance the character of Proteus. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,And that I love him not as I was wont.O, but I love his lady too too much!"}

SCENE IV. _Milan. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED._ _Sil._ Servant! _Val._ Mistress? _Speed._ Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. _Val._ Ay, boy, it's for love. _Speed._ Not of you. 5 _Val._ Of my mistress, then. _Speed._ 'Twere good you knocked him. [_Exit._ _Sil._ Servant, you are sad. _Val._ Indeed, madam, I seem so. _Thu._ Seem you that you are not? 10 _Val._ Haply I do. _Thu._ So do counterfeits. _Val._ So do you. _Thu._ What seem I that I am not? _Val._ Wise. 15 _Thu._ What instance of the contrary? _Val._ Your folly. _Thu._ And how quote you my folly? _Val._ I quote it in your jerkin. _Thu._ My jerkin is a doublet. 20 _Val._ Well, then, I'll double your folly. _Thu._ How? _Sil._ What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour? _Val._ Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon. _Thu._ That hath more mind to feed on your blood than 25 live in your air. _Val._ You have said, sir. _Thu._ Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. _Val._ I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin. _Sil._ A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly 30 shot off. _Val._ 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. _Sil._ Who is that, servant? _Val._ Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and 35 spends what he borrows kindly in your company. _Thu._ Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. _Val._ I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, 40 for it appears, by their bare liveries, that they live by your bare words. _Sil._ No more, gentlemen, no more:--here comes my father. _Enter DUKE._ _Duke._ Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. 45 Sir Valentine, your father's in good health: What say you to a letter from your friends Of much good news? _Val._ My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. _Duke._ Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman? 50 _Val._ Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman To be of worth, and worthy estimation, And not without desert so well reputed. _Duke._ Hath he not a son? _Val._ Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves 55 The honour and regard of such a father. _Duke._ You know him well? _Val._ I know him as myself; for from our infancy We have conversed and spent our hours together: And though myself have been an idle truant, 60 Omitting the sweet benefit of time To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name, Made use and fair advantage of his days; His years but young, but his experience old; 65 His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe; And, in a word, for far behind his worth Comes all the praises that I now bestow, He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 70 _Duke._ Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, He is as worthy for an empress' love As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me, With commendation from great potentates; 75 And here he means to spend his time awhile: I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you. _Val._ Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he. _Duke._ Welcome him, then, according to his worth. Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio, 80 For Valentine, I need not cite him to it: I will send him hither to you presently. [_Exit._ _Val._ This is the gentleman I told your ladyship Had come along with me, but that his mistress Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. 85 _Sil._ Belike that now she hath enfranchised them, Upon some other pawn for fealty. _Val._ Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still. _Sil._ Nay, then, he should be blind; and, being blind, How could he see his way to seek out you? 90 _Val._ Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. _Thu._ They say that Love hath not an eye at all. _Val._ To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself: Upon a homely object Love can wink. _Sil._ Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman. 95 _Enter PROTEUS. [Exit THURIO._ _Val._ Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you, Confirm his welcome with some special favour. _Sil._ His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from. _Val._ Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him 100 To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. _Sil._ Too low a mistress for so high a servant. _Pro._ Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant To have a look of such a worthy mistress. _Val._ Leave off discourse of disability: 105 Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. _Pro._ My duty will I boast of; nothing else. _Sil._ And duty never yet did want his meed: Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. _Pro._ I'll die on him that says so but yourself. 110 _Sil._ That you are welcome? _Pro._ That you are worthless. _Re-enter THURIO._ _Thu._ Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. _Sil._ I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio, Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome: I'll leave you to confer of home affairs; 115 When you have done, we look to hear from you. _Pro._ We'll both attend upon your ladyship. [_Exeunt Silvia and Thurio._ _Val._ Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came? _Pro._ Your friends are well, and have them much commended. _Val._ And how do yours? _Pro._ I left them all in health. 120 _Val._ How does your lady? and how thrives your love? _Pro._ My tales of love were wont to weary you; I know you joy not in a love-discourse. _Val._ Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now: I have done penance for contemning Love, 125 Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs; For, in revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes, 130 And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow. O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord, And hath so humbled me; as I confess There is no woe to his correction, Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 135 Now no discourse, except it be of love; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep, Upon the very naked name of love. _Pro._ Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? 140 _Val._ Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? _Pro._ No; but she is an earthly paragon. _Val._ Call her divine. _Pro._ I will not flatter her. _Val._ O, flatter me; for love delights in praises. _Pro._ When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills; 145 And I must minister the like to you. _Val._ Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. _Pro._ Except my mistress. _Val._ Sweet, except not any; 150 Except thou wilt except against my love. _Pro._ Have I not reason to prefer mine own? _Val._ And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour,-- To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth 155 Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, And make rough winter everlastingly. _Pro._ Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? 160 _Val._ Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. _Pro._ Then let her alone. _Val._ Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own; And I as rich in having such a jewel 165 As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee, Because thou see'st me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes 170 Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along; and I must after, For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy. _Pro._ But she loves you? _Val._ Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our marriage-hour, 175 With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of; how I must climb her window; The ladder made of cords; and all the means Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 180 In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. _Pro._ Go on before; I shall inquire you forth: I must unto the road, to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use; And then I'll presently attend you. 185 _Val._ Will you make haste? _Pro._ I will. [_Exit Valentine._ Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love 190 Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine, or Valentine's praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus? She is fair; and so is Julia, that I love.-- 195 That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. 200 O, but I love his lady too too much! And that's the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice, That thus without advice begin to love her! 'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, 205 And that hath dazzled my reason's light; But when I look on her perfections, There is no reason but I shall be blind. If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I'll use my skill. [_Exit._ 210 Notes: II, 4. 2: [They converse apart] Capell. 7: [Exit] Edd. See note (V). 21: _I'll_] _Ile_ Ff. _'twill_ Collier MS. 45: SCENE V. Pope. Enter DUKE.] Enter DUKE attended. Capell. 49: _happy_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 50: _ye_] F1. _you_ F2 F3 F4. 52: _worth_] _wealth_ Collier MS. and S. Walker conj. 58: _Know_] Hanmer. _Knew_ Ff. 68: _comes_] Ff. _come_ Rowe. 77: _unwelcome_] F1. _welcome_ F2 F3 F4. 81: _cite_] _'cite_ Malone. 82: _I will_] _I'll_ Pope. [Exit] Rowe. 95: SCENE VI. Pope. Enter PROTEUS.] Enter. F2. Exit THURIO.] Collier. See note (V). 97: _his_] F1. _this_ F2 F3 F4. 104: _a worthy_] _a worthy a_ F1. 111: _welcome_] _welcome, sir_ Capell. _That you are worthless_] _No, that you are worthless_ Johnson. Re-enter THURIO.] om. Ff. Enter THURIO. Collier. Enter a Servant. Theobald. 112: Thu.] Ff. Serv. Theobald. 113: [Exit servant. Theobald. 114: _Go_] _Go you_ Capell. _new servant_] _my new servant_ Pope. 117: [Exeunt S. and T.] Rowe. 118: SCENE VII. Pope. 126: _Whose_] _Those_ Johnson conj. 133: _as I confess_] _as, I confess,_ Warburton. 135: _no such_] _any_ Hanmer. 144: _praises_] F1. _praise_ F2 F3 F4. 158: _summer-swelling_] _summer-smelling_ Steevens conj. (withdrawn). 160: _braggardism_] Steevens. _bragadism_ Ff. 162: _makes_] _make_ F1. _worthies_] _worth as_ Grant White. 163: _Then_] _Why, then_ Hanmer. 167: _rocks_] F1. _rocke_ F2. _rock_ F3 F4. 175: _Ay, and we are_] _Ay, And we're_ Edd. conj. _nay, more_] _Nay, more, my Protheus_ Capell. _marriage-hour_] _marriage_ Pope. 185: _you_] _upon you_ Hanmer. _on you_ Capell. 187: [Exit Val.] [Exit. F1. om. F2 F3 F4. [Exeunt Valentine and Speed. Dyce. See note (V). 192: _Is it ... praise,_] _It is mine, or Valentine's praise?_ F1. _Is it mine then, or Valentineans praise?_ F2 F3 F4. _Is it mine then or Valentino's praise,_ Rowe, Pope. _Is it mine eye or Valentine's praise,_ Theobald (Warburton). _Is it mine eyne, or Valentino's praise,_ Hanmer. _Is it mine own, or Valentino's praise,_ Capell. _Is it her mien, or Valentinus' praise,_ Malone (Blakeway conj.). See note (VI). 206: _dazzled_] _dazel'd_ F1. _dazel'd so_ F2 F3 F4. 210: [Exit.] F2. [Exeunt. F1.

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-4

At Silvia's instigation, two of her suitors, Thurio and Valentine, engage in verbal fisticuffs to cull her favor. The level of debate is not particularly high: Silvia: What, angry, Sir Thurio! Do you change color! Valentine: Give him leave, Madam; he is a kind of chameleon. Thurio: That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. Silvia's father interrupts the proceedings to tell them of the unexpected arrival of Sir Proteus; he is assured of Proteus's upstanding good character by Valentine: He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentleman. Hardly has he finished when Proteus comes onto the stage and is warmly greeted by his friend, who introduces him to Silvia. Proteus greets her with conventional good manners, telling her that he is "too mean a servant/To have a look of such a worthy mistress." When Silvia exits, Valentine inquires after friends and relations in Verona, including Julia. Proteus soon learns that his friend has fallen in love with Silvia: Proteus: Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? Valentine: Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? Proteus: No, but she is an earthly paragon. He further learns of their betrothal and that Valentine is troubled by a wealthy rival. Left alone, Proteus reveals in a monologue his own infatuation with Silvia, something he feels to such an extent that his love for Julia, . . . like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. The scene ends on his somewhat shocking remark: If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.

The entire scene would be quite ordinary, if not downright dull, if it weren't for the fact that we know by Pretens's last lines that once he meets Silvia a strange and ambiguous undercurrent colors the action and dialogue. The usually matter-of-fact Valentine asks Proteus about Julia, but, with love of Silvia very much on his mind, Proteus tries to change the subject: "I know you joy not in a love discourse." Then later, when the two friends argue the relative merits of their ladies -- standard behavior for friends -- Proteus becomes quite abrupt: Proteus: Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? Valentine: Pardon me, Proteus. All I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone.Proteus: Then let her alone.Valentine: Not for the world. Shakespeare, like others before him, uses the idea of "love at first sight" to stir the ashes of a dying plot, and, here, he manufactures an inner conflict to enhance the character of Proteus. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,And that I love him not as I was wont.O, but I love his lady too too much!

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/act_2_chapters_5_to_6.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_6_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scenes 5-6

scenes 5-6

{"name": "Scenes 5-6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scenes-56", "summary": "Speed welcomes Launce to Padua. Speed inquires \"how did thy master part with Madam Julia?\" The two then bandy the topic about in the customary lewd fashion for \"low\" characters: Launce: Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her, But the gist of Launce's remarks affirms that Proteus and Julia are virtually married. Scene six consists of a forty-three-line monologue in which Proteus resolves to betray Julia and Valentine in pursuit of Silvia. To start, he will inform Silvia's father that the couple is planning to elope: \"All enraged, he will banish Valentine.\" After that, outwitting Thurio should be no problem.", "analysis": "What shocks the audience is the quickness with which Proteus translates infatuation with Silvia into concrete plans to jilt his betrothed and betray his closest friend. The scene between Launce and Speed serves to emphasize the effect: no sooner has Launce reaffirmed his master's commitment to Julia, than Proteus dismisses her as \"a twinkling star\" compared to Silvia, \"a celestial sun.\" His rationalization is similar to the intellectual sleight of hand in Love's Labour's Lost with the difference that, here, deep personal bonds are being violated: I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose. If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend. . . . As will be the case with the great \"villains\" Shakespeare is yet to create, Proteus's argument hinges on egotism, placing \"self' above the sacred demands of friendship."}

SCENE V. _The same. A street._ _Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally._ _Speed._ Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua! _Launce._ Forswear not thyself, sweet youth; for I am not welcome. I reckon this always--that a man is never undone till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!' 5 _Speed._ Come on, you madcap, I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? _Launce._ Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted 10 very fairly in jest. _Speed._ But shall she marry him? _Launce._ No. _Speed._ How, then? shall he marry her? _Launce._ No, neither. 15 _Speed._ What, are they broken? _Launce._ No, they are both as whole as a fish. _Speed._ Why, then, how stands the matter with them? _Launce._ Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. 20 _Speed._ What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. _Launce._ What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My staff understands me. _Speed._ What thou sayest? _Launce._ Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but 25 lean, and my staff understands me. _Speed._ It stands under thee, indeed. _Launce._ Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. _Speed._ But tell me true, will't be a match? _Launce._ Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will; if he say, 30 no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. _Speed._ The conclusion is, then, that it will. _Launce._ Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. _Speed._ 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how 35 sayest thou, that my master is become a notable lover? _Launce._ I never knew him otherwise. _Speed._ Than how? _Launce._ A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. _Speed._ Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. 40 _Launce._ Why fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master. _Speed._ I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. _Launce._ Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name 45 of a Christian. _Speed._ Why? _Launce._ Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? _Speed._ At thy service. [_Exeunt._ 50 Notes: II, 5. SCENE V.] SCENA QUINTA F1. SCENA QUARTA F2 F3 F4. SCENE VIII. Pope. 1: _Padua_] Ff. _Milan_ Pope. See note (VII). 4: _be_] _is_ Rowe. 21-28: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 36: _that_] F2 F3 F4. _that that_ F1. 44: _in love. If thou wilt, go_] Knight. _in love. If thou wilt go_ Ff. _in love, if thou wilt go_ Collier (Malone conj.). _alehouse_] F1. _alehouse, so_ F2 F3 F4. 49: _ale_] _ale-house_ Rowe. SCENE VI. _The same. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter PROTEUS._ _Pro._ To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; And even that power, which gave me first my oath, Provokes me to this threefold perjury; 5 Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. 10 Unheedful vows may needfully be broken; And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad, Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd 15 With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose: If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 20 If I lose them, thus find I by their loss For Valentine, myself, for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself; And Silvia--witness Heaven, that made her fair!-- 25 Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Remembering that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I'll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 30 I cannot now prove constant to myself, Without some treachery used to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window; Myself in counsel, his competitor. 35 Now presently I'll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight; Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine; For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross 40 By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [_Exit._ Notes: II, 6. SCENE VI.] SCENE IX. Pope. Enter PROTEUS.] Enter PROTHEUS solus. Ff. 1, 2: _forsworn; ... forsworn;_] Theobald. _forsworn? ... forsworn?_ Ff. 7: _sweet-suggesting_] _sweet suggestion,_ Pope. _if thou hast_] _if I have_ Warburton. 16: _soul-confirming_] _soul-confirmed_ Pope. 21: _thus_] _this_ Theobald. _by_] F1. _but_ F2 F3 F4. 24: _most_] _more_ Steevens. _in_] _to_ Collier MS. 35: _counsel_] _counsaile_ F1 F2. _councel_ F3. _council_ F4. 37: _pretended_] _intended_ Johnson conj. 43: _this_] F1. _his_ F2 F3 F4.

Scenes 5-6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scenes-56

Speed welcomes Launce to Padua. Speed inquires "how did thy master part with Madam Julia?" The two then bandy the topic about in the customary lewd fashion for "low" characters: Launce: Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her, But the gist of Launce's remarks affirms that Proteus and Julia are virtually married. Scene six consists of a forty-three-line monologue in which Proteus resolves to betray Julia and Valentine in pursuit of Silvia. To start, he will inform Silvia's father that the couple is planning to elope: "All enraged, he will banish Valentine." After that, outwitting Thurio should be no problem.

What shocks the audience is the quickness with which Proteus translates infatuation with Silvia into concrete plans to jilt his betrothed and betray his closest friend. The scene between Launce and Speed serves to emphasize the effect: no sooner has Launce reaffirmed his master's commitment to Julia, than Proteus dismisses her as "a twinkling star" compared to Silvia, "a celestial sun." His rationalization is similar to the intellectual sleight of hand in Love's Labour's Lost with the difference that, here, deep personal bonds are being violated: I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose. If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend. . . . As will be the case with the great "villains" Shakespeare is yet to create, Proteus's argument hinges on egotism, placing "self' above the sacred demands of friendship.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_7_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 2.scene 7

scene 7

{"name": "Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-7", "summary": "Julia asks Lucetta's advice once again: How, with my honor, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus? Lucetta's counsel is conventional, and in such comedies conventionally ignored by her mistress: I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,But qualify the fire's extreme rage,Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. \"The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns,\" Julia replies. Julia plans to disguise herself as \"some well-reputed page\" and to travel to Milan at once.", "analysis": "Shakespeare provides this glimpse of the innocent and loving Julia while Proteus's treacherous words still echo in our ears from the previous scene. There is something touching in her speech as she compares her love to the movement of a stream: The current that with gentle murmur glides,Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But whenhis fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th'enameled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge Heovertaketh in his pilgrimage; And by so many winding nookshe strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. However, when Julia sings the praises of her lover later in the scene, Shakespeare seems to be hammering too hard at the point of innocence betrayed: His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;His tears pure messengers sent from his heart;His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth."}

SCENE VII. _Verona. JULIA'S house._ _Enter JULIA and LUCETTA._ _Jul._ Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engraved, To lesson me; and tell me some good mean, 5 How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. _Luc._ Alas, the way is wearisome and long! _Jul._ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; 10 Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. _Luc._ Better forbear till Proteus make return. _Jul._ O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food? 15 Pity the dearth that I have pined in, By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20 _Luc._ I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. _Jul._ The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, 25 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; 30 And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course: I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, 35 Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. _Luc._ But in what habit will you go along? _Jul._ Not like a woman; for I would prevent 40 The loose encounters of lascivious men: Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. _Luc._ Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. _Jul._ No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings 45 With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. _Luc._ What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? _Jul._ That fits as well as, 'Tell me, good my lord, 50 What compass will you wear your farthingale?' Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. _Luc._ You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. _Jul._ Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour'd. _Luc._ A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, 55 Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. _Jul._ Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 60 I fear me, it will make me scandalized. _Luc._ If you think so, then stay at home, and go not. _Jul._ Nay, that I will not. _Luc._ Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, 65 No matter who's displeased when you are gone: I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal. _Jul._ That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, 70 Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. _Luc._ All these are servants to deceitful men. _Jul._ Base men, that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth: His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; 75 His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; His tears pure messengers sent from his heart; His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. _Luc._ Pray heaven he prove so, when you come to him! _Jul._ Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong, 80 To bear a hard opinion of his truth: Only deserve my love by loving him; And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of, To furnish me upon my longing journey. 85 All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently! I am impatient of my tarriance. [_Exeunt._ 90 Notes: II, 7. SCENE VII.] SCENE X. Pope. 13: _perfection_] F1 F2 F4. _perfections_ F3. 18: _inly_] F1 F2. _inchly_ F3 F4. 22: _extreme_] _extremest_ Pope. 32: _wild_] _wide_ Collier MS. 47: _fantastic_] _fantantastique_ F2. 52: _likest_] Pope. _likes_ Ff. 67: _withal_] _with all_ F1 F4. _withall_ F2 F3. 70: _of infinite_] F1. _as infinite_ F2 F3 F4. _of the infinite_ Malone. 85: _longing_] _loving_ Collier MS. 89: _to it_] _do it_ Warburton.

Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-7

Julia asks Lucetta's advice once again: How, with my honor, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus? Lucetta's counsel is conventional, and in such comedies conventionally ignored by her mistress: I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,But qualify the fire's extreme rage,Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. "The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns," Julia replies. Julia plans to disguise herself as "some well-reputed page" and to travel to Milan at once.

Shakespeare provides this glimpse of the innocent and loving Julia while Proteus's treacherous words still echo in our ears from the previous scene. There is something touching in her speech as she compares her love to the movement of a stream: The current that with gentle murmur glides,Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But whenhis fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th'enameled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge Heovertaketh in his pilgrimage; And by so many winding nookshe strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. However, when Julia sings the praises of her lover later in the scene, Shakespeare seems to be hammering too hard at the point of innocence betrayed: His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;His tears pure messengers sent from his heart;His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_8_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 3.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-1", "summary": "After Proteus betrays Valentine to the Duke , the Duke fully satisfies himself that his daughter is indeed planning to elope with the Veronese gentleman instead of marrying the wealthy merchant, Thurio. He perpetrates a ruse on Valentine, pretending himself to be in love with a woman and asking advice on how best to gain her favor. Valentine falls for the trick, assuring the Duke, That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. Eager to please Silvia's father, Valentine cheerfully explains how best to conceal a rope ladder when approaching the tower where his lover is \"imprisoned.\" The Duke opens Valentine's cloak to discover a love letter to Silvia and \"an engine fit for my proceeding.\" The upshot is instant banishment for the gullible Valentine, who is left to lament: And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banished from myself; And Silvia is myself. Proteus arrives with \"comforting' words . He suggests that Valentine accept banishment, satisfying himself with letters to Silvia, which Proteus promises to deliver: Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; Which, being writ to me, shall be delivered Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. To end the scene, Shakespeare has Speed and Launce discuss the merits of the latter's loved one, itemized on a sheet of paper which he carries with him.", "analysis": "The dramatic interest in this scene resides in the protracted \"entrapment\" of Valentine. Rather than accuse him outright of secretly planning to run off with Silvia, the Duke pretends to seek advice from Valentine on how to snare a woman. Imagine the steady building of eagerness on Valentine's part , coupled with the Duke's muted anger while, point for point, he proves to himself the truth of Proteus's accusation. The Duke described himself as ever \"shunning rashness,\" hence the slow and deliberate method he employs. Once sure, however, he is severe: But if thou linger in my territoriesLonger than swiftest expeditionWill give thee time to leave our royal court,By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the loveI ever bore my daughter or thyself. Themes from the main plot are then echoed by Launce and Speed. In a very long dialogue about the pros and cons of Launce's lady, the ultimate reason for the choice of this woman is no different from the Duke's preference for Thurio over Valentine as a suitor for Silvia: money. Launce takes the good with the bad, more often turning the bad into the good: Speed : \"Item: she hath no teeth.\" Launce: I care not for that neither, Because I love crusts. The rationalization can be explained by a later item: Speed: \"Item: she hath more hair than wit,and more faults than hairs,and more wealth than faults.\" Launce: Stop there: I'll have her. She was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. All this time Launce has been delaying Speed from joining his master, for which he'll receive punishment. This minor \"betrayal\" parallels the knavery of his master: Launce: Now will he be swinged for reading my letter -- an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction."}

ACT III. SCENE I. _Milan. Ante-room in the DUKE'S palace._ _Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS._ _Duke._ Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [_Exit Thu._ Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me? _Pro._ My gracious lord, that which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal; 5 But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 10 This night intends to steal away your daughter: Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates; And should she thus be stol'n away from you, 15 It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 20 Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. _Duke._ Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; Which to requite, command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep; 25 And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court: But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err, And so, unworthily disgrace the man, A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd, 30 I gave him gentle looks; thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 35 The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be convey'd away. _Pro._ Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend, And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 40 For which the youthful lover now is gone, And this way comes he with it presently; Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; 45 For, love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence. _Duke._ Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. _Pro._ Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming. [_Exit._ 50 _Enter VALENTINE._ _Duke._ Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? _Val._ Please it your grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. _Duke._ Be they of much import? 55 _Val._ The tenour of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. _Duke._ Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 60 'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. _Val._ I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities 65 Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him? _Duke._ No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, 70 Nor fearing me as if I were her father: And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty, 75 I now am full resolved to take a wife, And turn her out to who will take her in: Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; For me and my possessions she esteems not. _Val._ What would your Grace have me to do in this? 80 _Duke._ There is a lady in Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy, And nought esteems my aged eloquence: Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,-- For long agone I have forgot to court; 85 Besides, the fashion of the time is changed,-- How and which way I may bestow myself, To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. _Val._ Win her with gifts, if she respect not words: Dumb jewels often in their silent kind 90 More than quick words do move a woman's mind. _Duke._ But she did scorn a present that I sent her. _Val._ A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her. Send her another; never give her o'er; For scorn at first makes afterlove the more. 95 If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you: If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; 100 For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away!' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 105 _Duke._ But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth; And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her. _Val._ Why, then, I would resort to her by night. 110 _Duke._ Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night. _Val._ What lets but one may enter at her window? _Duke._ Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it 115 Without apparent hazard of his life. _Val._ Why, then, a ladder, quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero's tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. 120 _Duke._ Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder. _Val._ When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that. _Duke._ This very night; for Love is like a child, That longs for every thing that he can come by. 125 _Val._ By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder. _Duke._ But, hark thee; I will go to her alone: How shall I best convey the ladder thither? _Val._ It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. 130 _Duke._ A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? _Val._ Ay, my good lord. _Duke._ Then let me see thy cloak: I'll get me one of such another length. _Val._ Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. _Duke._ How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? 135 I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'! And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [_Reads._ 'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly; 140 And slaves they are to me, that send them flying: O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them; While I, their king, that thither them importune, 145 Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them, Because myself do want my servants' fortune: I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord would be. What's here? 150 'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.' 'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaethon,--for thou art Merops' son,-- Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, And with thy daring folly burn the world? 155 Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? Go, base intruder! overweening slave! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates; And think my patience, more than thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence: 160 Thank me for this more than for all the favours, Which all too much I have bestow'd on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 165 By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter or thyself. Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence. [_Exit._ _Val._ And why not death rather than living torment? 170 To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her, Is self from self: a deadly banishment! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? 175 Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 180 There is no day for me to look upon: She is my essence; and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: 185 Tarry I here, I but attend on death: But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. _Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE._ _Pro._ Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. _Launce._ Soho, soho! _Pro._ What seest thou? 190 _Launce._ Him we go to find: there's not a hair on's head but 'tis a Valentine. _Pro._ Valentine? _Val._ No. _Pro._ Who then? his spirit? 195 _Val._ Neither. _Pro._ What then? _Val._ Nothing. _Launce._ Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike? _Pro._ Who wouldst thou strike? 200 _Launce._ Nothing. _Pro._ Villain, forbear. _Launce._ Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,-- _Pro._ Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word. _Val._ My ears are stopt, and cannot hear good news, 205 So much of bad already hath possess'd them. _Pro._ Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. _Val._ Is Silvia dead? _Pro._ No, Valentine. 210 _Val._ No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me? _Pro._ No, Valentine. _Val._ No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news? 215 _Launce._ Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. _Pro._ That thou art banished--O, that's the news!-- From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. _Val._ O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 220 Doth Silvia know that I am banished? _Pro._ Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd to the doom-- Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force-- A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears: Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd; 225 With them, upon her knees, her humble self; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them As if but now they waxed pale for woe: But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 230 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, 235 With many bitter threats of biding there. _Val._ No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st Have some malignant power upon my life: If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 240 _Pro._ Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament'st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 245 Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that, And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 250 The time now serves not to expostulate: Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate; And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, 255 Regard thy danger, and along with me! _Val._ I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy, Bid him make haste, and meet me at the North-gate. _Pro._ Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. _Val._ O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! 260 [_Exeunt Val. and Pro._ _Launce._ I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who 'tis I love; and yet 265 'tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel,-- which is much in a bare Christian. 270 [_Pulling out a paper._] Here is the cate-log of her condition. 'Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item: She can milk;' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. 275 _Enter SPEED._ _Speed._ How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership? _Launce._ With my master's ship? why, it is at sea. _Speed._ Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper? 280 _Launce._ The blackest news that ever thou heardest. _Speed._ Why, man, how black? _Launce._ Why, as black as ink. _Speed._ Let me read them. _Launce._ Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read. 285 _Speed._ Thou liest; I can. _Launce._ I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee? _Speed._ Marry, the son of my grandfather. _Launce._ O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read. 290 _Speed._ Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. _Launce._ There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! _Speed_ [_reads_]. 'Imprimis: She can milk.' _Launce._ Ay, that she can. _Speed._ 'Item: She brews good ale.' 295 _Launce._ And thereof comes the proverb: 'Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.' _Speed._ 'Item: She can sew.' _Launce._ That's as much as to say, Can she so? _Speed._ 'Item: She can knit.' 300 _Launce._ What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock? _Speed._ 'Item: She can wash and scour.' _Launce._ A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured. 305 _Speed._ 'Item: She can spin.' _Launce._ Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath many nameless virtues.' _Launce._ That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; 310 that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. _Speed._ 'Here follow her vices.' _Launce._ Close at the heels of her virtues. _Speed._ 'Item: She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect 315 of her breath.' _Launce._ Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath a sweet mouth.' _Launce._ That makes amends for her sour breath. 320 _Speed._ 'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.' _Launce._ It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. _Speed._ 'Item: She is slow in words.' _Launce._ O villain, that set this down among her vices! 325 To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray thee, out with't, and place it for her chief virtue. _Speed._ 'Item: She is proud.' _Launce._ Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. 330 _Speed._ 'Item: She hath no teeth.' _Launce._ I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. _Speed._ 'Item: She is curst.' _Launce._ Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 335 _Speed._ 'Item: She will often praise her liquor.' _Launce._ If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised. _Speed._ 'Item: She is too liberal.' _Launce._ Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down 340 she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.' 345 _Launce._ Stop there; I'll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath more hair than wit,'-- _Launce._ More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it. 350 The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What's next? _Speed._ 'And more faults than hairs,'-- _Launce._ That's monstrous: O, that that were out! 355 _Speed._ 'And more wealth than faults.' _Launce._ Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I'll have her: and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,-- _Speed._ What then? 360 _Launce._ Why, then will I tell thee--that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate? _Speed._ For me? _Launce._ For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. 365 _Speed._ And must I go to him? _Launce._ Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long, that going will scarce serve the turn. _Speed._ Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love-letters! [_Exit._ 370 _Launce._ Now will he be swinged for reading my letter,--an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. [_Exit._ Notes: III, 1. Ante-room] Capell. 2: [Exit Thu.] Rowe. 7: _as_] F1 F3 F4. _as as_ F2. 21: _Being_] _If_ Pope. _unprevented_] F1 F2. _unprepared_ F3 F4. 32: _hast_] _hath_ Pope. 33: _that_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 50: [Exit] Rowe. Enter Valentine.] om. F1. [Enter. F2 F3 F4. 51: SCENE II. Pope. _whither_] F2. _whether_ F1 (and elsewhere). 56: _tenour_] _tenure_ Ff. 72: _may I_] _I may_ Hanmer. 78: _dower_] _dowre_ Ff. _dowry_ Hanmer. 81: _in Verona_] Ff. _sir, in Milan_ Pope. _in Milano_ Collier MS. _of Verona_ Halliwell. See note (VII). 83: _nought_] F2 F3 F4. _naught_ F1. 89: _respect_] F1 F2 F3. _respects_ F4. 92: _that I sent her_] _that I sent, sir_ Steevens conj. 93: _contents_] _content_ Mason conj. 98: _'tis_] F1 F3 F4. _'its_ F2. 99: _For why, the_] _For why the_ Dyce. 105: _with_] F1 F3 F4. _this_ F2. 139: [Reads] Rowe. 149: _would be_] F2 F3 F4. _should be_ F1. 151: _I will_] F1 F2 F3. _will I_ F4. 154: _car_] _cat_ F3 F4. 169: [Exit] F2. 170: SCENE III. Pope. Enter PRO. and LAUNCE] F2. 189: _Soho, soho!_] _So-hough, Soa hough--_ F1. 200: _Who_] F1. _Whom_ F2 F3 F4. 204: _Sirrah_] om. Pope. 216: _vanished_] _vanish'd_ Pope. 217: _banished--O that's_] _banish'd: oh, that's_ Ff. _banish'd--O, that is_ Pope. _banished--_ Val. _Oh, that's the news!_ Pro. _From hence, ... _ Edd. conj. 260: [Exeunt Val. and Pro.] Exeunt. F2. 261: SCENE VI. Pope, by misprint for IV. 263: _one knave_] _one kind of knave_ Hanmer. _one kind_ Warburton. _one in love_ Staunton conj. 270: [Pulling out a paper] Rowe. 271: _cate-log_] _cat-log_ Pope. _condition_] F1 F2 F3. _conditions_ F4. 274: _milk;' look you,_] _milk, look you;_' Capell. 276: Enter Speed] F2. 278: _master's ship_] Theobald. _Mastership_ Ff. 293, 294: om. Farmer conj. 293: _Imprimis_] _Item_ Halliwell. 304: _need not be_] F1. _need not to be_ F2 F3 F4. 313: _follow_] F1. _followes_ F2. _follows_ F3 F4. 315: _kissed_] Rowe. om. Ff. 322: _sleep_] _slip_ Collier MS. 325: _O ... this_] _O villaine, that set this_ F1. _O villainy, that set_ F2 F3. _Oh villain! that set_ F4. _O villainy that set this_ Malone. 342: _cannot I_] _I cannot_ Steevens. 344: _hair_] F1. _hairs_ F2 F3 F4. 347: _that last_] F1. (in some copies only, according to Malone.) _that_ F2 F3 F4. 350: _It may be; I'll prove it_] Theobald. _It may be I'll prove it_ Ff. 369: _of_] F1 F2. om. F3 F4. 370: [Exit] Capell. 373: [Exit.] Capell. [Exeunt. Ff.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-1

After Proteus betrays Valentine to the Duke , the Duke fully satisfies himself that his daughter is indeed planning to elope with the Veronese gentleman instead of marrying the wealthy merchant, Thurio. He perpetrates a ruse on Valentine, pretending himself to be in love with a woman and asking advice on how best to gain her favor. Valentine falls for the trick, assuring the Duke, That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. Eager to please Silvia's father, Valentine cheerfully explains how best to conceal a rope ladder when approaching the tower where his lover is "imprisoned." The Duke opens Valentine's cloak to discover a love letter to Silvia and "an engine fit for my proceeding." The upshot is instant banishment for the gullible Valentine, who is left to lament: And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banished from myself; And Silvia is myself. Proteus arrives with "comforting' words . He suggests that Valentine accept banishment, satisfying himself with letters to Silvia, which Proteus promises to deliver: Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; Which, being writ to me, shall be delivered Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. To end the scene, Shakespeare has Speed and Launce discuss the merits of the latter's loved one, itemized on a sheet of paper which he carries with him.

The dramatic interest in this scene resides in the protracted "entrapment" of Valentine. Rather than accuse him outright of secretly planning to run off with Silvia, the Duke pretends to seek advice from Valentine on how to snare a woman. Imagine the steady building of eagerness on Valentine's part , coupled with the Duke's muted anger while, point for point, he proves to himself the truth of Proteus's accusation. The Duke described himself as ever "shunning rashness," hence the slow and deliberate method he employs. Once sure, however, he is severe: But if thou linger in my territoriesLonger than swiftest expeditionWill give thee time to leave our royal court,By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the loveI ever bore my daughter or thyself. Themes from the main plot are then echoed by Launce and Speed. In a very long dialogue about the pros and cons of Launce's lady, the ultimate reason for the choice of this woman is no different from the Duke's preference for Thurio over Valentine as a suitor for Silvia: money. Launce takes the good with the bad, more often turning the bad into the good: Speed : "Item: she hath no teeth." Launce: I care not for that neither, Because I love crusts. The rationalization can be explained by a later item: Speed: "Item: she hath more hair than wit,and more faults than hairs,and more wealth than faults." Launce: Stop there: I'll have her. She was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. All this time Launce has been delaying Speed from joining his master, for which he'll receive punishment. This minor "betrayal" parallels the knavery of his master: Launce: Now will he be swinged for reading my letter -- an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_9_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 3.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-2", "summary": "Thurio has had a very difficult time of wooing Silvia since Valentine's banishment, so the Duke solicits Proteus's aid. Duke: What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? Proteus: The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. Proteus himself will be the chief slanderer, since Silvia is most likely to believe what Valentine's dear friend says. Proteus furthermore advises Sir Thurio to whet her desire \"by wailful sonnets\" and a \"sweet consort\" .", "analysis": "Proteus's guile having completely duped the Duke and Sir Thurio, the audience must now be fascinated by the potential depths to which this one-time friend will sink in pursuit of his wild fancy. His proven success in wooing Julia serves him well as consultant to the luckless Sir Thurio: After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady's chamber window. . . ."}

SCENE II. _The same. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter DUKE and THURIO._ _Duke._ Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you, Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight. _Thu._ Since his exile she hath despised me most. Forsworn my company, and rail'd at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. 5 _Duke._ This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form. A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. 10 _Enter PROTEUS._ How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman, According to our proclamation, gone? _Pro._ Gone, my good lord. _Duke._ My daughter takes his going grievously. _Pro._ A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 15 _Duke._ So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee-- For thou hast shown some sign of good desert-- Makes me the better to confer with thee. _Pro._ Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace 20 Let me not live to look upon your Grace. _Duke._ Thou know'st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. _Pro._ I do, my lord. _Duke._ And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 25 How she opposes her against my will. _Pro._ She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. _Duke._ Ay, and perversely she persevers so. What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? 30 _Pro._ The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. _Duke._ Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate. _Pro._ Ay, if his enemy deliver it: 35 Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. _Duke._ Then you must undertake to slander him. _Pro._ And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do: 'Tis an ill office for a gentleman, 40 Especially against his very friend. _Duke._ Where your good word cannot advantage him, Your slander never can endamage him; Therefore the office is indifferent, Being entreated to it by your friend. 45 _Pro._ You have prevail'd, my lord: if I can do it By ought that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 50 _Thu._ Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me; Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. 55 _Duke._ And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, Because we know, on Valentine's report, You are already Love's firm votary, And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access 60 Where you with Silvia may confer at large; For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you; Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 65 _Pro._ As much as I can do, I will effect: But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. 70 _Duke._ Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. _Pro._ Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears 75 Moist it again; and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity: For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews; Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 80 Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady's chamber-window With some sweet concert; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump: the night's dead silence 85 Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. _Duke._ This discipline shows thou hast been in love. _Thu._ And thy advice this night I'll put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 90 Let us into the city presently To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. _Duke._ About it, gentlemen! 95 _Pro._ We'll wait upon your Grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. _Duke._ Even now about it! I will pardon you. [_Exeunt._ Notes: III, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE V. Pope. 14: _grievously._] _grievously?_ F1. (in some copies only, according to Malone). _heavily?_ F2 F3. _heavily._ F4. 18: _some_] _sure_ Collier MS. 19: _better_] _bolder_ Capell conj. 20: _loyal_] F1 F3 F4. _royall_ F2. 21: _your_] F1 F3 F4. _you_ F2. _Grace_] _face_ Anon. conj. 25: _I think_] F1. _I doe think_ F2 F3 F4. 28: _persevers_] F1 F2. _perseveres_ F3 F4. 37: _esteemeth_] F1. _esteemes_ F2. _esteems_ F3 F4. 49: _weed_] Ff. _wean_ Rowe. 55: _worth_] _word_ Capell conj. 64: _Where_] _When_ Collier MS. 71, 72: _Ay, Much_] Capell. _I, much_ Ff. _Much_ Pope. 76: _line_] _lines_ S. Verges conj. 77: _such_] _strict_ Collier MS. _love's_ S. Verges conj. Malone suggests that a line has been lost to this purport: _'As her obdurate heart may penetrate.'_ 81: _to_] F1. _and_ F2 F3 F4. 84: _concert_] Hanmer. _consort_ Ff. 86: _sweet-complaining_] Capell. _sweet complaining_ Ff. 94: _advice_] F2 F3 F4. _advise_ F1.

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-2

Thurio has had a very difficult time of wooing Silvia since Valentine's banishment, so the Duke solicits Proteus's aid. Duke: What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? Proteus: The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. Proteus himself will be the chief slanderer, since Silvia is most likely to believe what Valentine's dear friend says. Proteus furthermore advises Sir Thurio to whet her desire "by wailful sonnets" and a "sweet consort" .

Proteus's guile having completely duped the Duke and Sir Thurio, the audience must now be fascinated by the potential depths to which this one-time friend will sink in pursuit of his wild fancy. His proven success in wooing Julia serves him well as consultant to the luckless Sir Thurio: After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady's chamber window. . . .

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/act_4_chapters_1_to_2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_10_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 4.scenes 1-2

scenes 1-2

{"name": "Scenes 1-2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scenes-12", "summary": "Valentine and Speed are accosted by an honorable band of thieves who are so impressed by the travelers' noble demeanor that they not only spare their lives, but offer Valentine the generalship of their gang. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! The same outlaw who utters these words explains that his own crime amounted to no more than \"practicing to steal away a lady.\" They claim to be gentlemen, and they urge Valentine to \"make virtue of necessity\"; otherwise, they'll kill him. He accepts. In Milan, Proteus and Sir Thurio approach Silvia's dwelling at night. Proteus uses the excuse of giving aid to Thurio as a means to approach Silvia, who consistently spurns him: Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. Disguised as a boy and fresh from Verona, Julia comes upon the scene of Proteus singing a love song outside of Silvia's window. Thurio departs after the song, and Julia watches as her lover declares his feelings for another woman. He even goes so far as to say that she, Julia, is dead.", "analysis": "Even the thieves instinctively recognize the nobility of the banished Valentine, in the \"romantic\" tradition of true quality being evident to all: . . . seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want Note the two earmarks of this high-minded gentleman: a) he rebukes Speed for being too anxious to save his skin by joining the brigands; b) he joins on condition that, under his governance, the band shall neither rob poor people, nor fall upon \"silly women.\" In a later play, Henry IV, Part 1, Shakespeare was to take this whole tradition of \"noble brigandry\" and turn it on its head in the persons of fat Jack Falstaff and his sleazy crew. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, the thieves are purely and simply a part of the romantic staple of the Elizabethans' favorite reading. A modern director would be hard put not to play the scene as parody. Probably one of the most poignant scenes in the play is the one depicting the exhausted, lovelorn Julia, dressed as a page, as she catches the first glimpse of Proteus. In order to preserve her disguise, she cannot reveal the hurt she must be experiencing as she listens to Proteus sing a love song to Silvia. Host: How now! Are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? The music likes you not. Julia: You mistake; the musician likes me not. Host: Why, my pretty youth? Julia: He plays false, father. Host: How? Out of tune on the strings? Julia: Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heartstrings. Towards the end of the scene, Silvia seems to be faltering slightly, as she consents to give Proteus a picture of herself. One wonders if this same device were part of the process whereby he had won Julia's heart. After calling Proteus a \"subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man,\" she consents to give the picture, rationalizing thus: I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it. Julia surely notices the apparent minor capitulation, as she remarks, . . . it hath been the longest night That e'er I watched, and the most heaviest."}

ACT IV. SCENE I. _The frontiers of Mantua. A forest._ _Enter certain _Outlaws_._ _First Out._ Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. _Sec. Out._ If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. _Enter VALENTINE and SPEED._ _Third Out._ Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye: If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you. _Speed._ Sir, we are undone; these are the villains 5 That all the travellers do fear so much. _Val._ My friends,-- _First Out._ That's not so, sir: we are your enemies. _Sec. Out._ Peace! we'll hear him. _Third Out._ Ay, by my beard, will we, for he's a proper man. 10 _Val._ Then know that I have little wealth to lose: A man I am cross'd with adversity; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. 15 _Sec. Out._ Whither travel you? _Val._ To Verona. _First Out._ Whence came you? _Val._ From Milan. _Third Out._ Have you long sojourned there? 20 _Val._ Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd, If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. _First Out._ What, were you banish'd thence? _Val._ I was. _Sec. Out._ For what offence? 25 _Val._ For that which now torments me to rehearse: I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent; But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. _First Out._ Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. 30 But were you banish'd for so small a fault? _Val._ I was, and held me glad of such a doom. _Sec. Out._ Have you the tongues? _Val._ My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. 35 _Third Out._ By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! _First Out._ We'll have him. Sirs, a word. _Speed._ Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery. 40 _Val._ Peace, villain! _Sec. Out._ Tell us this: have you any thing to take to? _Val._ Nothing but my fortune. _Third Out._ Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth 45 Thrust from the company of awful men: Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the duke. _Sec. Out._ And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 50 Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart. _First Out._ And I for such like petty crimes as these. But to the purpose,--for we cite our faults, That they may hold excused our lawless lives; And partly, seeing you are beautified 55 With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want,-- _Sec. Out._ Indeed, because you are a banish'd man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you: 60 Are you content to be our general? To make a virtue of necessity, And live, as we do, in this wilderness? _Third Out._ What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort? Say ay, and be the captain of us all: 65 We'll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. _First Out._ But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. _Sec. Out._ Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd. _Val._ I take your offer, and will live with you, 70 Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. _Third Out._ No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews, And show thee all the treasure we have got; 75 Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [_Exeunt._ Notes: IV, 1. SCENE I. The frontiers ... forest.] Capell. A forest. Rowe. A forest leading towards Mantua. Warburton. 2: _shrink_] _shrinkd_ F2. 4: _sit_] F1 F2. _sir_ F3 F4. 5: _Sir_] _O sir_ Capell. 6: _do_] om. Pope, who prints lines 5 and 6 as prose. 9: _Peace!_] _Peace, peace!_ Capell. 11: _little wealth_] F1. _little_ F2 F3 F4. _little left_ Hanmer. 18: _Whence_] _And whence_ Capell, who reads 16-20 as two lines ending _came you? ... there?_ 35: _ I often had been_] F2. _I often had been often_ F1. _often had been_ (om. _I_) F3 F4. _I had been often_ Collier. 39, 40: _it's ... thievery_] Printed as a verse in Ff. _It is a kind of honourable thievery_ Steevens. 42: _thing_] F1. _things_ F2 F3 F4. 46: _awful_] _lawful_ Heath conj. 49: _An heir, and near allied_] Theobald. _And heire and Neece, allide_ F1 F2. _An heir, and Neice allide_ F3. _An Heir, and Neece alli'd_ F4. 51: _Who_] _Whom_ Pope. 60: _Therefore_] F1 F2. _There_ F3 F4. 63: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 74: _crews_] F4. _crewes_ F1 F2 F3. _cave_ Collier MS. _caves_ Singer. _crew_ Delius conj. _cruives_ Bullock conj. 76: _all_] _shall_ Pope. SCENE II. _Milan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S chamber._ _Enter PROTEUS._ _Pro._ Already have I been false to Valentine, And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own love to prefer: But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 5 To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows, She bids me think how I have been forsworn 10 In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved: And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover's hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. 15 But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window, And give some evening music to her ear. _Enter THURIO and _Musicians_._ _Thu._ How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us? _Pro._ Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. 20 _Tim._ Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. _Pro._ Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. _Thu._ Who? Silvia? _Pro._ Ay, Silvia; for your sake. _Thu._ I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile. 25 _Enter, at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes._ _Host._ Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly: I pray you, why is it? _Jul._ Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. _Host._ Come, we'll have you merry: I'll bring you where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that 30 you asked for. _Jul._ But shall I hear him speak? _Host._ Ay, that you shall. _Jul._ That will be music. [_Music plays._ _Host._ Hark, hark! 35 _Jul._ Is he among these? _Host._ Ay: but, peace! let's hear 'em. SONG. Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; 40 The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, 45 To help him of his blindness, And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing 50 Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. _Host._ How now! are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? the music likes you not. _Jul._ You mistake; the musician likes me not. 55 _Host._ Why, my pretty youth? _Jul._ He plays false, father. _Host._ How? out of tune on the strings? _Jul._ Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. 60 _Host._ You have a quick ear. _Jul._ Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. _Host._ I perceive you delight not in music. _Jul._ Not a whit, when it jars so. 65 _Host._ Hark, what fine change is in the music! _Jul._ Ay, that change is the spite. _Host._ You would have them always play but one thing? _Jul._ I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on 70 Often resort unto this gentlewoman? _Host._ I tell you what Launce, his man, told me,--he loved her out of all nick. _Jul._ Where is Launce? _Host._ Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, by his 75 master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady. _Jul._ Peace! stand aside: the company parts. _Pro._ Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead, That you shall say my cunning drift excels. _Thu._ Where meet we? _Pro._ At Saint Gregory's well. _Thu._ Farewell. 80 [_Exeunt Thu. and Musicians._ _Enter SILVIA above._ _Pro._ Madam, good even to your ladyship. _Sil._ I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake? _Pro._ One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth, You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. 85 _Sil._ Sir Proteus, as I take it. _Pro._ Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. _Sil._ What's your will? _Pro._ That I may compass yours. _Sil._ You have your wish; my will is even this: That presently you hie you home to bed. 90 Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery, That hast deceived so many with thy vows? Return, return, and make thy love amends. 95 For me,--by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request, That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit; And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 100 _Pro._ I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; But she is dead. _Jul._ [_Aside_] 'Twere false, if I should speak it; For I am sure she is not buried. _Sil._ Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend Survives; to whom, thyself art witness, 105 I am betroth'd: and art thou not ashamed To wrong him with thy importunacy? _Pro._ I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. _Sil._ And so suppose am I; for in his grave Assure thyself my love is buried. 110 _Pro._ Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. _Sil._ Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence; Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. _Jul._ [_Aside_] He heard not that. _Pro._ Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, 115 Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, The picture that is hanging in your chamber; To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep: For since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 120 And to your shadow will I make true love. _Jul._ [_Aside_] If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it, And make it but a shadow, as I am. _Sil._ I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well 125 To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it: And so, good rest. _Pro._ As wretches have o'ernight That wait for execution in the morn. [_Exeunt Pro. and Sil. severally._ _Jul._ Host, will you go? 130 _Host._ By my halidom, I was fast asleep. _Jul._ Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? _Host._ Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day. _Jul._ Not so; but it hath been the longest night 135 That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. [_Exeunt._ Notes: IV, 2. SCENE II. Outside ... palace ...] An open place, ... Warburton. Court of the palace. Capell. 1: _have I_] _I've_ Pope. 15: _and_] om. F3 F4. 18: Musicians.] Rowe. Musitian. Ff. at the beginning of the scene. 23: _Who_] F1. Whom F2 F3 F4. 25: _tune_] F1. _turne_ F2. _turn_ F3 F4. 26: at a distance] Capell. _allycholly_] _melancholy_ Pope. 27: _I pray you, why is it_] F1. _I pray you what is it_ F2 F3. _I pray what is it?_ F4. 34: [Music plays] Capell. 40: _is she_] _as free_ Collier MS. 50: _excels_] _exceeds_ S. Walker conj. 53: SCENE III. Pope. 53, 54: _are you ... before?_] _you are ... before_ Heath conj. 68: _You would_] _you would, then,_ Malone. _you would not_ Collier MS. 70, 71: Printed as prose by Capell. 72-74: Printed as verse in Ff. _I tell ... He lov'd ..._ 78: _fear not you_] F1. _fear not_ F2 F3 F4. 80: [Exeunt Thu. and Musicians.] Rowe. 81: SCENE IV. Pope. Enter SILVIA above] Rowe. om. Ff. 85: _You would_] Ff. _You'd_ Pope. 88: _What's_] _What is_ Pope. 89: _even_] F1. _ever_ F2 F3 F4. 102: [Aside] Pope. 105: _thyself_] _even thyself_ Hanmer. 109: _his_] F2 F3 F4. _her_ F1. 112: _hers_] F1 F2. _her_ F3 F4. 114: [Aside] Pope. 115: _if_] _if that_ Warburton. 115, 116: _obdurate, Vouchsafe_] _Obdurate, O, vouchsafe_ Hanmer. 116: _for my love_] om. Hanmer. 122: [Aside] Pope. 125: _since your falsehood shall_] _since you're false, it shall_ Johnson conj. 129: [Exeunt ... severally] om. F1. [Exeunt. F2. 136: _heaviest_] _heavy one_ Pope.

Scenes 1-2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scenes-12

Valentine and Speed are accosted by an honorable band of thieves who are so impressed by the travelers' noble demeanor that they not only spare their lives, but offer Valentine the generalship of their gang. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! The same outlaw who utters these words explains that his own crime amounted to no more than "practicing to steal away a lady." They claim to be gentlemen, and they urge Valentine to "make virtue of necessity"; otherwise, they'll kill him. He accepts. In Milan, Proteus and Sir Thurio approach Silvia's dwelling at night. Proteus uses the excuse of giving aid to Thurio as a means to approach Silvia, who consistently spurns him: Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. Disguised as a boy and fresh from Verona, Julia comes upon the scene of Proteus singing a love song outside of Silvia's window. Thurio departs after the song, and Julia watches as her lover declares his feelings for another woman. He even goes so far as to say that she, Julia, is dead.

Even the thieves instinctively recognize the nobility of the banished Valentine, in the "romantic" tradition of true quality being evident to all: . . . seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want Note the two earmarks of this high-minded gentleman: a) he rebukes Speed for being too anxious to save his skin by joining the brigands; b) he joins on condition that, under his governance, the band shall neither rob poor people, nor fall upon "silly women." In a later play, Henry IV, Part 1, Shakespeare was to take this whole tradition of "noble brigandry" and turn it on its head in the persons of fat Jack Falstaff and his sleazy crew. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, the thieves are purely and simply a part of the romantic staple of the Elizabethans' favorite reading. A modern director would be hard put not to play the scene as parody. Probably one of the most poignant scenes in the play is the one depicting the exhausted, lovelorn Julia, dressed as a page, as she catches the first glimpse of Proteus. In order to preserve her disguise, she cannot reveal the hurt she must be experiencing as she listens to Proteus sing a love song to Silvia. Host: How now! Are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? The music likes you not. Julia: You mistake; the musician likes me not. Host: Why, my pretty youth? Julia: He plays false, father. Host: How? Out of tune on the strings? Julia: Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heartstrings. Towards the end of the scene, Silvia seems to be faltering slightly, as she consents to give Proteus a picture of herself. One wonders if this same device were part of the process whereby he had won Julia's heart. After calling Proteus a "subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man," she consents to give the picture, rationalizing thus: I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it. Julia surely notices the apparent minor capitulation, as she remarks, . . . it hath been the longest night That e'er I watched, and the most heaviest.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/act_5_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_12_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 5.scenes 1-3

scenes 1-3

{"name": "Scenes 1-3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-13", "summary": "Eglamour and Silvia flee to the forest, where she is captured by the outlaws. As they take her away to their captain , she exclaims: 'O Valentine, this I endure for thee.\" Meantime, a session in which Proteus advises Thurio on his progress with Silvia is interrupted by the Duke, who tells them of Eglamour and Silvia's flight. They exist separately. Proteus: And I will follow more for Silvia's love Julia: Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love.", "analysis": "Shakespeare speeds up the plot by his usual technique of quickly interchanging scenes. The three here, a) Silvia fleeing; b) the Duke and others pursuing them; and c) Silvia's capture by outlaws, take up roughly seventy lines. The pleasant irony of Silvia's last \"despairing' line is obvious, as is much in this romantic tale."}

ACT V. SCENE I. _Milan. An abbey._ _Enter EGLAMOUR._ _Egl._ The sun begins to gild the western sky; And now it is about the very hour That Silvia, at Friar Patrick's cell, should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, Unless it be to come before their time; 5 So much they spur their expedition. See where she comes. _Enter SILVIA._ Lady, a happy evening! _Sil._ Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey-wall: I fear I am attended by some spies. 10 _Egl._ Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off; If we recover that, we are sure enough. [_Exeunt._ Notes: V, 1. SCENE I. An abbey.] Capell. Near the Friar's cell. Theobald. 3: _That_] om. Pope. _Friar_] om. Steevens (1793). 12: _we are_] _we're_ Pope. SCENE II. _The same. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA._ _Thu._ Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? _Pro._ O, sir, I find her milder than she was; And yet she takes exceptions at your person. _Thu._ What, that my leg is too long? _Pro._ No; that it is too little. 5 _Thu._ I'll wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder. _Jul._ [_Aside_] But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes. _Thu._ What says she to my face? _Pro._ She says it is a fair one. _Thu._ Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black. 10 _Pro._ But pearls are fair; and the old saying is, Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. _Jul._ [_Aside_] 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes; For I had rather wink than look on them. _Thu._ How likes she my discourse? 15 _Pro._ Ill, when you talk of war. _Thu._ But well, when I discourse of love and peace? _Jul._ [_Aside_] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. _Thu._ What says she to my valour? _Pro._ O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 20 _Jul._ [_Aside_] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. _Thu._ What says she to my birth? _Pro._ That you are well derived. _Jul._ [_Aside_] True; from a gentleman to a fool. _Thu._ Considers she my possessions? 25 _Pro._ O, ay; and pities them. _Thu._ Wherefore? _Jul._ [_Aside_] That such an ass should owe them. _Pro._ That they are out by lease. _Jul._ Here comes the duke. 30 _Enter DUKE._ _Duke._ How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? _Thu._ Not I. _Pro._ Nor I. _Duke._ Saw you my daughter? _Pro._ Neither. _Duke._ Why then, She's fled unto that peasant Valentine; 35 And Eglamour is in her company. 'Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both, As he in penance wander'd through the forest; Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she, But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it; 40 Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not; These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently, and meet with me 45 Upon the rising of the mountain-foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled: Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [_Exit._ _Thu._ Why, this it is to be a peevish girl, That flies her fortune when it follows her. 50 I'll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [_Exit._ _Pro._ And I will follow, more for Silvia's love Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. [_Exit._ _Jul._ And I will follow, more to cross that love 55 Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [_Exit._ Notes: V, 2. SCENE II. The Duke's palace.] Theobald. 7: Jul. [Aside] _But love ..._] Collier (Boswell conj.). Pro. _But love ..._ Ff. 13: Jul. [Aside] _'Tis true ..._] Rowe. Thu. _'Tis true ..._ Ff. 18, 21, 24, 28: [Aside] Capell. 18: _hold_] _do hold_ Capell. 25: _possessions_] _large possessions_ Collier MS. 28: _owe_] Ff. _own_ Pope. 32: _saw Sir_] F4. _saw_ F1. _say saw Sir_ F2 F3. 34, 35: _Why then, She's_] _Why then, she's_ Capell. 35: _that_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 40: _it_] _her_ Collier MS. 47: _toward_] _towards_ Pope. 48: [Exit.] Rowe. 50: _when_] F1. _where_ F2 F3 F4. 51: _on_] _of_ Pope. 52: [Exit.] Capell. 54: [Exit.] Capell. 56: [Exit.] Capell. [Exeunt. Ff. SCENE III. _The frontiers of Mantua. The forest._ _Enter _Outlaws_ with SILVIA._ _First Out._ Come, come, Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. _Sil._ A thousand more mischances than this one Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently. _Sec. Out._ Come, bring her away. 5 _First Out._ Where is the gentleman that was with her? _Third Out._ Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us, But Moses and Valerius follow him. Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain: we'll follow him that's fled; 10 The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape. _First Out._ Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave: Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. _Sil._ O Valentine, this I endure for thee! [_Exeunt_. 15 Notes: V, 3. SCENE III. The ... Mantua] Capell. The forest.] Pope. 8: _Moses_] Capell. _Moyses_ Ff. 10: _we'll_] om. Pope. 11: [Exeunt. Capell.

Scenes 1-3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-13

Eglamour and Silvia flee to the forest, where she is captured by the outlaws. As they take her away to their captain , she exclaims: 'O Valentine, this I endure for thee." Meantime, a session in which Proteus advises Thurio on his progress with Silvia is interrupted by the Duke, who tells them of Eglamour and Silvia's flight. They exist separately. Proteus: And I will follow more for Silvia's love Julia: Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love.

Shakespeare speeds up the plot by his usual technique of quickly interchanging scenes. The three here, a) Silvia fleeing; b) the Duke and others pursuing them; and c) Silvia's capture by outlaws, take up roughly seventy lines. The pleasant irony of Silvia's last "despairing' line is obvious, as is much in this romantic tale.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23043-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Two Gentlemen of Verona/section_13_part_0.txt

Two Gentlemen of Verona.act 5.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scene-4", "summary": "A solitary Valentine muses on his present condition: Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. Abruptly interrupted by the spectacle of his friend Proteus in hot pursuit of Silvia, Valentine doubts his very senses: \"How like a dream is this I see and hear!\" Valentine remains mute until the moment when Proteus threatens violence. Proteus: In love, Who respects friend? Silvia: All men but Proteus. Proteus: Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, And love you 'gainst the nature of love, -- force ye. Silvia: O heaven! Proteus: I'll force thee yield to my desire. Valentine: Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion! Confronted by his friend, Proteus apologizes and is forgiven at once by Valentine. Silvia remains silent. When Julia faints, trying to cover up her emotional turmoil by telling Proteus that she was upset at not delivering the ring to Silvia as promised, it is discovered that she is indeed Proteus's former lover. She hands him the wrong ring, the one he had given her as a keepsake. The two reconcile. When Thurio is confronted by an angry Valentine, he gives up claim to Silvia, causing the Duke to change heart: I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress' love. Valentine accepts and asks the Duke to \"grant one boon,\" a general amnesty for the band of gentlemen-thieves he has been leading these past months, That done, all retire to soothe the bad feelings \"with triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.\"", "analysis": "In terms of plausibility, the last scene of The Two Gentlemen of Verona leaves much to be desired. The rapid movement from pastoral melancholy to high melodrama to festive comedy, ending in a pair of marriages needs to be accepted in the spirit of a fairy tale, where logic and consistent human motivation are irrelevant. Consider Silvia. She is nearly raped, then instants later, she sees her husband-to-be embracing her attacker as an eternal friend. No questions are asked, and significantly she has not a single line after her desperate line, \"O heaven!\" And Julia's easy acceptance of the perfidious Proteus seems almost as odd at the end of this comedy. The conventions of romance prevail, as the thieves gain pardons and a marriage banquet is announced. Valentine's proposed \"punishment\" for Proteus, at the end of the scene, seems feeble: Come Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear The story of your loves discovered. In some of Shakespeare's later comedies there are \"dark\" moments, as we find here , but they are integrated more fully into the main action, and not, as one gets the impression in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, \"dashed off\" to complete the plot."}

SCENE IV. _Another part of the forest._ _Enter VALENTINE._ _Val._ How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes 5 Tune my distresses and record my woes. O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall, And leave no memory of what it was! 10 Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! What halloing and what stir is this to-day? These are my mates, that make their wills their law, Have some unhappy passenger in chase. 15 They love me well; yet I have much to do To keep them from uncivil outrages. Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here? _Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA._ _Pro._ Madam, this service I have done for you, Though you respect not aught your servant doth, 20 To hazard life, and rescue you from him That would have forced your honour and your love; Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look; A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 25 _Val._ [_Aside_] How like a dream is this I see and hear! Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. _Sil._ O miserable, unhappy that I am! _Pro._ Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came; But by my coming I have made you happy. 30 _Sil._ By thy approach thou makest me most unhappy. _Jul._ [_Aside_] And me, when he approacheth to your presence. _Sil._ Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would have been a breakfast to the beast, Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 35 O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, Whose life's as tender to me as my soul! And full as much, for more there cannot be, I do detest false perjured Proteus. Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. 40 _Pro._ What dangerous action, stood it next to death, Would I not undergo for one calm look! O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they're beloved! _Sil._ When Proteus cannot love where he's beloved. 45 Read over Julia's heart, thy first, best love, For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths Descended into perjury, to love me. Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two, 50 And that's far worse than none; better have none Than plural faith which is too much by one: Thou counterfeit to thy true friend! _Pro._ In love Who respects friend? _Sil._ All men but Proteus. _Pro._ Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 55 Can no way change you to a milder form, I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, And love you 'gainst the nature of love,--force ye. _Sil._ O heaven! _Pro._ I'll force thee yield to my desire. _Val._ Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, 60 Thou friend of an ill fashion! _Pro._ Valentine! _Val._ Thou common friend, that's without faith or love, For such is a friend now; treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say 65 I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 70 The private wound is deepest: O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst! _Pro._ My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 75 I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer As e'er I did commit. _Val._ Then I am paid; And once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. 80 By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased: And, that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. _Jul._ O me unhappy! [_Swoons._ _Pro._ Look to the boy. 85 _Val._ Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what's the matter? Look up; speak. _Jul._ O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done. 90 _Pro._ Where is that ring, boy? _Jul._ Here 'tis; this is it. _Pro._ How! let me see: Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. _Jul._ O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook: This is the ring you sent to Silvia. 95 _Pro._ But how camest thou by this ring? At my depart I gave this unto Julia. _Jul._ And Julia herself did give it me; And Julia herself hath brought it hither. _Pro._ How! Julia! 100 _Jul._ Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart. How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush! Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me 105 Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love: It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, Women to change their shapes than men their minds. _Pro._ Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven, were man 110 But constant, he were perfect! That one error Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins: Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye? 115 _Val._ Come, come, a hand from either: Let me be blest to make this happy close; 'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. _Pro._ Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever. _Jul._ And I mine. 120 _Enter _Outlaws_, with DUKE and THURIO._ _Outlaws._ A prize, a prize, a prize! _Val._ Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the duke. Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced, Banished Valentine. _Duke._ Sir Valentine! _Thu._ Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine. 125 _Val._ Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death; Come not within the measure of my wrath; Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands: Take but possession of her with a touch: 130 I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. _Thu._ Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I: I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not: I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 135 _Duke._ The more degenerate and base art thou, To make such means for her as thou hast done, And leave her on such slight conditions. Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 140 And think thee worthy of an empress' love: Know, then, I here forget all former griefs, Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, Plead a new state in thy unrival'd merit, To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, 145 Thou art a gentleman, and well derived; Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. _Val._ I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy. I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake, To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 150 _Duke._ I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be. _Val._ These banish'd men that I have kept withal Are men endued with worthy qualities: Forgive them what they have committed here, And let them be recall'd from their exile: 155 They are reformed, civil, full of good, And fit for great employment, worthy lord. _Duke._ Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them and thee: Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts. Come, let us go: we will include all jars 160 With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. _Val._ And, as we walk along, I dare be bold With our discourse to make your Grace to smile. What think you of this page, my lord? _Duke._ I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. 165 _Val._ I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. _Duke._ What mean you by that saying? _Val._ Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along, That you will wonder what hath fortuned. Come, Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear 170 The story of your loves discovered: That done, our day of marriage shall be yours; One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [_Exeunt._ Notes: V, 4. SCENE IV. Another ... forest.] Capell. The outlaw's cave in the forest. Theobald. 2: _This shadowy desert,_] _These shadowy, desert,_ Collier MS. 8: _so_] _too_ Collier MS. 14: _are my_] _my rude_ Collier MS. 18: [Steps aside. Johnson. 19: _I have_] F1 F2 F3. _have I_ F4. _having_ Collier MS. 25: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope. 26, 32: [Aside] Theobald. 26: _is this I see and hear!_] Theobald. _is this? I see and hear:_ Ff. 43: _and still approved_] _for ever prov'd_ Pope. 49: _to love me_] F1. _to deceive me_ F2 F3 F4. 57: _woo_] _wooe_ F1. _move_ F2 F3 F4. 58: _ye_] Ff. _you_ Warburton. 63: _treacherous man_] F1. _Thou treacherous man_ F2. _Though treacherous man_ F3. _Tho treacherous man_ F4. 65: _now_] om. Pope. 67: _trusted now, when one's_] F2 F3 F4. _trusted, when one's_ F1. _trusted, when one's own_ Johnson. _trusted now, when the_ Pope. 69: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope. 71: _O time most accurst_] _O time accurst_ Hanmer. _O time most curst_ Johnson. _O spite accurst_ S. Verges conj. 72: _all foes that a friend_] _all my foes a friend_ Collier MS. 73: _confounds_] _confound_ Rowe. _My ... confounds me_] _My shame and desperate guilt at once confound me_ Collier MS. 82, 83: Blackstone proposes to transfer these lines to the end of Thurio's speech, line 135. 84: [Swoons.] Pope. 86-90: Printed by Capell as four verses ending _matter ... me ... Silvia ... done._ 86: _what's_] _what is_ Capell. 88: _to deliver_] _Deliver_ Steevens conj. 92: _see_] _see it_ Steevens conj. suggesting that lines 92-97 should end at _ring ... sir ... sent ... this?_ (om. _ring_) _... Julia._ 93: _Why, this is_] _This is_ Pope. _Why, 'tis_ S. Verges conj. 96: _But_] om. Pope. 102: _'em_] _them_ Capell. 103: _root_] _root on't_ Hanmer. 112: _all the sins_] _all th' sins_ Ff. _all sins_ Pope. 118: _be long_] _long be_ Pope. 120: _And I mine_] _And I have mine_ Steevens (Ritson conj.). [embracing. Capell. 121: SCENE V. Pope. 122: _Forbear, forbear, I say!_] _Forbear, I say!_ Capell. _Forbear, forbear!_ Pope. 124: _Banished_] _The banish'd_ Pope. 129: _Verona shall not hold_] _Milan shall not behold_ Theobald. _And Milan shall not hold_ Hanmer. _Milano shall not hold_ Collier MS. See note (VII). 143: _again,_] _again._ Steevens (Tyrwhitt conj.). 144: _unrival'd_] F1. _arrival'd_ F2 F3 F4. 160: _include_] _conclude_ Hanmer. 161: _rare_] F1. _all_ F2 F3 F4. 164: _page_] _stripling page_ Collier MS. 167: _saying?_] _saying, Valentine?_ Collier MS. 171: _loves discovered_] _love discovered_ Pope. _love's discoverer_ Collier MS. 172: _That done, our ... yours_] _Our day of marriage shall be yours no less_ Collier MS.

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201130181222/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/two-gentlemen-of-verona/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scene-4

A solitary Valentine muses on his present condition: Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. Abruptly interrupted by the spectacle of his friend Proteus in hot pursuit of Silvia, Valentine doubts his very senses: "How like a dream is this I see and hear!" Valentine remains mute until the moment when Proteus threatens violence. Proteus: In love, Who respects friend? Silvia: All men but Proteus. Proteus: Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, And love you 'gainst the nature of love, -- force ye. Silvia: O heaven! Proteus: I'll force thee yield to my desire. Valentine: Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion! Confronted by his friend, Proteus apologizes and is forgiven at once by Valentine. Silvia remains silent. When Julia faints, trying to cover up her emotional turmoil by telling Proteus that she was upset at not delivering the ring to Silvia as promised, it is discovered that she is indeed Proteus's former lover. She hands him the wrong ring, the one he had given her as a keepsake. The two reconcile. When Thurio is confronted by an angry Valentine, he gives up claim to Silvia, causing the Duke to change heart: I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress' love. Valentine accepts and asks the Duke to "grant one boon," a general amnesty for the band of gentlemen-thieves he has been leading these past months, That done, all retire to soothe the bad feelings "with triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity."

In terms of plausibility, the last scene of The Two Gentlemen of Verona leaves much to be desired. The rapid movement from pastoral melancholy to high melodrama to festive comedy, ending in a pair of marriages needs to be accepted in the spirit of a fairy tale, where logic and consistent human motivation are irrelevant. Consider Silvia. She is nearly raped, then instants later, she sees her husband-to-be embracing her attacker as an eternal friend. No questions are asked, and significantly she has not a single line after her desperate line, "O heaven!" And Julia's easy acceptance of the perfidious Proteus seems almost as odd at the end of this comedy. The conventions of romance prevail, as the thieves gain pardons and a marriage banquet is announced. Valentine's proposed "punishment" for Proteus, at the end of the scene, seems feeble: Come Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear The story of your loves discovered. In some of Shakespeare's later comedies there are "dark" moments, as we find here , but they are integrated more fully into the main action, and not, as one gets the impression in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, "dashed off" to complete the plot.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/42796-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Boxcar Children/section_2_part_0.txt

The Boxcar Children.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-3", "summary": "Good morning. Jessie is up first, and she realizes there's about to be a big storm. She takes initiative and walks off into the woods, looking for shelter. She comes upon an old boxcar. Something tells Shmoop that this might be where the Boxcar Children get their name. Jessie runs back to the other kids and tells them about the boxcar. The storm is imminent, so they take off through the woods. It starts to rain before they get to the boxcar. Jessie and Henry arrive first and roll back the heavy door. As the storm begins in earnest, the Boxcar Children just chill in the boxcar. Violet declares the empty, old boxcar totally perfect. Sure, Violet, whatever you say. Finally, the storm ends and the children emerge into the forest. It's really pretty. Jessie declares that they should live there; the boxcar can be their house. Benny doesn't want to live in the boxcar because he thinks an engine will come along and hit it. And also, it's a boxcar. Henry explains that the boxcar has been abandoned and the track is no longer in use. Henry is totally on board with this living-in-a-boxcar plan. Giving up, Benny asks about dinner. Guess what's on the menu? Bread. Benny starts to cry because he hates his sad bread dinner. Shmoop is starting to think he's the most sensible of the children. Henry decides he'll walk into town and get some milk. He's worried about leaving the girls on their own, but Jessie tells him not to worry and that they'll have a surprise for him when he gets back. When Henry is gone, Jessie tells the other kids she saw some blueberries in the woods. That's the surprise. They're about to gather blueberries when Jessie hears something making noise in the woods. Oh, dear.", "analysis": ""}

SHELTER When Jess opened her eyes it must have been about ten o'clock in the morning. She sat up and looked all around her. She could see dimly the opening where they had come into the woods. She looked around to see that her family was still safely by her. Then she looked up at the sky. At first she thought it must still be night, and then she realized that the darkness was caused by an approaching storm. "Whatever, _whatever_ shall we do now?" demanded Jess of the air. She got up and looked in every direction for shelter. She even walked quite a little way into the woods, and down a hill. And there she stood, not knowing what to do next. "I shall have to wake Henry up," she said at last. "Only how I hate to!" As she spoke she glanced into the forest, and her feet felt as if they were nailed to the ground. She could not stir. Faintly outlined among the trees, Jess saw an old freight or box car. Her first thought was one of fear; her second, hope for shelter. As she thought of shelter, her feet moved, and she stumbled toward it. It really was a freight car. She felt of it. It stood on rusty broken rails which were nearly covered with dead leaves. Then the thunder cracked overhead. Jess came to her usual senses and started back for Henry, flying like the wind. He was awake, looking anxiously overhead. He had not noticed that Jess was missing. "Come!" panted Jess. "I've found a place! Hurry! hurry!" Henry did not stop to ask questions. He picked up Benny, telling Violet to gather up the hay. And then they ran headlong through the thick underbrush in Jess' wake, seeing their way only too well by the sharp flashes of lightning. "It's beginning to sprinkle!" gasped Henry. "We'll get there, all right," Jess shouted back. "It's not far. Be all ready to help me open the door when we get there!" By sheer good fortune a big tree stump stood under the door of the freight car, or the children never could have opened it. As it was, Jess sprang on the stump and Henry, pausing to lay Benny down, did likewise. Together they rolled back the heavy door about a foot. "That's enough," panted Jess. "I'll get in, and you hand Benny up to me." "No," said Henry quietly. "I must see first if any one is in there." "It will rain!" protested Jess. "Nothing will hurt me." But she knew it was useless to argue with Henry, so she hastily groped in the bag for the matches and handed them to her brother. It must be confessed that Jess held her breath while Henry struck one and peered about inside the car. "All's well!" he reported. "Come in, everybody!" Violet passed the hay up to her brother, and crawled in herself. Then Jess handed Benny up like a package of groceries and, taking one last look at the angry sky and waving trees, she climbed in after him. The two children managed to roll the door back so that the crack was completely closed before the storm broke. But at that very instant it broke with a vengeance. It seemed to the children that the sky would split, so sharp were the cracks of thunder. But not a drop of rain reached them in their roomy retreat. They could see nothing at all, for the freight car was tightly made, and all outside was nearly as black as night. Through it all, Benny slept on. Presently the thunder grew fainter, and rumbled away down the valley, and the rain spent itself. Only the drip from the trees on the top of the car could be heard. Then Henry ventured to open the door. He knelt on his hands and knees and thrust his head out. The warm sunlight was filtering through the trees, making golden pools of light here and there. The beautiful trees, pines and white birches and oaks, grew thickly around and the ground was carpeted with flowers and wonderful ferns more than a yard high. But most miraculous of all was a miniature waterfall, small but perfect, where the same little brown brook fell gracefully over some ledges, and danced away down the glen. In an instant Jess and Violet were looking over Henry's shoulder at the pretty sight. "How different everything looks with the sun shining!" exclaimed Jess. "Things will soon be dry at this rate." "It must be about noon," observed Henry, looking at the sun. And as he spoke the faint echo of mill bells in the distance was heard. "Henry!" said Jess sharply. "Let's _live_ here!" "Live here?" repeated Henry dully. "Yes! Why not?" replied Jess. "Nobody uses this car, and it's dry and warm. We're quite far away. And yet we are near enough to a town so we can buy things." "And we're near water," added Violet. Jess hugged her sister. "So we are, little mouse," she said--"the most important thing of all." "But--" began Henry. "_Please_, Henry," said Jess excitedly. "I could make this old freight car into the dearest little house, with beds, and chairs, and a table--and dishes--" "I'd like to live here, too," said a determined little voice from the corner, "but I don't want to, unless--" "Unless what?" asked Henry, panic-stricken. "Unless I can have my dinner," Benny finished anxiously. "We'll have something to eat right away, old fellow," said Henry, thankful it was no worse. For he himself was beginning to see what a cozy home the car really would make. Jess cut the last loaf of bread into four pieces, but alas! it was very dry. The children were so hungry that they tore it with their teeth like little dogs, but Benny was nearly crying. He did not actually cry, however, for just at the crucial moment Violet started a funny story about Cinnamon Bear eating bread crusts out of the ash can. "He ought to have milk," said Jess quietly to Henry. "He _shall_ have milk," replied Henry. "I'll go down the railroad track to the town and get some." Jess counted out a dollar in ten dimes and handed it to Henry. "By the time our four dollars are gone, you will have some work to do," she said. All the same Henry did not like to begin his trip. "How I hate to leave you alone, Jess!" he said miserably. "Oh, don't you worry," began Jess lightly. "We'll have a surprise for you when you come back. You just wait and see!" And she nodded her head wisely as Henry walked slowly off through the woods. The moment he was out of sight she turned to Benny and Violet. "Now, children," she said, "what do you think we're going to do? Do you know what I saw over in the sunny part of the woods? I saw some blueberries!" "Oh, oh!" cried Benny, who knew what blueberries were. "Can't we have some blueberries and milk?" "We certainly--" began Jess. But the sentence never was finished, for a sharp crackle of dry leaves was heard. Something was moving in the woods.

Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-3

Good morning. Jessie is up first, and she realizes there's about to be a big storm. She takes initiative and walks off into the woods, looking for shelter. She comes upon an old boxcar. Something tells Shmoop that this might be where the Boxcar Children get their name. Jessie runs back to the other kids and tells them about the boxcar. The storm is imminent, so they take off through the woods. It starts to rain before they get to the boxcar. Jessie and Henry arrive first and roll back the heavy door. As the storm begins in earnest, the Boxcar Children just chill in the boxcar. Violet declares the empty, old boxcar totally perfect. Sure, Violet, whatever you say. Finally, the storm ends and the children emerge into the forest. It's really pretty. Jessie declares that they should live there; the boxcar can be their house. Benny doesn't want to live in the boxcar because he thinks an engine will come along and hit it. And also, it's a boxcar. Henry explains that the boxcar has been abandoned and the track is no longer in use. Henry is totally on board with this living-in-a-boxcar plan. Giving up, Benny asks about dinner. Guess what's on the menu? Bread. Benny starts to cry because he hates his sad bread dinner. Shmoop is starting to think he's the most sensible of the children. Henry decides he'll walk into town and get some milk. He's worried about leaving the girls on their own, but Jessie tells him not to worry and that they'll have a surprise for him when he gets back. When Henry is gone, Jessie tells the other kids she saw some blueberries in the woods. That's the surprise. They're about to gather blueberries when Jessie hears something making noise in the woods. Oh, dear.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/42796-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Boxcar Children/section_3_part_0.txt

The Boxcar Children.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "The kids wait quietly in the boxcar, hoping to discover the source of the noise. Benny thinks it might be a bear; things are sort of tense. Oh, good, it's not a bear--it's just a dog with an injured paw. The dog hops over to Jessie, who removes a thorn from his foot and ties a wet handkerchief around it as a bandage. Jessie holds the dog so he can rest while the other children go to pick blueberries. After a while, Jessie goes over to help, still holding the dog. Oh, here's Henry--he brought milk and cheese and bread. Henry is psyched about the dog. He thinks the pup will make a great watchdog. Benny informs the group that the dog's name is Watch. Guess that's settled. It's time for dinner, so Jessie arranges the laundry bag into a tablecloth and cuts the bread and cheese into chunks. She also puts out the blueberries. Henry is psyched about those, too. Everyone eats dinner. There's some milk leftover at the end, which they'll have for breakfast. Jessie declares that they will sleep on beds--though by beds, she actually means pine needles. As they arrange their \"beds\" in the boxcar, Jessie plots out the space. She thinks there will be room for a kitchen and a sitting room. Jessie has a pretty active imagination. Time to wash up. Afterward, Jessie washes the towels and hangs them on a clothesline to dry. Jessie thinks they should have a little nightcap before bed, by which she means some water. Henry takes two empty milk bottles off to the water fountain, and after a few sips, everyone is ready for bed. It's hot, so they leave the door of the boxcar open.", "analysis": ""}

A NEW HOME "Keep still!" whispered Jess. Benny obeyed. The three children were as motionless as stone images, huddled inside the freight car. Jess opened her mouth in order to breathe at all, her heart was thumping so wildly. She watched like a cat through the open door, in the direction of the rustling noise. And in a moment the trembling bushes parted, and out crawled a dog. He was an Airedale and was pulling himself along on three legs, whimpering softly. Jess drew a long breath of relief, and said to the children, "It's all right. Only a dog. But he seems to be hurt." At the sound of her voice the dog lifted his eyes and wagged his tail feebly. He held up his front foot. "Poor doggie," murmured Jess soothingly, as she clambered out of the car. "Let Jess see your poor lame foot." She approached the dog carefully, for she remembered that her mother had always told her never to touch a strange dog unless he wagged his tail. But this dog's tail was wagging, certainly, so Jess bent over without fear to look at the paw. An exclamation of pity escaped her when she saw it, for a stiff, sharp thorn had been driven completely through one of the cushions of the dog's foot, and around it the blood had dried. "I guess I can fix that," said Jess briskly. "But taking the thorn out is going to hurt you, old fellow." The dog looked up at her as she laid his paw down, and licked her hand. "Come here, Violet and Benny," directed Jess. She took the animal gently in her lap and turned him on his side. She patted his head and stroked his nose with one finger, and offered him the rest of her breadcrust, which she had put in her apron pocket. The dog snapped it up as if he were nearly starved. Then she held the soft paw firmly with her left hand, and pulled steadily on the thorn with her right hand. The dog did not utter a sound. He lay motionless in her lap, until the thorn suddenly let go and lay in Jess' hand. "Good, good!" cried Violet. "Wet my handkerchief," Jess ordered briskly. Violet did so, dipping it in the running brook. Jess wrapped the cool, wet folds around the hot paw, and gently squeezed it against the wound, the dog meanwhile trying to lick her hands. "We'll s'prise Henry, won't we?" laughed Benny delightedly. "Now we got a dog!" "To be sure," said Jess, struck with the thought, "but that isn't what I intended for a surprise. You know I was intending to get a lot of blueberries, and maybe find some old dishes in a dump or something--" "Can't we look while you hold the dog?" asked Violet anxiously. "Of course you can, Pet!" said Jess. "Look over there by those rocks." Benny and Violet scrambled through the underbrush to the place Jess pointed out, and investigated. But they did not hunt long, for the blueberries were so thick that the bushes almost bent over with their weight. "O Jessy," screamed Benny, "you never saw so many in your life! What'll we pick 'em into?" "Come and get a clean towel," said Jess, who noticed that Benny was already "picking into" his own mouth. "But that's just as well," she thought. "Because he won't get so hungry waiting for the milk." She watched the two children a moment as they dropped handfuls of the bluish globes on the towel. Then she carefully got up with her little patient and went over and sat down in the center of the patch. The berries were so thick she did not have to change her position before the towel held over a quart. "Oh, dear," sighed Jess. "I wish I could hunt for some dishes, so we could have blueberries and milk." "Never mind tonight," said Violet. "We can just eat a handful of berries and then take a drink of milk, when Henry comes." But it was even better than that, for when Henry came he had two bottles of milk under one arm, a huge loaf of brown bread under the other, and some golden cheese in waxed paper in his pocket. But you should have seen Henry stare when he saw what Jess was holding! "Where in the world--" began the boy. "He _camed_ to us," volunteered Benny. "He camed for a s'prise for you. And he's a nice doggie." Henry knelt down to look at the visitor, who wagged his tail. "It wouldn't be a bad thing to have a watchdog," said Henry. "I worried about you all the time I was gone." "Did you bring some milk?" inquired Benny, trying to be polite, but looking at the bottles with longing eyes. "Bless his heart!" said Jess, struggling to her feet with the dog. "We'll have dinner right away--or is it supper?" "Call it supper," suggested Henry, "for it's the last thing we'll have to eat today." "And then tomorrow we'll start having three meals every day," laughed Jess. It was certainly a queer meal, whatever it was. Jess, who liked above all things to be orderly, spread out the big gray laundry bag on the pine needles for a tablecloth. The brown loaf was cut by a very excited little hostess into five thick squares; the cheese into four. "Dogs don't eat cheese," Benny remarked cheerfully. The poor little fellow was glad of it, too, for he was very hungry. He could hardly wait for Jess to set the milk bottles in the center of the table and heap the blueberries in four little mounds, one at each place. "I'm sorry we haven't cups," Jess remarked. "We'll just have to drink out of the same bottle." "No, we won't," said Henry. "We'll drink half of each bottle, so that will make at least two things to drink out of." "Good for you, Henry," said Jess, much relieved. "You and Benny use one, and Violet and I will use the other." So the meal began. "Look, Benny," directed Henry. "Eat a handful of blueberries, then take a bite of brown bread, then a nibble of cheese. Now, a drink of milk!" "It's good! It's good!" mumbled Benny to himself all through the meal. You must not imagine that the poor wandering dog was neglected, for Jess fed him gently, as he lay in her lap, poking morsels of bread into his mouth and pouring milk into her own hand for him to lap up. When the meal was over, and exactly half of each bottle of milk remained, Jess said, "We are going to sleep on _beds_ tonight, and just as soon as we get our beds made, we are all going to be washed." "That'll be fun, Benny," added Violet. "We'll wash our paws in the brook just the way Cinnamon does." "First, let's gather armfuls of dry pine needles," ordered Jess. "Get those on top that have been lying in the sunshine." Jess laid the dog down on a bed of moss as she spoke, and started energetically to scoop up piles of the fragrant needles. Soon a pile as high as her head stood just under the freight-car door. "I think we have enough," she said at last. Taking the scissors from Violet's workbag, she cut the laundry bag carefully into two pieces, saving the cord for a clothesline. One of the big squares was laid across Benny's hay and tucked under. That was the softest bed of all. Violet's apron and her own, she cut off at the belt. "I'll sleep next to Benny," said Henry, "with my head up by the door. Then I can hear what is going on." A big pile of pine needles was loaded into the freight car for Henry's bed, and covered with the other half of the laundry bag. The remainder of the needles Jess piled into the farthest corner of the car for herself and Violet. "We'll all sleep on one side, so we can call it the bedroom." "What'll be the other side?" inquired Benny. "The other side?" repeated Jess. "Let me think! I guess that'll be the sitting room, and perhaps some of the time the kitchen." "On rainy days, maybe the dining room," added Henry with a wink. "Couldn't it be the parlor?" begged Benny. "Certainly, the parlor! We forgot that," agreed Jess, returning the wink. She was covering the last two soft beds with the two aprons. "The tops of these aprons are washcloths," she said severely. Then armed with the big cake of soap she led the way to the brook. The dog watched them anxiously, but when Jess said, "Lie still," he obeyed. From the moment Jess drew the thorn from his foot he was her dog, to obey her slightest command and to follow her wherever she went. The clean cool brook was delightful even to Benny. The children rolled up their sleeves and plunged their dusty arms into its waters, quarreling good-naturedly over the soap, and lathering their stained faces and necks with it. When they were well rinsed with clear water they dried themselves with the towel. Then Jess washed both towels nicely with soap, rinsed them, and hung them on the clothesline of tape, which she had stretched between two slender birch trees. They flapped lazily in the wind. "Looks like home already, Jess," said Henry, smiling at the washing. The tired children clambered into the "bedroom," Jess coming last with the wounded dog. "We'll have to leave the door open, it's so hot," said Henry, lying down with a tired sigh. And in less than ten minutes they were fast asleep, dog and all--asleep at six o'clock, asleep without naming the dog, without locking the door, without fear, for this was the first night in four that they had been able to go to sleep _at night_, as children should.

Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-4

The kids wait quietly in the boxcar, hoping to discover the source of the noise. Benny thinks it might be a bear; things are sort of tense. Oh, good, it's not a bear--it's just a dog with an injured paw. The dog hops over to Jessie, who removes a thorn from his foot and ties a wet handkerchief around it as a bandage. Jessie holds the dog so he can rest while the other children go to pick blueberries. After a while, Jessie goes over to help, still holding the dog. Oh, here's Henry--he brought milk and cheese and bread. Henry is psyched about the dog. He thinks the pup will make a great watchdog. Benny informs the group that the dog's name is Watch. Guess that's settled. It's time for dinner, so Jessie arranges the laundry bag into a tablecloth and cuts the bread and cheese into chunks. She also puts out the blueberries. Henry is psyched about those, too. Everyone eats dinner. There's some milk leftover at the end, which they'll have for breakfast. Jessie declares that they will sleep on beds--though by beds, she actually means pine needles. As they arrange their "beds" in the boxcar, Jessie plots out the space. She thinks there will be room for a kitchen and a sitting room. Jessie has a pretty active imagination. Time to wash up. Afterward, Jessie washes the towels and hangs them on a clothesline to dry. Jessie thinks they should have a little nightcap before bed, by which she means some water. Henry takes two empty milk bottles off to the water fountain, and after a few sips, everyone is ready for bed. It's hot, so they leave the door of the boxcar open.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/42796-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Boxcar Children/section_4_part_0.txt

The Boxcar Children.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-5", "summary": "Jessie is up bright and early to tidy up. She goes to retrieve the milk from the \"refrigerator,\" which is a cold nook in the waterfall. The nook worked, and the milk is ready to drink. Over breakfast, Henry tells the group he plans to go into town and find work. Henry sets off for town, promising to be back by lunchtime. Jessie leads the other two children on a treasure hunt, and with that, they set off to find a dump. Benny wants to know if the stuff at the dump really qualifies as treasure. Good question, Benny. Benny also wants to know if there will be wheels at the dump. This seems oddly specific, but Violet thinks there probably will be. Watch is still hopping around on three legs, but he's in high spirits. He likes the Boxcar Children. The kids walk for a while and finally find a dump, which is conveniently filled with wheels and dishes. The kids gather some of the dishes. Benny has four wheels and a pink cup that he declares as his. Everyone makes their way back to camp, where Jessie washes the dishes using soap and sand. When Henry returns, they'll boil some water to rinse everything a final time. Violet has spotted some pegs in the boxcar on which they can build a shelf. Once they do, Jessie arranges the dishes and some flowers on the new shelf to make the boxcar more homey. She's very pleased with herself. Here's Henry. He's carrying all sorts of stuff, but he won't reveal what he has yet. The children tell Henry about their big day at the dump, and then Henry builds a fire so they can boil water to rinse the dishes.", "analysis": ""}

HOUSEKEEPING The next morning Jess was up before the others, as was fitting for a little housekeeper. That is, she was first if we except the dog, who had opened one eye instantly every time his little mistress stirred in her sleep. He sat watching gravely in the door of the car as Jess descended to get breakfast. She walked from the little waterfall quite a distance down the brook, looking at it with critical eyes. "This will be the well," she said to herself, regarding a small but deep and quiet basin just below the falls. Below that she found a larger basin, lined with gravel, with flat stones surrounding it. "This will be the washtub," she decided. "And now I must go back to the refrigerator." This was the strangest spot of all, for behind the little waterfall was a small quiet pool in which Jess had set the milk bottles the night before. Not a drop of water could get in, but all night long the cool running water had surrounded the bottles. They were now fairly icy to the touch. Jess smiled as she drew them out. "Is it good?" asked Benny's voice. There he sat in the door of the car, swinging his legs, his arm around the shaggy dog. "It's delicious!" declared Jess. "Cold as ice." She climbed up beside him as she spoke, bringing the breakfast with her. The other two children sat up and looked at it. "Today, Jess," began Henry, "I will go back to town and try to get a job mowing lawns or something. Then we can afford to have something besides milk for breakfast." Milk suited Benny very well, however, so the older children allowed him to drink rather more than his share. Henry did not waste any time talking. He brushed his hair as well as he could without a brush, rolled down his sleeves, and started for town with the second dollar. "Glad you've got a dog, Jess," he called back, as he waved his straw hat. The children watched him disappear around the curve and then turned to Jess expectantly. They were not mistaken. Jess had a plan. "We'll explore," she began mysteriously. "We'll begin here at the car, and hunt all over these woods until we find a dump!" "What's a dump?" inquired Benny. "O Benny!" answered Violet. "You know what a dump is. All old bottles and papers and broken dishes." "And wheels?" asked Benny interestedly. "Will there be any old wheels?" "Yes, maybe," assented Violet. "But cups, Benny! Think of drinking milk out of a cup again!" "Oh, yes," said Benny, politely. But it was clear that his mind was centered on wheels rather than cups. The exploring party started slowly down the rusty track, with the dog hopping happily on three legs. The fourth paw, nicely bandaged with Jess' handkerchief, he held up out of harm's way. "I think this is a spur track," said Jess. "They built it in here so they could load wood on the cars, and then when they had cut all the wood they didn't need the track any more." This explanation seemed very likely, for here and there were stumps of trees and decaying chips. Violet took note of these chips, and remembered them some days later. In fact, both girls kept their eyes open, and pointed out things of interest to each other. "Remember these logs, Violet, if we should ever need any," said Jess pointing. "Blackberry blossoms!" returned Violet briefly, turning one over gently with her foot. "Big flat stones!" remarked Jess, later on, as they came upon a great heap of them. Here the track came out into the open sunshine, and broken pieces of rail showed clearly where it had joined the main track at some time in the past. And here from the top of the wooded hill the children could plainly see the city in the valley. They walked along the track, picking out a church steeple here and there, forgetting for a moment the object of their search. "There's a wheel!" Benny cried triumphantly from behind. The girls looked down, and with a glad cry of surprise Jess recognized a dump at the foot of the hill. They found it not composed entirely of ashes and tin cans, either, although both of these were there in great profusion. It was a royal dump, containing both cups and wheels. "O Benny!" cried Jess, "if it hadn't been for you!" She hugged him, wheel and all, and began turning over the rubbish with great delight. "Here's a white pitcher, Jess," Violet called, holding up a perfect specimen with a tiny chip in its nose. "Here's a big white cup," said Jess delightedly, laying it aside. "Want a teapot, Jessy?" inquired Benny, offering her an enormous blue enameled affair without a handle. "Yes, _indeed_!" cried Jess. "We can use that for water. I've found two cups and a bowl already. And Violet, we ought to be looking for spoons, too." Violet pointed without speaking to her little pile of treasures. There were five iron spoons covered with rust. "Wonderful!" pronounced Jess with rapture. Indeed, it is doubtful if collectors of rare and beautiful bits of porcelain ever enjoyed a search as much as did these adventurers in the dump heap. Benny actually found four wheels, exactly alike, probably from the same cart, and insisted upon carrying them back. To please him, Jess allowed him to add them to the growing pile. "Here's a big iron kettle," observed Violet. "But we won't really cook with a fire, will we, Jess?" "We'll take it back, though," replied Jess with a knowing look. "We can pile lots of dishes in it." They could, and did, but not until after Benny had discovered his beloved "pink cup." It was a tea-party cup of bright rose-color with a wreath of gorgeous roses on it, and a little shepherdess giving her lamb a drink from a pale blue brook. It had a perfectly good handle, gold into the bargain. Its only flaw was a dangerous crack through the lamb's nose and front feet. Jess made a cushion for it out of grass and laid it on top of the kettle full of treasures. All the things, even the wheels, were laid on a wide board which the two girls carried between them. [Illustration: _Benny discovered his beloved "pink cup"_] Can you imagine the dishwashing when the gay party returned to the freight car? Children do not usually care for dishwashing. But never did a little boy hand dishes to his sister so carefully as Benny did. On their hands and knees beside the clear, cool little "washtub," the three children soaped and rinsed and dried their precious store of dishes. Jess scoured the rust from the spoons with sand. "There!" she said, drying the last polished spoon. The children sat back and looked admiringly at their own handiwork. But they did not look long. There was too much to be done. "Jess," exclaimed Violet, "I'll tell you!" Violet seldom spoke so excitedly. Even Benny turned around and looked at her. "Come and see what I noticed inside the car last night!" Both children followed her, and peered in at the door. "See, on the wall, right over on the other door, Jess." Now, all Jess could see were two thick chunks of wood nailed securely to the closed door opposite the open one. But she whirled around and around as fast as she could, clapping her hands. When she could get her breath, however, she skipped over to the board they had carried, dusted it nicely, and laid it carefully across the two wooden projections. It was a perfect shelf. "There!" said Jess. The children could hardly wait to arrange the shining new dishes on the shelf. Violet quietly gathered some feathery white flowers, a daisy or two, and some maidenhair ferns, which she arranged in a glass vase filled with water from the "well." This she put in the middle, with the broken edge hidden. "There!" said Jess. "You said 'there' three times, Jessy," remarked Benny, contentedly. "So I did," replied Jess laughing, "but I'm going to say it again." She pointed and said, "There!" Henry was coming up the path.

Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-5

Jessie is up bright and early to tidy up. She goes to retrieve the milk from the "refrigerator," which is a cold nook in the waterfall. The nook worked, and the milk is ready to drink. Over breakfast, Henry tells the group he plans to go into town and find work. Henry sets off for town, promising to be back by lunchtime. Jessie leads the other two children on a treasure hunt, and with that, they set off to find a dump. Benny wants to know if the stuff at the dump really qualifies as treasure. Good question, Benny. Benny also wants to know if there will be wheels at the dump. This seems oddly specific, but Violet thinks there probably will be. Watch is still hopping around on three legs, but he's in high spirits. He likes the Boxcar Children. The kids walk for a while and finally find a dump, which is conveniently filled with wheels and dishes. The kids gather some of the dishes. Benny has four wheels and a pink cup that he declares as his. Everyone makes their way back to camp, where Jessie washes the dishes using soap and sand. When Henry returns, they'll boil some water to rinse everything a final time. Violet has spotted some pegs in the boxcar on which they can build a shelf. Once they do, Jessie arranges the dishes and some flowers on the new shelf to make the boxcar more homey. She's very pleased with herself. Here's Henry. He's carrying all sorts of stuff, but he won't reveal what he has yet. The children tell Henry about their big day at the dump, and then Henry builds a fire so they can boil water to rinse the dishes.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/42796-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Boxcar Children/section_7_part_0.txt

The Boxcar Children.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-8", "summary": "The kids sleep till 10 a.m. on Sunday morning, and after breakfast, they start to work on the swimming pool. It's going to be a group effort. They assess the brook and decide they need to build a dam. Jessie washes socks. Building a dam is hard work, but the Boxcar Children are basically perfect, so they don't mind. After the children lay some logs on top of a stack of stones, they realize they need to build a tall wall with more logs. Good thing they like hard work so much. Finally, the dam is finished, and the pool fills with water. You know what that means: It's swimming time. The boys get the first swim while the girls cook dinner. Shmoop thinks the boys got the better end of that deal. Jessie and Violet heat up the leftover stew. Then, Jessie rings the dinner bell. Guess what she made it from? More garbage from the dump. The children eat stew, wash dishes, and then set off on a walk. Watch begins to bark. Uh-oh, do you think it's the intruder? No, it's a runaway hen. Benny finds a nest with some eggs, and as luck would have it, Jessie knows how to cook eggs. That's dinner sorted. Jessie cooks the eggs and they're delish. She thanks Benny for finding them.", "analysis": ""}

BUILDING THE DAM Even a hammer makes a good pillow if one is tired enough, and the freight-car family slept until the nine-o'clock church bells began to ring faintly in the valley. There were at least a dozen churches, and their far-away bells sounded sweetly harmonious in so many different keys. "They almost play a tune," said Violet, as she listened. "I like music all right," replied Henry in a business-like way, "but I for one shall have to get to work." "This will be a good day to wash all the stockings," said Jess. "We'll all be wading so much in the brook, anyway." After breakfast the first thing Henry did was to survey, with critical eyes, the spot they had chosen for a pool. It was a hollow about three yards across. There were no stones in it at all. "It's _big_ enough already," remarked Henry at last, "but it hasn't enough water in it." He measured its depth with a stick. "We'll have to guess at inches," he said. "I have a little tape measure in my workbag," ventured his sister Violet. Henry flashed a smile at her. "Is there anything you _haven't_ got in your workbag?" he asked her. The children measured the wet stick carefully. The water was just ten inches deep in the deepest part. Henry explained his plan of engineering to his sisters. "We will have to haul some big logs across this narrow part and stuff them from this end with stones and underbrush. It ought to be three feet deep before we get through." "O Henry!" protested Jess. "Benny would get drowned." "Drowned!" echoed Henry. "How tall do you think he is, anyhow?" They measured the little boy and found him to be forty-two inches tall. That settled it; the pool was designed to be three feet in depth. Luckily the largest logs were not far away; but as it was, it was a matter of great labor for the builders to drag them to the scene of operations. "Let's get all the logs up here first," suggested Jess. "Then we can have the fun of laying them across." The two older children dragged all the logs, while Violet and Benny attended to the stones, with the help of the cart. Occasionally Henry was called upon to assist with a heavy stone, but for the most part Benny puffed out his cheeks and heaved the stones himself. In fact, Henry decided at this point to let Benny drop them into the water as he gathered them. "Splash 'em right in, old fellow," he directed. "Only keep them in a nice straight line right across this place between these two trees. It won't make any difference how wet he gets," he added in an aside to Jess. "We can dry him in the sun." Jess thought a little differently, although she said nothing. She took off Benny's little crinkled blouse and one pair of bloomers, and started to hang them on the line. "Good time to wash them!" she exclaimed. "Let me wash them," begged Violet. "You're more useful building the dam." There was wisdom in this suggestion, so Jess accepted it gratefully, and even added Henry's blouse to the laundry. "When we finish the dam they will surely be dry," she said. As for Henry, he was only too glad to work without it. "Makes me feel lighter," he declared. Rare and beautiful birds came and watched the barefooted children as they scurried around, building their wall of masonry. But the children did not have any eyes for birds then. They watched with delighted eyes as each stone was added to the wall under the clear water, and it began to rise almost to the surface. "That makes a solid foundation for the logs, you see," explained Henry with pride. "They won't be floating off downstream the minute we lay them on." Then at last the time arrived when they were to lay the logs on. "Let's wedge the first one between these two trees," said Jess, with a happy thought. "Then if each end of the log is on the upper side of the trees, the harder the water pounds the tighter the dam gets." "Good work!" exclaimed Henry admiringly. "That's just what we'll do." But the children were not at all prepared for what happened the moment the first big log was splashed into its place on top of the stone wall. The water, defeated in its course down the rocky bed, gurgled and chased about as it met the opposing log, and found every possible hole to escape. "Leaks," said Henry briefly, as the water began to rush around both ends and pour over the top of the log. "We'll make the logs so thick it _can't_ get through. We'll lay three logs across, with three logs on top of them, and three more on top of that." The children set about stubbornly to accomplish this. Violet held great sprays of fine underbrush in place until each log was laid. Wetter children never were seen. But nobody cared. They resolutely plugged the ends with more stones, more underbrush, and more logs. Each time a leak was discovered, someone dropped a stone over it. Even Benny caught the fever of conquering the mischievous water which slipped from their grasp like quicksilver. When the three top logs were at last dropped into place, the excited children sat down to watch the pool fill. This it did slowly. Finding now no means of exit, the water was quieter. It rose steadily up the barricade of logs. It widened beautifully. Henry could not sit still. "It slopes!" he cried. "See how clear it is! And still! See how still it is!" And then the water began to overflow the logs. It spilled over the top with a delightful curve. And on the other side it formed a second waterfall--not high and narrow and graceful like the natural fall above, but very low and wide. "Just like a regular mill dam," said Henry. He held the measuring stick out as far as he could and plunged it into the water. It lacked an inch of being three feet deep. "Deep enough," he declared. In fact it looked so deep that Benny could not conceal a slight fear. "That's the beauty of the slope," observed Jess. "Benny can wade in just as far as he wants to, and no farther. We all know what the bed of the pool is like--no holes or stones." The girls had to leave to prepare dinner, but Henry could not be persuaded to leave the wonderful swimming pool. "I'd rather swim than eat," he said. Luckily for the children, their supply of provisions was the largest of any day since their flight. The girls lighted the fire and heated up the remainder of the stew and cut the bread. The butter, hard and cold in the refrigerator, was taken out, and four portions cut from it. The two doughnuts made four half rings for dessert. The cooks rang the dinner bell. This was an ingenious arrangement hung on a low branch. It consisted of a piece of bent steel swung on a string. Violet hit it sharply with another piece of steel. It sounded deeply and musically through the woods, and the boys understood it and obeyed at once. It was evident the moment they appeared that at least three of the family had been swimming. Watch shook himself violently at intervals, spattering water drops in all directions. Henry and Benny, fresh and radiant, with plastered hair and clean dry stockings and blouses, apparently liked to swim and eat, too. "You can actually swim a few strokes in it, Jess, if you're careful," Henry said, with excusable pride, as he sat down to dinner. Building a dam is wonderful sauce for a dinner. "I think stew is much better the second day," observed Benny, eating hungrily. There remained two more adventures for the eventful day. The girls cut their hair. Violet's dark curls came off first. "They're awfully in the way," explained Violet, "and so much trouble when you're working." They were tangled, too, and Jess cut them off evenly by a string, with Violet's little scissors. Jess' chestnut hair was long and silky and nicely braided, but she never murmured as it came off too. The two girls ran to the brook mirror to see how they looked. The new haircut was very becoming to both. "I like you better that way," said Henry approvingly. "Lots more sensible when you're living in the woods." Around four o'clock the children took a long walk in the opposite direction from any of their other explorations. They were rewarded by two discoveries. One was a hollow tree literally filled with walnuts, gathered presumably by a thrifty squirrel the previous fall. The other discovery frightened them a little just at first. For with bristling back and a loud bark, Watch suddenly began to rout out something in the leaves, and that something began to cackle and half run and half fly from the intruders. It was a runaway hen. The children succeeded in catching the dog and reducing him to order, although it was clear he liked very much to chase hens. "She had some eggs, too," remarked Benny as if trying to make pleasant conversation. Jess bent over incredulously and saw a rude nest in the moss in which there were five eggs. "A runaway hen!" said Henry, hardly believing his eyes. "She wants to hide her nest and raise chickens." The children had no scruples at all about taking the eggs. "Almost a gift from heaven," said Violet, stroking one of the eggs with a delicate finger. "It wouldn't be polite to refuse them." Scrambled eggs made a delicious supper for the children. Jess broke all the eggs into the biggest bowl and beat them vigorously with a spoon until they were light and foamy. Then she added milk and salt and delegated Violet to beat them some more while she prepared the fire. The big kettle, empty and clean, was hung over the low fire and butter was dropped in. Jess watched it anxiously, tipping the kettle slightly in all directions. When the butter had reached the exact shade of brown, Jess poured in the eggs and stirred them carefully, holding her skirts away from the fire. She was amply repaid for her care when she saw her family attack the meal. Clearly this was a feast day. "We shall have to be satisfied tomorrow to live on bread and milk," she observed, scraping up the last delicious morsel. But when tomorrow came they had more than bread and milk, as you will soon see.

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-8

The kids sleep till 10 a.m. on Sunday morning, and after breakfast, they start to work on the swimming pool. It's going to be a group effort. They assess the brook and decide they need to build a dam. Jessie washes socks. Building a dam is hard work, but the Boxcar Children are basically perfect, so they don't mind. After the children lay some logs on top of a stack of stones, they realize they need to build a tall wall with more logs. Good thing they like hard work so much. Finally, the dam is finished, and the pool fills with water. You know what that means: It's swimming time. The boys get the first swim while the girls cook dinner. Shmoop thinks the boys got the better end of that deal. Jessie and Violet heat up the leftover stew. Then, Jessie rings the dinner bell. Guess what she made it from? More garbage from the dump. The children eat stew, wash dishes, and then set off on a walk. Watch begins to bark. Uh-oh, do you think it's the intruder? No, it's a runaway hen. Benny finds a nest with some eggs, and as luck would have it, Jessie knows how to cook eggs. That's dinner sorted. Jessie cooks the eggs and they're delish. She thanks Benny for finding them.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/42796-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Boxcar Children/section_8_part_0.txt

The Boxcar Children.chapter 9

chapter 9

{"name": "Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-9", "summary": "Henry wonders if he should take the other kids to pick cherries, so he asks Jessie what she thinks. Jessie thinks that their grandfather might be on the lookout for four kids traveling together, so she suggests they walk into town in pairs. It's cherry-pickin' time. The whole gang is there, but Benny is too little to pick cherries so he's just going to watch. Henry, Jessie, and Violet start picking, while Benny just runs around eating cherries and making friends with everyone. At lunchtime, Dr. Moore invites the children to stay and eat. He asks if their mother will mind and gives Henry a quizzical look. Could he possibly know they're on their own? Henry doesn't know what to say about the whole mother thing, but Jessie steps in and says their parents are dead. Everyone eats lunch, and there are cherry dumplings for dessert. Yum. Then, Benny settles down for a nap, and the other kids get back to work. At the end of the day, Dr. Moore gives the kids $4 and more cherries. He notes that the kids leave in pairs instead of walking together as a group. The boxcar is just as the children left it, so they have some supper and go to bed. That night, Dr. Moore sees an ad in the paper: A man named James Henry Alden is offering $5,000 for four lost children. Dr. Moore instantly realizes that the children the man is looking for are his workers. You can't get anything by this doctor. The doctor resolves to keep the children's secret, though, 'cause he's cool like that.", "analysis": ""}

CHERRY PICKING Henry meditated awhile all to himself early the next morning as to whether he ought to take any one with him for the cherry picking. "He certainly said he could use more than one," he mused. Failing to decide the question, he laid it before his sisters as they ate bread and milk for breakfast. "I can't see any reason, except one, why we shouldn't all go," said Jess. "What's that?" asked Henry. "Well, you see there are four of us, and supposing grandfather is looking for us, it will be easier to find four than one." "True," agreed Henry. "But supposing we went down the hill and through the streets two by two? And you took Watch?" It was finally agreed that Henry and Benny would attract very little attention together; Violet and Jess would follow with the dog, who would trace Henry. And so they set out. They took down the clothesline and closed the car door. Everything instantly looked as lonesome as heart could wish. Even the merry little brook looked deserted. When the children arrived at the McAllister orchard they soon saw that they were not the only workers. Two hired men and the young doctor himself were carrying ladders and baskets from the barn, and the Irish cook was bringing piles of square baskets from the house--the kind that strawberries are sold in. "The girls can pick cherries as well as I can," said Henry, introducing his sisters. "Benny ought not to climb very tall trees, but we had to bring him." "Benny can carry the baskets, perhaps," suggested the doctor, much amused. "You see, this is a cherry year, and we have to work quickly when we once begin. Perhaps he could fill the small baskets from the big ones." It was a "cherry year," certainly. There were two varieties in the orchard, the pale yellow kind with a red cheek, and the deep crimson ones which were just as red in the center as they were on the outside. The red ones were huge, bursting with juice, and the trees were laden full with the luscious fruit. Even the air was perfumed. It was a pretty sight that the doctor finally turned his back upon when he went on his calls. Henry, slim, tanned, and graceful, picked rapidly from the tallest ladder in the largest tree. The two girls in their sensible bloomer suits could climb like cats. They leaned against the ladders easily about halfway up, their fluffy short hair gleaming in the sun. Benny trotted to and fro, waiting upon the busy pickers, his cheeks as red as the cherries themselves. "Eat all you want," Dr. McAllister called back. They did not really obey this command, but occasionally a set of white teeth bit into one of the glorious oxhearts. In less than an hour Benny had made five firm friends. The hired men joked with him, the cook petted him, the young doctor laughed at him delightedly, and sweet Mrs. McAllister fell in love with him. Finally he seated himself comfortably at her side under the trees and filled square boxes with great care under her direction. "I never had such a cheerful crowd of cherry pickers before," Mrs. McAllister said at last. "I'd much rather stay out here than go into the house where it is cool." Evidently Mary the cook felt the same way, for she kept coming to the orchard for some reason or other. When the doctor returned at lunch time his orchard was ringing with laughter, and good-natured barks from Watch who could not feel easy in his mind with his mistress so high up in a tree where he couldn't follow. Dr. McAllister paused in the garage long enough to give a sniff to the boiling cherries in the kitchen, and then made his way to the orchard, where he received a warm welcome. "There's no use in your going home to lunch," he smilingly observed, at the same time watching Henry's face carefully. "You can eat right here in the orchard, unless your mother will be worrying about you." This remark met with an astounding silence. Henry was the first to collect his wits. "No, our mother is dead," he said evenly, without embarrassment. It was the doctor who hastened to change the subject he had introduced. "I smelled something when I came in," he said to Benny. "What did it smell like?" inquired Benny. "It smelled like cherry slump," replied the doctor with twinkling eyes. "Cherry _what_?" asked Jess, struggling down her ladder with a full basket. "I think that's what they call it--slump," repeated Dr. McAllister. "Do you care to try it?" At this moment Mary appeared in the orchard with an enormous tray. And at the first sight of her cookery, nobody cared the least what its name was. It was that rare combination of dumpling beaten with stoned cherries, and cooked gently in the juice of the oxheart cherries in a real "cherry year." It was steaming in the red juice, with the least suspicion of melted butter over the whole. "Do get two more, Mary," begged Mrs. McAllister, laughing. "It tastes so much better under the cherry trees!" This was another meal that nobody ever forgot. Even the two hired men sitting under another tree devouring the delicious pudding, paused to hear Benny laugh. Nowadays those two men sometimes meet Henry--but that's another story. Anyway, they never will forget that cherry slump made by Irish Mary. Almost as soon as lunch was over Benny rolled over on the grass and went to sleep, his head, as usual, on the dog's back. But the others worked on steadily. Mrs. McAllister kept an eye on them from the screened porch without their knowledge. "Just see how those children keep at it," she said to her son. "There is good stuff in them. I should like to know where they come from." Dr. McAllister said nothing. He sauntered out into the orchard when he thought they had worked long enough. He paid them four dollars and gave them all the cherries they could carry, although they tried to object. "You see, you're better than most pickers, because you're so cheerful." He noticed that they did not all leave the yard at the same time. When the cherry pickers returned to their little home they examined everything carefully. Nothing had been disturbed. The door was still shut, and the milk and butter stood untouched in the refrigerator. They made a hilarious meal of raw cherries and bread and butter, and before the stars came out they were fast asleep--happy and dreamless. That evening, very much later, a young man sat in his study with the evening paper. He read the news idly, and was just on the point of tossing the paper aside when this advertisement caught his eye: Lost. Four children, aged thirteen, twelve, ten and five. Somewhere around the region of Middlesex and Townsend. $5000 reward for information. JAMES HENRY CORDYCE "Whew!" whistled the young man. "James Henry Cordyce!" He sat in perfect silence for a long time, thinking. Then he went to bed. But long after he had gone upstairs he whistled again, and could have been heard to say-if anyone had been awake to hear it--"James Henry Cordyce! Of all people!"

Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-9

Henry wonders if he should take the other kids to pick cherries, so he asks Jessie what she thinks. Jessie thinks that their grandfather might be on the lookout for four kids traveling together, so she suggests they walk into town in pairs. It's cherry-pickin' time. The whole gang is there, but Benny is too little to pick cherries so he's just going to watch. Henry, Jessie, and Violet start picking, while Benny just runs around eating cherries and making friends with everyone. At lunchtime, Dr. Moore invites the children to stay and eat. He asks if their mother will mind and gives Henry a quizzical look. Could he possibly know they're on their own? Henry doesn't know what to say about the whole mother thing, but Jessie steps in and says their parents are dead. Everyone eats lunch, and there are cherry dumplings for dessert. Yum. Then, Benny settles down for a nap, and the other kids get back to work. At the end of the day, Dr. Moore gives the kids $4 and more cherries. He notes that the kids leave in pairs instead of walking together as a group. The boxcar is just as the children left it, so they have some supper and go to bed. That night, Dr. Moore sees an ad in the paper: A man named James Henry Alden is offering $5,000 for four lost children. Dr. Moore instantly realizes that the children the man is looking for are his workers. You can't get anything by this doctor. The doctor resolves to keep the children's secret, though, 'cause he's cool like that.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/42796-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Boxcar Children/section_12_part_0.txt

The Boxcar Children.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-13", "summary": "Mr. Alden hopes the children will live with him so he's been preparing some rooms for them. When the children arrive at his house, they're shocked--they had no idea he was a fancy rich person. Violet's room is decorated with violets. It's a bit literal, but Violet seems happy. Benny's room has animals everywhere, while Jessie's room has a special bed for Watch the dog. Speaking of ... ding-dong. Looks like someone's at the door to talk to Mr. Alden about the dog. Suddenly, the children feel nervous. Watch seems happy to see the person at the door. As it turns out, this man was his former owner, but he sold Watch to a woman. He's here to collect the dog and return him to the woman. Henry suggests that the woman get a new dog; he and his siblings will keep Watch. Everyone goes to see the unnamed woman. She's sympathetic to the children's pleas, and she says she'll take another dog so the children can keep Watch. Phew. Mr. Alden pays the man for the dog. Then, they go home for dinner, where everyone is waited on by maids--including Watch. Over time, the children begin to miss the boxcar. They love their grandfather's fancy house, but the boxcar had a certain something. Mr. Alden sends the children to Dr. Moore's for the day, and when they get home, they're surprised to see their boxcar in Mr. Alden's garden. The children are delighted, and then everyone lives happily ever after. The end.", "analysis": ""}

TROUBLE The days went merrily by for the freight-car family. Hardly a day passed, however, without some exciting adventure. Mrs. McAllister, finding out in some way that Violet was a clever seamstress, sent home fine linen handkerchiefs for her to hem. Each one had a tiny colored rose in the corner, and Violet was delighted with the dainty work. She sat sewing daily by the swimming pool while Benny sailed wonderful boats of chips, and waded around to his heart's content. The freight-car pantry now held marvelous dishes rescued from the dump; such rarities as a regular bread knife, a blue and gold soap dish, and half of a real cut-glass bowl. Henry proudly deposited thirty-one dollars in the savings bank under the name of Henry James, and worked eagerly for his kind friend, who never asked him any more embarrassing questions. Benny actually learned to read fairly well. The girls occupied their time making balsam pillows for the four beds, and trying to devise wonderful meals out of very little material. Violet kept a different bouquet daily in the little vase. She had a perfect genius for arranging three purple irises to look like a picture, or a single wood lily with its leaves like a Japanese print. Each day the children enjoyed a cooked dinner, filling in the chinks with perfect satisfaction with bread and butter, or bread and milk, or bread and cheese. They named their queer house, "Home for Tramps," and printed this title in fancy lettering inside the car. One day Jess began to teach Benny a little arithmetic. He learned very readily that two and one make three. "I knew that before," he said cheerfully. But it was a different matter when Jess proposed to him that two minus one left one. "No, it does not left _one_," said Benny indignantly. "It left _two_." "Why, Benny!" cried Jess in astonishment. "Supposing you had two apples and I took away one, wouldn't you have one left?" "You never would," objected Benny with confidence. "No, but supposing Watch took one," suggested Jess. [Illustration: _One day the stranger was allowed to see Violet_] "Watchie wouldn't take one, neither," said Benny. "Would you, doggie?" Watch opened one eye and wagged his tail. Jess looked at Violet in despair. "What shall I do with him?" she asked. Violet took out her chalk and printed clearly on the outside of the freight car the following example: 2 - 1 = "Now, Benny, don't you see," she began, "that if you have two things, and somebody takes away one, that you _must_ have one left?" "I'll show you myself," agreed Benny finally with resignation. "Now see the 2?" He actually made a respectable figure 2 on the freight car. "Now, here's a nice 1. Now, s'posen I take away the 1, don't you see the 2's left right on the car?" He covered the figure 1 with his chubby hand and looked about at his audience expectantly. Jess rolled over against a tree trunk and laughed till she nearly cried. Violet laughed until she really did cry. And here we come to the first unpleasant incident in the story of the runaway children. Violet could not stop crying, apparently, and Jess soon made up her mind that she was really ill. She helped her carefully into the car, and heaped all the pine needles around and under her, making her the softest bed she could. Then she wet cloths in the cool water of the brook and laid them across her little sister's hot forehead. "How glad I am that it is time for Henry to come!" she said to herself, holding Violet's slender brown hands in her cool ones. Henry came promptly at the usual time. He thought she had a cold, he said. And this seemed likely, for Violet began to cough gently while the rest ate a hasty supper. "We don't want to let her go to a hospital if we can possibly help it," said Henry, more troubled than he cared to show. "If she goes there we'll have to give her name, and then Grandfather will find us surely." Jess agreed, and together the two older children kept changing the cool cloths on Violet's aching head. But about ten o'clock that night Violet had a chill. She shivered and shook, and her teeth chattered so that Jess could plainly hear them. Apparently nothing could warm the little girl, although she was completely packed in hay and pine needles. "I'm going down to Dr. McAllister's," said Henry quietly. "I'm afraid Violet is very ill." Nobody ever knew how fast he ran down the hill. Even in his famous race, Henry hardly touched his present speed. He was so thoroughly frightened that he never stopped to notice how quickly the doctor seemed to understand what was wanted. He did not even notice that he did not have to tell the doctor which way to drive his car in order to reach the hill. When the car reached the road at the base of the hill, Dr. McAllister said shortly, "Stay here in the car," and disappeared up the hill alone. When the doctor returned he was carrying Violet in his arms. Jess and Benny and Watch were following closely. Nobody spoke during the drive to the McAllister house as they flew through the darkness. When they stopped at last, the doctor said three words to his mother, who opened the door anxiously. The three words were, "Pneumonia, I'm afraid." They all heard it. Irish Mary appeared from the kitchen with hot-water bottles and warm blankets, and Mrs. McAllister flew around, opening beds and bringing pillows. A trained nurse in a white dress appeared like magic from nowhere in particular. They all worked as best they could to get the sick child warmed up. Soon the hot blankets, hot water, and steaming drinks began to take effect and the shivering stopped. Mrs. McAllister left the sick room then, to attend to the other children. Henry and Benny were left in a large spare room with a double bed. Jess was put in a little dressing room just out of Mrs. McAllister's own room. Upon receiving assurances that Violet was warm again, they went to sleep. But Violet was not out of danger, for she soon grew as hot as she had been cold. And the doctor never left her side until ten o'clock the next morning. Violet, although very ill, did not have pneumonia. At about nine o'clock the doctor had a visitor. It was a man who said he would wait. He did wait in the cool front parlor for over half an hour. Then Benny drifted in. "Where _is_ the doctor?" asked the man sharply of Benny. "He's nupstairs," answered Benny readily. "This means a lot of money to him, if he only knew it," said the visitor impatiently. "Oh, _that_ wouldn't make any difference," Benny replied with great assurance as he started to go out again. But the man caught him. "What do you mean by that, sonny?" he asked curiously. "What's he doing?" "He's taking care of my sister Violet. She's sick." "And you mean he wouldn't leave her even if I gave him a lot of money?" "Yes, that's it," said Benny politely. "That's what I mean." The visitor seemed to restrain his impatience with a great effort. "You see, I've lost a little boy somewhere," he said. "The doctor knows where he is, I think. He would be about as old as you are." "Well, if you don't find him, you can have me, I shouldn't wonder," observed Benny comfortingly. "I like you." "You do?" said the man in surprise. "That's because you've got such a nice, soft suit on," explained Benny, stroking the man's knee gently. The gentleman laughed heartily. "No, I guess it's because you have such a nice, soft laugh," said Benny changing his mind. The fact was that Benny himself did not know why he liked this stranger who was so gruff at times and so pleasant at others. He finally accepted the man's invitation and climbed into his lap to see his dog's picture in his watch, feeling of the "nice soft suit," on the way. The doctor found him here when he came down at ten o'clock. "Better go and find Watch, Benny," suggested the doctor. "Perhaps some day I'll come again," observed Benny to his new friend. "I like your dog, and I'm sorry he's dead." With that he scampered off to find Watch, who was very much alive. "I expected you, Mr. Cordyce," said the doctor smiling, "only not quite so soon." "I came the moment I heard your name hinted at," said James Cordyce. "My chauffeur heard two workmen say that you knew where my four grandchildren were. That's all I waited to hear. Is it true? And where are they?" "That was one of them," said the doctor quietly. "That was one of them!" repeated the man. "That beautiful little boy?" "Yes, he is beautiful," assented Dr. McAllister. "They all are. The only trouble is, they're all frightened to death to think of your finding them." "How do you know that?" said Mr. Cordyce, sharply. "They've changed their name. At least the older boy did. In public, too." "What did he change it to?" Dr. McAllister watched his visitor's face closely while he pronounced the name clearly, "Henry James." A flood of recollections passed over the man's face, and he flushed deeply. "That boy!" he exclaimed. "That wonderful running boy?" Then events began to move along rapidly.

Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219155156/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/boxcar-children/summary/chapter-13

Mr. Alden hopes the children will live with him so he's been preparing some rooms for them. When the children arrive at his house, they're shocked--they had no idea he was a fancy rich person. Violet's room is decorated with violets. It's a bit literal, but Violet seems happy. Benny's room has animals everywhere, while Jessie's room has a special bed for Watch the dog. Speaking of ... ding-dong. Looks like someone's at the door to talk to Mr. Alden about the dog. Suddenly, the children feel nervous. Watch seems happy to see the person at the door. As it turns out, this man was his former owner, but he sold Watch to a woman. He's here to collect the dog and return him to the woman. Henry suggests that the woman get a new dog; he and his siblings will keep Watch. Everyone goes to see the unnamed woman. She's sympathetic to the children's pleas, and she says she'll take another dog so the children can keep Watch. Phew. Mr. Alden pays the man for the dog. Then, they go home for dinner, where everyone is waited on by maids--including Watch. Over time, the children begin to miss the boxcar. They love their grandfather's fancy house, but the boxcar had a certain something. Mr. Alden sends the children to Dr. Moore's for the day, and when they get home, they're surprised to see their boxcar in Mr. Alden's garden. The children are delighted, and then everyone lives happily ever after. The end.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_3_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 4

chapter 4: the lightning rod man

{"name": "Chapter 4: The Lightning-Rod Man", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-4-the-lightning-rod-man", "summary": "This is another one of those Melville stories without much of a plot. Still, it's got more of a point than \"The Piazza\". So that's something. A dude is standing inside by his hearth listening to the thunder outside. Some other guy comes and knocks on the door. Dude 1 asks second guy if he'd like to stand by the hearth. No way, says dude two, and holds up a long rod The lightning rod man explains that you're in danger of getting hit by lightning if you stand by the hearth. Dude 1 says, chill out man. The lightning rod man tells him he sells lightning rods, and that only lightning rods can protect you in a storm. Dude 1 finds out that the lightning guys rod was on a church that got zapped with lightning recently, and concludes that the rods aren't of much use anyway. The narrator continues to razz the lightning rod salesman and suggest that he's a fool and a scammer, who travels in thunderstorms to scare people and get them to buy his rods. The lightning-rod guy is undeterred though, and tells the narrator not to ring the bell or close the shutters or do much of anything or he'll get zapped by lightning. Lightning-rod guy blathers on and says it's safest to be in wet clothes in a lightning storm He also says that in a storm he avoids just about everything, including other people. The narrator mocks him and points out that everybody dies sometime; who is this lightning-rod salesman to say he can control the heavens? The lightning-rod salesman gets cranky and attacks him with the rod. But our dude breaks the rod and sends lightning-rod guy packing. But people still use fear to sell junk, the narrator concludes pithily. That's the moral of the story, conveniently placed there at the end.", "analysis": ""}

THE LIGHTNING-ROD MAN. What grand irregular thunder, thought I, standing on my hearth-stone among the Acroceraunian hills, as the scattered bolts boomed overhead, and crashed down among the valleys, every bolt followed by zigzag irradiations, and swift slants of sharp rain, which audibly rang, like a charge of spear-points, on my low shingled roof. I suppose, though, that the mountains hereabouts break and churn up the thunder, so that it is far more glorious here than on the plain. Hark!--someone at the door. Who is this that chooses a time of thunder for making calls? And why don't he, man-fashion, use the knocker, instead of making that doleful undertaker's clatter with his fist against the hollow panel? But let him in. Ah, here he comes. "Good day, sir:" an entire stranger. "Pray be seated." What is that strange-looking walking-stick he carries: "A fine thunder-storm, sir." "Fine?--Awful!" "You are wet. Stand here on the hearth before the fire." "Not for worlds!" The stranger still stood in the exact middle of the cottage, where he had first planted himself. His singularity impelled a closer scrutiny. A lean, gloomy figure. Hair dark and lank, mattedly streaked over his brow. His sunken pitfalls of eyes were ringed by indigo halos, and played with an innocuous sort of lightning: the gleam without the bolt. The whole man was dripping. He stood in a puddle on the bare oak floor: his strange walking-stick vertically resting at his side. It was a polished copper rod, four feet long, lengthwise attached to a neat wooden staff, by insertion into two balls of greenish glass, ringed with copper bands. The metal rod terminated at the top tripodwise, in three keen tines, brightly gilt. He held the thing by the wooden part alone. "Sir," said I, bowing politely, "have I the honor of a visit from that illustrious god, Jupiter Tonans? So stood he in the Greek statue of old, grasping the lightning-bolt. If you be he, or his viceroy, I have to thank you for this noble storm you have brewed among our mountains. Listen: That was a glorious peal. Ah, to a lover of the majestic, it is a good thing to have the Thunderer himself in one's cottage. The thunder grows finer for that. But pray be seated. This old rush-bottomed arm-chair, I grant, is a poor substitute for your evergreen throne on Olympus; but, condescend to be seated." While I thus pleasantly spoke, the stranger eyed me, half in wonder, and half in a strange sort of horror; but did not move a foot. "Do, sir, be seated; you need to be dried ere going forth again." I planted the chair invitingly on the broad hearth, where a little fire had been kindled that afternoon to dissipate the dampness, not the cold; for it was early in the month of September. But without heeding my solicitation, and still standing in the middle of the floor, the stranger gazed at me portentously and spoke. "Sir," said he, "excuse me; but instead of my accepting your invitation to be seated on the hearth there, I solemnly warn _you_, that you had best accept _mine_, and stand with me in the middle of the room. Good heavens!" he cried, starting--"there is another of those awful crashes. I warn you, sir, quit the hearth." "Mr. Jupiter Tonans," said I, quietly rolling my body on the stone, "I stand very well here." "Are you so horridly ignorant, then," he cried, "as not to know, that by far the most dangerous part of a house, during such a terrific tempest as this, is the fire-place?" "Nay, I did not know that," involuntarily stepping upon the first board next to the stone. The stranger now assumed such an unpleasant air of successful admonition, that--quite involuntarily again--I stepped back upon the hearth, and threw myself into the erectest, proudest posture I could command. But I said nothing. "For Heaven's sake," he cried, with a strange mixture of alarm and intimidation--"for Heaven's sake, get off the hearth! Know you not, that the heated air and soot are conductors;--to say nothing of those immense iron fire-dogs? Quit the spot--I conjure--I command you." "Mr. Jupiter Tonans, I am not accustomed to be commanded in my own house." "Call me not by that pagan name. You are profane in this time of terror." "Sir, will you be so good as to tell me your business? If you seek shelter from the storm, you are welcome, so long as you be civil; but if you come on business, open it forthwith. Who are you?" "I am a dealer in lightning-rods," said the stranger, softening his tone; "my special business is--Merciful heaven! what a crash!--Have you ever been struck--your premises, I mean? No? It's best to be provided;"--significantly rattling his metallic staff on the floor;--"by nature, there are no castles in thunder-storms; yet, say but the word, and of this cottage I can make a Gibraltar by a few waves of this wand. Hark, what Himalayas of concussions!" "You interrupted yourself; your special business you were about to speak of." "My special business is to travel the country for orders for lightning-rods. This is my specimen-rod;" tapping his staff; "I have the best of references"--fumbling in his pockets. "In Criggan last month, I put up three-and-twenty rods on only five buildings." "Let me see. Was it not at Criggan last week, about midnight on Saturday, that the steeple, the big elm, and the assembly-room cupola were struck? Any of your rods there?" "Not on the tree and cupola, but the steeple." "Of what use is your rod, then?" "Of life-and-death use. But my workman was heedless. In fitting the rod at top to the steeple, he allowed a part of the metal to graze the tin sheeting. Hence the accident. Not my fault, but his. Hark!" "Never mind. That clap burst quite loud enough to be heard without finger-pointing. Did you hear of the event at Montreal last year? A servant girl struck at her bed-side with a rosary in her hand; the beads being metal. Does your beat extend into the Canadas?" "No. And I hear that there, iron rods only are in use. They should have _mine_, which are copper. Iron is easily fused. Then they draw out the rod so slender, that it has not body enough to conduct the full electric current. The metal melts; the building is destroyed. My copper rods never act so. Those Canadians are fools. Some of them knob the rod at the top, which risks a deadly explosion, instead of imperceptibly carrying down the current into the earth, as this sort of rod does. _Mine_ is the only true rod. Look at it. Only one dollar a foot." "This abuse of your own calling in another might make one distrustful with respect to yourself." "Hark! The thunder becomes less muttering. It is nearing us, and nearing the earth, too. Hark! One crammed crash! All the vibrations made one by nearness. Another flash. Hold!" "What do you?" I said, seeing him now, instantaneously relinquishing his staff, lean intently forward towards the window, with his right fore and middle fingers on his left wrist. But ere the words had well escaped me, another exclamation escaped him. "Crash! only three pulses--less than a third of a mile off--yonder, somewhere in that wood. I passed three stricken oaks there, ripped out new and glittering. The oak draws lightning more than other timber, having iron in solution in its sap. Your floor here seems oak. "Heart-of-oak. From the peculiar time of your call upon me, I suppose you purposely select stormy weather for your journeys. When the thunder is roaring, you deem it an hour peculiarly favorable for producing impressions favorable to your trade." "Hark!--Awful!" "For one who would arm others with fear you seem unbeseemingly timorous yourself. Common men choose fair weather for their travels: you choose thunder-storms; and yet--" "That I travel in thunder-storms, I grant; but not without particular precautions, such as only a lightning-rod man may know. Hark! Quick--look at my specimen rod. Only one dollar a foot." "A very fine rod, I dare say. But what are these particular precautions of yours? Yet first let me close yonder shutters; the slanting rain is beating through the sash. I will bar up." "Are you mad? Know you not that yon iron bar is a swift conductor? Desist." "I will simply close the shutters, then, and call my boy to bring me a wooden bar. Pray, touch the bell-pull there. "Are you frantic? That bell-wire might blast you. Never touch bell-wire in a thunder-storm, nor ring a bell of any sort." "Nor those in belfries? Pray, will you tell me where and how one may be safe in a time like this? Is there any part of my house I may touch with hopes of my life?" "There is; but not where you now stand. Come away from the wall. The current will sometimes run down a wall, and--a man being a better conductor than a wall--it would leave the wall and run into him. Swoop! _That_ must have fallen very nigh. That must have been globular lightning." "Very probably. Tell me at once, which is, in your opinion, the safest part of this house? "This room, and this one spot in it where I stand. Come hither." "The reasons first." "Hark!--after the flash the gust--the sashes shiver--the house, the house!--Come hither to me!" "The reasons, if you please." "Come hither to me!" "Thank you again, I think I will try my old stand--the hearth. And now, Mr. Lightning-rod-man, in the pauses of the thunder, be so good as to tell me your reasons for esteeming this one room of the house the safest, and your own one stand-point there the safest spot in it." There was now a little cessation of the storm for a while. The Lightning-rod man seemed relieved, and replied:-- "Your house is a one-storied house, with an attic and a cellar; this room is between. Hence its comparative safety. Because lightning sometimes passes from the clouds to the earth, and sometimes from the earth to the clouds. Do you comprehend?--and I choose the middle of the room, because if the lightning should strike the house at all, it would come down the chimney or walls; so, obviously, the further you are from them, the better. Come hither to me, now." "Presently. Something you just said, instead of alarming me, has strangely inspired confidence." "What have I said?" "You said that sometimes lightning flashes from the earth to the clouds." "Aye, the returning-stroke, as it is called; when the earth, being overcharged with the fluid, flashes its surplus upward." "The returning-stroke; that is, from earth to sky. Better and better. But come here on the hearth and dry yourself." "I am better here, and better wet." "How?" "It is the safest thing you can do--Hark, again!--to get yourself thoroughly drenched in a thunder-storm. Wet clothes are better conductors than the body; and so, if the lightning strike, it might pass down the wet clothes without touching the body. The storm deepens again. Have you a rug in the house? Rugs are non-conductors. Get one, that I may stand on it here, and you, too. The skies blacken--it is dusk at noon. Hark!--the rug, the rug!" I gave him one; while the hooded mountains seemed closing and tumbling into the cottage. "And now, since our being dumb will not help us," said I, resuming my place, "let me hear your precautions in traveling during thunder-storms." "Wait till this one is passed." "Nay, proceed with the precautions. You stand in the safest possible place according to your own account. Go on." "Briefly, then. I avoid pine-trees, high houses, lonely barns, upland pastures, running water, flocks of cattle and sheep, a crowd of men. If I travel on foot--as to-day--I do not walk fast; if in my buggy, I touch not its back or sides; if on horseback, I dismount and lead the horse. But of all things, I avoid tall men." "Do I dream? Man avoid man? and in danger-time, too." "Tall men in a thunder-storm I avoid. Are you so grossly ignorant as not to know, that the height of a six-footer is sufficient to discharge an electric cloud upon him? Are not lonely Kentuckians, ploughing, smit in the unfinished furrow? Nay, if the six-footer stand by running water, the cloud will sometimes _select_ him as its conductor to that running water. Hark! Sure, yon black pinnacle is split. Yes, a man is a good conductor. The lightning goes through and through a man, but only peels a tree. But sir, you have kept me so long answering your questions, that I have not yet come to business. Will you order one of my rods? Look at this specimen one? See: it is of the best of copper. Copper's the best conductor. Your house is low; but being upon the mountains, that lowness does not one whit depress it. You mountaineers are most exposed. In mountainous countries the lightning-rod man should have most business. Look at the specimen, sir. One rod will answer for a house so small as this. Look over these recommendations. Only one rod, sir; cost, only twenty dollars. Hark! There go all the granite Taconics and Hoosics dashed together like pebbles. By the sound, that must have struck something. An elevation of five feet above the house, will protect twenty feet radius all about the rod. Only twenty dollars, sir--a dollar a foot. Hark!--Dreadful!--Will you order? Will you buy? Shall I put down your name? Think of being a heap of charred offal, like a haltered horse burnt in his stall; and all in one flash!" "You pretended envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary to and from Jupiter Tonans," laughed I; "you mere man who come here to put you and your pipestem between clay and sky, do you think that because you can strike a bit of green light from the Leyden jar, that you can thoroughly avert the supernal bolt? Your rod rusts, or breaks, and where are you? Who has empowered you, you Tetzel, to peddle round your indulgences from divine ordinations? The hairs of our heads are numbered, and the days of our lives. In thunder as in sunshine, I stand at ease in the hands of my God. False negotiator, away! See, the scroll of the storm is rolled back; the house is unharmed; and in the blue heavens I read in the rainbow, that the Deity will not, of purpose, make war on man's earth." "Impious wretch!" foamed the stranger, blackening in the face as the rainbow beamed, "I will publish your infidel notions." The scowl grew blacker on his face; the indigo-circles enlarged round his eyes as the storm-rings round the midnight moon. He sprang upon me; his tri-forked thing at my heart. I seized it; I snapped it; I dashed it; I trod it; and dragging the dark lightning-king out of my door, flung his elbowed, copper sceptre after him. But spite of my treatment, and spite of my dissuasive talk of him to my neighbors, the Lightning-rod man still dwells in the land; still travels in storm-time, and drives a brave trade with the fears of man.

Chapter 4: The Lightning-Rod Man

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-4-the-lightning-rod-man

This is another one of those Melville stories without much of a plot. Still, it's got more of a point than "The Piazza". So that's something. A dude is standing inside by his hearth listening to the thunder outside. Some other guy comes and knocks on the door. Dude 1 asks second guy if he'd like to stand by the hearth. No way, says dude two, and holds up a long rod The lightning rod man explains that you're in danger of getting hit by lightning if you stand by the hearth. Dude 1 says, chill out man. The lightning rod man tells him he sells lightning rods, and that only lightning rods can protect you in a storm. Dude 1 finds out that the lightning guys rod was on a church that got zapped with lightning recently, and concludes that the rods aren't of much use anyway. The narrator continues to razz the lightning rod salesman and suggest that he's a fool and a scammer, who travels in thunderstorms to scare people and get them to buy his rods. The lightning-rod guy is undeterred though, and tells the narrator not to ring the bell or close the shutters or do much of anything or he'll get zapped by lightning. Lightning-rod guy blathers on and says it's safest to be in wet clothes in a lightning storm He also says that in a storm he avoids just about everything, including other people. The narrator mocks him and points out that everybody dies sometime; who is this lightning-rod salesman to say he can control the heavens? The lightning-rod salesman gets cranky and attacks him with the rod. But our dude breaks the rod and sends lightning-rod guy packing. But people still use fear to sell junk, the narrator concludes pithily. That's the moral of the story, conveniently placed there at the end.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_4_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 5

chapter 5, sketch first: the isles at large

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch First: The Isles At Large", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-first-the-isles-at-large", "summary": "The story starts off with a quote from Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene about dangerous islands that are dark, doleful, dreary, and other things beginning with \"d\". The story proper begins with a discussion of the Enchanted Isles, or Encantadas, known in English as the Galapagos. The islands were made by volcanos, and they are...well, dark, doleful and dreary, Shmoop supposes. Melville says the islands are even more awful and desolate than other isolated places, because they're at the equator, where nothing changes. There aren't even jackals on the Galapagos; that's how forlorn it is. There are just reptiles. It's all volcanic rock and wasteland. Not a vacation spot The ocean currents are nasty too, which makes it hard to get from island to island. There's a superstition that reptiles are transformed wicked sea-officers. Would being a turtle really be so bad? Turtles seem pretty content, really.... That is Shmoop's opinion there. Melville thinks turtles look sad. Melville says sometimes now at home he imagines himself back in those brutal islands. This is sort of like \"The Piazza,\" but with turtles instead of Marianna. The turtles work better.", "analysis": ""}

THE ENCANTADAS; OR, ENCHANTED ISLES. SKETCH FIRST. THE ISLES AT LARGE. --"That may not be, said then the ferryman, Least we unweeting hap to be fordonne; For those same islands seeming now and than, Are not firme land, nor any certein wonne, But stragling plots which to and fro do ronne In the wide waters; therefore are they hight The Wandering Islands; therefore do them shonne; For they have oft drawne many a wandring wight Into most deadly daunger and distressed plight; For whosoever once hath fastened His foot thereon may never it secure But wandreth evermore uncertein and unsure." * * * * * "Darke, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave, That still for carrion carcasses doth crave; On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owl, Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl, And all about it wandring ghosts did wayle and howl." Take five-and-twenty heaps of cinders dumped here and there in an outside city lot; imagine some of them magnified into mountains, and the vacant lot the sea; and you will have a fit idea of the general aspect of the Encantadas, or Enchanted Isles. A group rather of extinct volcanoes than of isles; looking much as the world at large might, after a penal conflagration. It is to be doubted whether any spot of earth can, in desolateness, furnish a parallel to this group. Abandoned cemeteries of long ago, old cities by piecemeal tumbling to their ruin, these are melancholy enough; but, like all else which has but once been associated with humanity, they still awaken in us some thoughts of sympathy, however sad. Hence, even the Dead Sea, along with whatever other emotions it may at times inspire, does not fail to touch in the pilgrim some of his less unpleasurable feelings. And as for solitariness; the great forests of the north, the expanses of unnavigated waters, the Greenland ice-fields, are the profoundest of solitudes to a human observer; still the magic of their changeable tides and seasons mitigates their terror; because, though unvisited by men, those forests are visited by the May; the remotest seas reflect familiar stars even as Lake Erie does; and in the clear air of a fine Polar day, the irradiated, azure ice shows beautifully as malachite. But the special curse, as one may call it, of the Encantadas, that which exalts them in desolation above Idumea and the Pole, is, that to them change never comes; neither the change of seasons nor of sorrows. Cut by the Equator, they know not autumn, and they know not spring; while already reduced to the lees of fire, ruin itself can work little more upon them. The showers refresh the deserts; but in these isles, rain never falls. Like split Syrian gourds left withering in the sun, they are cracked by an everlasting drought beneath a torrid sky. "Have mercy upon me," the wailing spirit of the Encantadas seems to cry, "and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am tormented in this flame." Another feature in these isles is their emphatic uninhabitableness. It is deemed a fit type of all-forsaken overthrow, that the jackal should den in the wastes of weedy Babylon; but the Encantadas refuse to harbor even the outcasts of the beasts. Man and wolf alike disown them. Little but reptile life is here found: tortoises, lizards, immense spiders, snakes, and that strangest anomaly of outlandish nature, the _aguano_. No voice, no low, no howl is heard; the chief sound of life here is a hiss. On most of the isles where vegetation is found at all, it is more ungrateful than the blankness of Aracama. Tangled thickets of wiry bushes, without fruit and without a name, springing up among deep fissures of calcined rock, and treacherously masking them; or a parched growth of distorted cactus trees. In many places the coast is rock-bound, or, more properly, clinker-bound; tumbled masses of blackish or greenish stuff like the dross of an iron-furnace, forming dark clefts and caves here and there, into which a ceaseless sea pours a fury of foam; overhanging them with a swirl of gray, haggard mist, amidst which sail screaming flights of unearthly birds heightening the dismal din. However calm the sea without, there is no rest for these swells and those rocks; they lash and are lashed, even when the outer ocean is most at peace with, itself. On the oppressive, clouded days, such as are peculiar to this part of the watery Equator, the dark, vitrified masses, many of which raise themselves among white whirlpools and breakers in detached and perilous places off the shore, present a most Plutonian sight. In no world but a fallen one could such lands exist. Those parts of the strand free from the marks of fire, stretch away in wide level beaches of multitudinous dead shells, with here and there decayed bits of sugar-cane, bamboos, and cocoanuts, washed upon this other and darker world from the charming palm isles to the westward and southward; all the way from Paradise to Tartarus; while mixed with the relics of distant beauty you will sometimes see fragments of charred wood and mouldering ribs of wrecks. Neither will any one be surprised at meeting these last, after observing the conflicting currents which eddy throughout nearly all the wide channels of the entire group. The capriciousness of the tides of air sympathizes with those of the sea. Nowhere is the wind so light, baffling, and every way unreliable, and so given to perplexing calms, as at the Encantadas. Nigh a month has been spent by a ship going from one isle to another, though but ninety miles between; for owing to the force of the current, the boats employed to tow barely suffice to keep the craft from sweeping upon the cliffs, but do nothing towards accelerating her voyage. Sometimes it is impossible for a vessel from afar to fetch up with the group itself, unless large allowances for prospective lee-way have been made ere its coming in sight. And yet, at other times, there is a mysterious indraft, which irresistibly draws a passing vessel among the isles, though not bound to them. True, at one period, as to some extent at the present day, large fleets of whalemen cruised for spermaceti upon what some seamen call the Enchanted Ground. But this, as in due place will be described, was off the great outer isle of Albemarle, away from the intricacies of the smaller isles, where there is plenty of sea-room; and hence, to that vicinity, the above remarks do not altogether apply; though even there the current runs at times with singular force, shifting, too, with as singular a caprice. Indeed, there are seasons when currents quite unaccountable prevail for a great distance round about the total group, and are so strong and irregular as to change a vessel's course against the helm, though sailing at the rate of four or five miles the hour. The difference in the reckonings of navigators, produced by these causes, along with the light and variable winds, long nourished a persuasion, that there existed two distinct clusters of isles in the parallel of the Encantadas, about a hundred leagues apart. Such was the idea of their earlier visitors, the Buccaneers; and as late as 1750, the charts of that part of the Pacific accorded with the strange delusion. And this apparent fleetingness and unreality of the locality of the isles was most probably one reason for the Spaniards calling them the Encantada, or Enchanted Group. But not uninfluenced by their character, as they now confessedly exist, the modern voyager will be inclined to fancy that the bestowal of this name might have in part originated in that air of spell-bound desertness which so significantly invests the isles. Nothing can better suggest the aspect of once living things malignly crumbled from ruddiness into ashes. Apples of Sodom, after touching, seem these isles. However wavering their place may seem by reason of the currents, they themselves, at least to one upon the shore, appear invariably the same: fixed, cast, glued into the very body of cadaverous death. Nor would the appellation, enchanted, seem misapplied in still another sense. For concerning the peculiar reptile inhabitant of these wilds--whose presence gives the group its second Spanish name, Gallipagos--concerning the tortoises found here, most mariners have long cherished a superstition, not more frightful than grotesque. They earnestly believe that all wicked sea-officers, more especially commodores and captains, are at death (and, in some cases, before death) transformed into tortoises; thenceforth dwelling upon these hot aridities, sole solitary lords of Asphaltum. Doubtless, so quaintly dolorous a thought was originally inspired by the woe-begone landscape itself; but more particularly, perhaps, by the tortoises. For, apart from their strictly physical features, there is something strangely self-condemned in the appearance of these creatures. Lasting sorrow and penal hopelessness are in no animal form so suppliantly expressed as in theirs; while the thought of their wonderful longevity does not fail to enhance the impression. Nor even at the risk of meriting the charge of absurdly believing in enchantments, can I restrain the admission that sometimes, even now, when leaving the crowded city to wander out July and August among the Adirondack Mountains, far from the influences of towns and proportionally nigh to the mysterious ones of nature; when at such times I sit me down in the mossy head of some deep-wooded gorge, surrounded by prostrate trunks of blasted pines and recall, as in a dream, my other and far-distant rovings in the baked heart of the charmed isles; and remember the sudden glimpses of dusky shells, and long languid necks protruded from the leafless thickets; and again have beheld the vitreous inland rocks worn down and grooved into deep ruts by ages and ages of the slow draggings of tortoises in quest of pools of scanty water; I can hardly resist the feeling that in my time I have indeed slept upon evilly enchanted ground. Nay, such is the vividness of my memory, or the magic of my fancy, that I know not whether I am not the occasional victim of optical delusion concerning the Gallipagos. For, often in scenes of social merriment, and especially at revels held by candle-light in old-fashioned mansions, so that shadows are thrown into the further recesses of an angular and spacious room, making them put on a look of haunted undergrowth of lonely woods, I have drawn the attention of my comrades by my fixed gaze and sudden change of air, as I have seemed to see, slowly emerging from those imagined solitudes, and heavily crawling along the floor, the ghost of a gigantic tortoise, with "Memento * * * * *" burning in live letters upon his back. * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch First: The Isles At Large

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-first-the-isles-at-large

The story starts off with a quote from Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene about dangerous islands that are dark, doleful, dreary, and other things beginning with "d". The story proper begins with a discussion of the Enchanted Isles, or Encantadas, known in English as the Galapagos. The islands were made by volcanos, and they are...well, dark, doleful and dreary, Shmoop supposes. Melville says the islands are even more awful and desolate than other isolated places, because they're at the equator, where nothing changes. There aren't even jackals on the Galapagos; that's how forlorn it is. There are just reptiles. It's all volcanic rock and wasteland. Not a vacation spot The ocean currents are nasty too, which makes it hard to get from island to island. There's a superstition that reptiles are transformed wicked sea-officers. Would being a turtle really be so bad? Turtles seem pretty content, really.... That is Shmoop's opinion there. Melville thinks turtles look sad. Melville says sometimes now at home he imagines himself back in those brutal islands. This is sort of like "The Piazza," but with turtles instead of Marianna. The turtles work better.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_5_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 6

chapter 6, sketch second: two sides to a tortoise

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Second: Two Sides To a Tortoise", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-second-two-sides-to-a-tortoise", "summary": "Another Spenser quote, this one about a monster. Spenser writes about fairies, and The Enchanted Isles are a kind of blighted, evil faerie land. Is what Melville is getting at. Also, he just kind of likes burbling about fairy-lands. Anyway, Melville says that the Galapagos aren't all bad, and as proof points out that turtles are bright on their underbelly. Then he describes turning the turtles over so they can't get back up, which seems kind of mean and not cheerful at all. Then he talks about bringing the tortoises on board, and how they just keep walking and running into things. Which Melville finds depressing and eerie. But then he and his companions ate turtle steak, and that was cheerful. So some good with the bad.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH SECOND. TWO SIDES TO A TORTOISE. "Most ugly shapes and horrible aspects, Such as Dame Nature selfe mote feare to see, Or shame, that ever should so fowle defects From her most cunning hand escaped bee; All dreadfull pourtraicts of deformitee. No wonder if these do a man appall; For all that here at home we dreadfull hold Be but as bugs to fearen babes withall Compared to the creatures in these isles' entrall * * * * * "Fear naught, then said the palmer, well avized, For these same monsters are not there indeed, But are into these fearful shapes disguized. * * * * * "And lifting up his vertuous staffe on high, Then all that dreadful armie fast gan flye Into great Zethy's bosom, where they hidden lye." In view of the description given, may one be gay upon the Encantadas? Yes: that is, find one the gayety, and he will be gay. And, indeed, sackcloth and ashes as they are, the isles are not perhaps unmitigated gloom. For while no spectator can deny their claims to a most solemn and superstitious consideration, no more than my firmest resolutions can decline to behold the spectre-tortoise when emerging from its shadowy recess; yet even the tortoise, dark and melancholy as it is upon the back, still possesses a bright side; its calipee or breast-plate being sometimes of a faint yellowish or golden tinge. Moreover, every one knows that tortoises as well as turtle are of such a make, that if you but put them on their backs you thereby expose their bright sides without the possibility of their recovering themselves, and turning into view the other. But after you have done this, and because you have done this, you should not swear that the tortoise has no dark side. Enjoy the bright, keep it turned up perpetually if you can, but be honest, and don't deny the black. Neither should he, who cannot turn the tortoise from its natural position so as to hide the darker and expose his livelier aspect, like a great October pumpkin in the sun, for that cause declare the creature to be one total inky blot. The tortoise is both black and bright. But let us to particulars. Some months before my first stepping ashore upon the group, my ship was cruising in its close vicinity. One noon we found ourselves off the South Head of Albemarle, and not very far from the land. Partly by way of freak, and partly by way of spying out so strange a country, a boat's crew was sent ashore, with orders to see all they could, and besides, bring back whatever tortoises they could conveniently transport. It was after sunset, when the adventurers returned. I looked down over the ship's high side as if looking down over the curb of a well, and dimly saw the damp boat, deep in the sea with some unwonted weight. Ropes were dropt over, and presently three huge antediluvian-looking tortoises, after much straining, were landed on deck. They seemed hardly of the seed of earth. We had been broad upon the waters for five long months, a period amply sufficient to make all things of the land wear a fabulous hue to the dreamy mind. Had three Spanish custom-house officers boarded us then, it is not unlikely that I should have curiously stared at them, felt of them, and stroked them much as savages serve civilized guests. But instead of three custom-house officers, behold these really wondrous tortoises--none of your schoolboy mud-turtles--but black as widower's weeds, heavy as chests of plate, with vast shells medallioned and orbed like shields, and dented and blistered like shields that have breasted a battle, shaggy, too, here and there, with dark green moss, and slimy with the spray of the sea. These mystic creatures, suddenly translated by night from unutterable solitudes to our peopled deck, affected me in a manner not easy to unfold. They seemed newly crawled forth from beneath the foundations of the world. Yea, they seemed the identical tortoises whereon the Hindoo plants this total sphere. With a lantern I inspected them more closely. Such worshipful venerableness of aspect! Such furry greenness mantling the rude peelings and healing the fissures of their shattered shells. I no more saw three tortoises. They expanded--became transfigured. I seemed to see three Roman Coliseums in magnificent decay. Ye oldest inhabitants of this, or any other isle, said I, pray, give me the freedom of your three-walled towns. The great feeling inspired by these creatures was that of age:--dateless, indefinite endurance. And in fact that any other creature can live and breathe as long as the tortoise of the Encantadas, I will not readily believe. Not to hint of their known capacity of sustaining life, while going without food for an entire year, consider that impregnable armor of their living mail. What other bodily being possesses such a citadel wherein to resist the assaults of Time? As, lantern in hand, I scraped among the moss and beheld the ancient scars of bruises received in many a sullen fall among the marly mountains of the isle--scars strangely widened, swollen, half obliterate, and yet distorted like those sometimes found in the bark of very hoary trees, I seemed an antiquary of a geologist, studying the bird-tracks and ciphers upon the exhumed slates trod by incredible creatures whose very ghosts are now defunct. As I lay in my hammock that night, overhead I heard the slow weary draggings of the three ponderous strangers along the encumbered deck. Their stupidity or their resolution was so great, that they never went aside for any impediment. One ceased his movements altogether just before the mid-watch. At sunrise I found him butted like a battering-ram against the immovable foot of the foremast, and still striving, tooth and nail, to force the impossible passage. That these tortoises are the victims of a penal, or malignant, or perhaps a downright diabolical enchanter, seems in nothing more likely than in that strange infatuation of hopeless toil which so often possesses them. I have known them in their journeyings ram themselves heroically against rocks, and long abide there, nudging, wriggling, wedging, in order to displace them, and so hold on their inflexible path. Their crowning curse is their drudging impulse to straightforwardness in a belittered world. Meeting with no such hinderance as their companion did, the other tortoises merely fell foul of small stumbling-blocks--buckets, blocks, and coils of rigging--and at times in the act of crawling over them would slip with an astounding rattle to the deck. Listening to these draggings and concussions, I thought me of the haunt from which they came; an isle full of metallic ravines and gulches, sunk bottomlessly into the hearts of splintered mountains, and covered for many miles with inextricable thickets. I then pictured these three straight-forward monsters, century after century, writhing through the shades, grim as blacksmiths; crawling so slowly and ponderously, that not only did toad-stools and all fungus things grow beneath their feet, but a sooty moss sprouted upon their backs. With them I lost myself in volcanic mazes; brushed away endless boughs of rotting thickets; till finally in a dream I found myself sitting crosslegged upon the foremost, a Brahmin similarly mounted upon either side, forming a tripod of foreheads which upheld the universal cope. Such was the wild nightmare begot by my first impression of the Encantadas tortoise. But next evening, strange to say, I sat down with my shipmates, and made a merry repast from tortoise steaks, and tortoise stews; and supper over, out knife, and helped convert the three mighty concave shells into three fanciful soup-tureens, and polished the three flat yellowish calipees into three gorgeous salvers. * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Second: Two Sides To a Tortoise

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-second-two-sides-to-a-tortoise

Another Spenser quote, this one about a monster. Spenser writes about fairies, and The Enchanted Isles are a kind of blighted, evil faerie land. Is what Melville is getting at. Also, he just kind of likes burbling about fairy-lands. Anyway, Melville says that the Galapagos aren't all bad, and as proof points out that turtles are bright on their underbelly. Then he describes turning the turtles over so they can't get back up, which seems kind of mean and not cheerful at all. Then he talks about bringing the tortoises on board, and how they just keep walking and running into things. Which Melville finds depressing and eerie. But then he and his companions ate turtle steak, and that was cheerful. So some good with the bad.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_6_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 7

chapter 7, sketch third rodondo

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Third: Rodondo", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-third-rodondo", "summary": "More Spenser. Go away Spenser. Melville talks about how cool towers are in general. Then he talks about a cool elevated Rock called Rock Redondo, or Round Rock. It's a round rock. You can climb up it and look out and see far away. But first the narrator goes back and describes the first time he came to the Rodondo. It was pretty. He says it's also a good place to see birds, like penguins and pelicans. And then there are lots of fish in the water roundabout, who are easy to catch since they haven't dealt with human beings much. And now up the rock.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH THIRD. ROCK RODONDO. "For they this tight the Rock of vile Reproach, A dangerous and dreadful place, To which nor fish nor fowl did once approach, But yelling meaws with sea-gulls hoars and bace And cormoyrants with birds of ravenous race, Which still sit waiting on that dreadful clift." * * * * * "With that the rolling sea resounding soft In his big base them fitly answered, And on the Rock, the waves breaking aloft, A solemn ineane unto them measured." * * * * * "Then he the boteman bad row easily, And let him heare some part of that rare melody." * * * * * "Suddeinly an innumerable flight Of harmefull fowles about them fluttering cride, And with their wicked wings them oft did smight And sore annoyed, groping in that griesly night." * * * * * "Even all the nation of unfortunate And fatal birds about them flocked were." To go up into a high stone tower is not only a very fine thing in itself, but the very best mode of gaining a comprehensive view of the region round about. It is all the better if this tower stand solitary and alone, like that mysterious Newport one, or else be sole survivor of some perished castle. Now, with reference to the Enchanted Isles, we are fortunately supplied with just such a noble point of observation in a remarkable rock, from its peculiar figure called of old by the Spaniards, Rock Rodondo, or Round Rock. Some two hundred and fifty feet high, rising straight from the sea ten miles from land, with the whole mountainous group to the south and east. Rock Rodondo occupies, on a large scale, very much the position which the famous Campanile or detached Bell Tower of St. Mark does with respect to the tangled group of hoary edifices around it. Ere ascending, however, to gaze abroad upon the Encantadas, this sea-tower itself claims attention. It is visible at the distance of thirty miles; and, fully participating in that enchantment which pervades the group, when first seen afar invariably is mistaken for a sail. Four leagues away, of a golden, hazy noon, it seems some Spanish Admiral's ship, stacked up with glittering canvas. Sail ho! Sail ho! Sail ho! from all three masts. But coming nigh, the enchanted frigate is transformed apace into a craggy keep. My first visit to the spot was made in the gray of the morning. With a view of fishing, we had lowered three boats and pulling some two miles from our vessel, found ourselves just before dawn of day close under the moon-shadow of Rodondo. Its aspect was heightened, and yet softened, by the strange double twilight of the hour. The great full moon burnt in the low west like a half-spent beacon, casting a soft mellow tinge upon the sea like that cast by a waning fire of embers upon a midnight hearth; while along the entire east the invisible sun sent pallid intimations of his coming. The wind was light; the waves languid; the stars twinkled with a faint effulgence; all nature seemed supine with the long night watch, and half-suspended in jaded expectation of the sun. This was the critical hour to catch Rodondo in his perfect mood. The twilight was just enough to reveal every striking point, without tearing away the dim investiture of wonder. From a broken stair-like base, washed, as the steps of a water-palace, by the waves, the tower rose in entablatures of strata to a shaven summit. These uniform layers, which compose the mass, form its most peculiar feature. For at their lines of junction they project flatly into encircling shelves, from top to bottom, rising one above another in graduated series. And as the eaves of any old barn or abbey are alive with swallows, so were all these rocky ledges with unnumbered sea-fowl. Eaves upon eaves, and nests upon nests. Here and there were long birdlime streaks of a ghostly white staining the tower from sea to air, readily accounting for its sail-like look afar. All would have been bewitchingly quiescent, were it not for the demoniac din created by the birds. Not only were the eaves rustling with them, but they flew densely overhead, spreading themselves into a winged and continually shifting canopy. The tower is the resort of aquatic birds for hundreds of leagues around. To the north, to the east, to the west, stretches nothing but eternal ocean; so that the man-of-war hawk coming from the coasts of North America, Polynesia, or Peru, makes his first land at Rodondo. And yet though Rodondo be terra-firma, no land-bird ever lighted on it. Fancy a red-robin or a canary there! What a falling into the hands of the Philistines, when the poor warbler should be surrounded by such locust-flights of strong bandit birds, with long bills cruel as daggers. I know not where one can better study the Natural History of strange sea-fowl than at Rodondo. It is the aviary of Ocean. Birds light here which never touched mast or tree; hermit-birds, which ever fly alone; cloud-birds, familiar with unpierced zones of air. Let us first glance low down to the lowermost shelf of all, which is the widest, too, and but a little space from high-water mark. What outlandish beings are these? Erect as men, but hardly as symmetrical, they stand all round the rock like sculptured caryatides, supporting the next range of eaves above. Their bodies are grotesquely misshapen; their bills short; their feet seemingly legless; while the members at their sides are neither fin, wing, nor arm. And truly neither fish, flesh, nor fowl is the penguin; as an edible, pertaining neither to Carnival nor Lent; without exception the most ambiguous and least lovely creature yet discovered by man. Though dabbling in all three elements, and indeed possessing some rudimental claims to all, the penguin is at home in none. On land it stumps; afloat it sculls; in the air it flops. As if ashamed of her failure, Nature keeps this ungainly child hidden away at the ends of the earth, in the Straits of Magellan, and on the abased sea-story of Rodondo. But look, what are yon wobegone regiments drawn up on the next shelf above? what rank and file of large strange fowl? what sea Friars of Orders Gray? Pelicans. Their elongated bills, and heavy leathern pouches suspended thereto, give them the most lugubrious expression. A pensive race, they stand for hours together without motion. Their dull, ashy plumage imparts an aspect as if they had been powdered over with cinders. A penitential bird, indeed, fitly haunting the shores of the clinkered Encantadas, whereon tormented Job himself might have well sat down and scraped himself with potsherds. Higher up now we mark the gony, or gray albatross, anomalously so called, an unsightly unpoetic bird, unlike its storied kinsman, which is the snow-white ghost of the haunted Capes of Hope and Horn. As we still ascend from shelf to shelf, we find the tenants of the tower serially disposed in order of their magnitude:--gannets, black and speckled haglets, jays, sea-hens, sperm-whale-birds, gulls of all varieties:--thrones, princedoms, powers, dominating one above another in senatorial array; while, sprinkled over all, like an ever-repeated fly in a great piece of broidery, the stormy petrel or Mother Cary's chicken sounds his continual challenge and alarm. That this mysterious hummingbird of ocean--which, had it but brilliancy of hue, might, from its evanescent liveliness, be almost called its butterfly, yet whose chirrup under the stern is ominous to mariners as to the peasant the death-tick sounding from behind the chimney jamb--should have its special haunt at the Encantadas, contributes, in the seaman's mind, not a little to their dreary spell. As day advances the dissonant din augments. With ear-splitting cries the wild birds celebrate their matins. Each moment, flights push from the tower, and join the aerial choir hovering overhead, while their places below are supplied by darting myriads. But down through all this discord of commotion, I hear clear, silver, bugle-like notes unbrokenly falling, like oblique lines of swift-slanting rain in a cascading shower. I gaze far up, and behold a snow-white angelic thing, with one long, lance-like feather thrust out behind. It is the bright, inspiriting chanticleer of ocean, the beauteous bird, from its bestirring whistle of musical invocation, fitly styled the "Boatswain's Mate." The winged, life-clouding Rodondo had its full counterpart in the finny hosts which peopled the waters at its base. Below the water-line, the rock seemed one honey-comb of grottoes, affording labyrinthine lurking-places for swarms of fairy fish. All were strange; many exceedingly beautiful; and would have well graced the costliest glass globes in which gold-fish are kept for a show. Nothing was more striking than the complete novelty of many individuals of this multitude. Here hues were seen as yet unpainted, and figures which are unengraved. To show the multitude, avidity, and nameless fearlessness and tameness of these fish, let me say, that often, marking through clear spaces of water--temporarily made so by the concentric dartings of the fish above the surface--certain larger and less unwary wights, which swam slow and deep; our anglers would cautiously essay to drop their lines down to these last. But in vain; there was no passing the uppermost zone. No sooner did the hook touch the sea, than a hundred infatuates contended for the honor of capture. Poor fish of Rodondo! in your victimized confidence, you are of the number of those who inconsiderately trust, while they do not understand, human nature. But the dawn is now fairly day. Band after band, the sea-fowl sail away to forage the deep for their food. The tower is left solitary save the fish-caves at its base. Its birdlime gleams in the golden rays like the whitewash of a tall light-house, or the lofty sails of a cruiser. This moment, doubtless, while we know it to be a dead desert rock other voyagers are taking oaths it is a glad populous ship. But ropes now, and let us ascend. Yet soft, this is not so easy. * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Third: Rodondo

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-third-rodondo

More Spenser. Go away Spenser. Melville talks about how cool towers are in general. Then he talks about a cool elevated Rock called Rock Redondo, or Round Rock. It's a round rock. You can climb up it and look out and see far away. But first the narrator goes back and describes the first time he came to the Rodondo. It was pretty. He says it's also a good place to see birds, like penguins and pelicans. And then there are lots of fish in the water roundabout, who are easy to catch since they haven't dealt with human beings much. And now up the rock.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_7_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 8

chapter 8, sketch four a pisgah view from the rock

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Four: A Pisgah View From the Rock", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-four-a-pisgah-view-from-the-rock", "summary": "Mount Pisgah is in the Bible; that's the reference there. Melville gets silly and says to climb the rock, you should travel round the world and learn juggling. The point is that you can't really climb the rock. So this is a sort of imaginative vision. He says you can see the coast of South America, and other islands about. Has he mentioned it's very isolated yet? It's very isolated. He tells the story of a ship that tried to get from Peru to Chili which took four months to go a ten day trip because of nasty calms and currents. But the great explorer Juan Fernandez finally figured out that you need to put your ship farther out to sea rather than hugging the coast, and that works much better. Back to the rock and looking out; he describes some other islands. He describes the inhabitants of Albemarle, which include no people, and lots of lizards, snakes and spiders. It also has an inlet where sperm whales come. There's an anecdote about William Cowley, an explorer who named an island after himself, calling it Cowley's Enchanted Isle. He called it an enchanted isle because it seemed to change shape and aspect. He called it Cowley's island because he was egotistical, presumably", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH FOURTH. A PISGAH VIEW FROM THE ROCK. --"That done, he leads him to the highest mount, From whence, far off he unto him did show:"-- If you seek to ascend Rock Rodondo, take the following prescription. Go three voyages round the world as a main-royal-man of the tallest frigate that floats; then serve a year or two apprenticeship to the guides who conduct strangers up the Peak of Teneriffe; and as many more respectively to a rope-dancer, an Indian juggler, and a chamois. This done, come and be rewarded by the view from our tower. How we get there, we alone know. If we sought to tell others, what the wiser were they? Suffice it, that here at the summit you and I stand. Does any balloonist, does the outlooking man in the moon, take a broader view of space? Much thus, one fancies, looks the universe from Milton's celestial battlements. A boundless watery Kentucky. Here Daniel Boone would have dwelt content. Never heed for the present yonder Burnt District of the Enchanted Isles. Look edgeways, as it were, past them, to the south. You see nothing; but permit me to point out the direction, if not the place, of certain interesting objects in the vast sea, which, kissing this tower's base, we behold unscrolling itself towards the Antarctic Pole. We stand now ten miles from the Equator. Yonder, to the East, some six hundred miles, lies the continent; this Rock being just about on the parallel of Quito. Observe another thing here. We are at one of three uninhabited clusters, which, at pretty nearly uniform distances from the main, sentinel, at long intervals from each other, the entire coast of South America. In a peculiar manner, also, they terminate the South American character of country. Of the unnumbered Polynesian chains to the westward, not one partakes of the qualities of the Encantadas or Gallipagos, the isles of St. Felix and St. Ambrose, the isles Juan-Fernandez and Massafuero. Of the first, it needs not here to speak. The second lie a little above the Southern Tropic; lofty, inhospitable, and uninhabitable rocks, one of which, presenting two round hummocks connected by a low reef, exactly resembles a huge double-headed shot. The last lie in the latitude of 33 deg.; high, wild and cloven. Juan Fernandez is sufficiently famous without further description. Massafuero is a Spanish name, expressive of the fact, that the isle so called lies _more without_, that is, further off the main than its neighbor Juan. This isle Massafuero has a very imposing aspect at a distance of eight or ten miles. Approached in one direction, in cloudy weather, its great overhanging height and rugged contour, and more especially a peculiar slope of its broad summits, give it much the air of a vast iceberg drifting in tremendous poise. Its sides are split with dark cavernous recesses, as an old cathedral with its gloomy lateral chapels. Drawing nigh one of these gorges from sea, after a long voyage, and beholding some tatterdemalion outlaw, staff in hand, descending its steep rocks toward you, conveys a very queer emotion to a lover of the picturesque. On fishing parties from ships, at various times, I have chanced to visit each of these groups. The impression they give to the stranger pulling close up in his boat under their grim cliffs is, that surely he must be their first discoverer, such, for the most part, is the unimpaired ... silence and solitude. And here, by the way, the mode in which these isles were really first lighted upon by Europeans is not unworthy of mention, especially as what is about to be said, likewise applies to the original discovery of our Encantadas. Prior to the year 1563, the voyages made by Spanish ships from Peru to Chili, were full of difficulty. Along this coast, the winds from the South most generally prevail; and it had been an invariable custom to keep close in with the land, from a superstitious conceit on the part of the Spaniards, that were they to lose sight of it, the eternal trade-wind would waft them into unending waters, from whence would be no return. Here, involved among tortuous capes and headlands, shoals and reefs, beating, too, against a continual head wind, often light, and sometimes for days and weeks sunk into utter calm, the provincial vessels, in many cases, suffered the extremest hardships, in passages, which at the present day seem to have been incredibly protracted. There is on record in some collections of nautical disasters, an account of one of these ships, which, starting on a voyage whose duration was estimated at ten days, spent four months at sea, and indeed never again entered harbor, for in the end she was cast away. Singular to tell, this craft never encountered a gale, but was the vexed sport of malicious calms and currents. Thrice, out of provisions, she put back to an intermediate port, and started afresh, but only yet again to return. Frequent fogs enveloped her; so that no observation could be had of her place, and once, when all hands were joyously anticipating sight of their destination, lo! the vapors lifted and disclosed the mountains from which they had taken their first departure. In the like deceptive vapors she at last struck upon a reef, whence ensued a long series of calamities too sad to detail. It was the famous pilot, Juan Fernandez, immortalized by the island named after him, who put an end to these coasting tribulations, by boldly venturing the experiment--as De Gama did before him with respect to Europe--of standing broad out from land. Here he found the winds favorable for getting to the South, and by running westward till beyond the influences of the trades, he regained the coast without difficulty; making the passage which, though in a high degree circuitous, proved far more expeditious than the nominally direct one. Now it was upon these new tracks, and about the year 1670, or thereabouts, that the Enchanted Isles, and the rest of the sentinel groups, as they may be called, were discovered. Though I know of no account as to whether any of them were found inhabited or no, it may be reasonably concluded that they have been immemorial solitudes. But let us return to Redondo. Southwest from our tower lies all Polynesia, hundreds of leagues away; but straight west, on the precise line of his parallel, no land rises till your keel is beached upon the Kingsmills, a nice little sail of, say 5000 miles. Having thus by such distant references--with Rodondo the only possible ones--settled our relative place on the sea, let us consider objects not quite so remote. Behold the grim and charred Enchanted Isles. This nearest crater-shaped headland is part of Albemarle, the largest of the group, being some sixty miles or more long, and fifteen broad. Did you ever lay eye on the real genuine Equator? Have you ever, in the largest sense, toed the Line? Well, that identical crater-shaped headland there, all yellow lava, is cut by the Equator exactly as a knife cuts straight through the centre of a pumpkin pie. If you could only see so far, just to one side of that same headland, across yon low dikey ground, you would catch sight of the isle of Narborough, the loftiest land of the cluster; no soil whatever; one seamed clinker from top to bottom; abounding in black caves like smithies; its metallic shore ringing under foot like plates of iron; its central volcanoes standing grouped like a gigantic chimney-stack. Narborough and Albemarle are neighbors after a quite curious fashion. A familiar diagram will illustrate this strange neighborhood: [Illustration] Cut a channel at the above letter joint, and the middle transverse limb is Narborough, and all the rest is Albemarle. Volcanic Narborough lies in the black jaws of Albemarle like a wolf's red tongue in his open month. If now you desire the population of Albemarle, I will give you, in round numbers, the statistics, according to the most reliable estimates made upon the spot: Men, none. Ant-eaters, unknown. Man-haters, unknown. Lizards, 500,000. Snakes, 500,000. Spiders, 10,000,000. Salamanders, unknown. Devils, do. Making a clean total of 11,000,000, exclusive of an incomputable host of fiends, ant-eaters, man-haters, and salamanders. Albemarle opens his mouth towards the setting sun. His distended jaws form a great bay, which Narborough, his tongue, divides into halves, one whereof is called Weather Bay, the other Lee Bay; while the volcanic promontories, terminating his coasts, are styled South Head and North Head. I note this, because these bays are famous in the annals of the Sperm Whale Fishery. The whales come here at certain seasons to calve. When ships first cruised hereabouts, I am told, they used to blockade the entrance of Lee Bay, when their boats going round by Weather Bay, passed through Narborough channel, and so had the Leviathans very neatly in a pen. The day after we took fish at the base of this Round Tower, we had a fine wind, and shooting round the north headland, suddenly descried a fleet of full thirty sail, all beating to windward like a squadron in line. A brave sight as ever man saw. A most harmonious concord of rushing keels. Their thirty kelsons hummed like thirty harp-strings, and looked as straight whilst they left their parallel traces on the sea. But there proved too many hunters for the game. The fleet broke up, and went their separate ways out of sight, leaving my own ship and two trim gentlemen of London. These last, finding no luck either, likewise vanished; and Lee Bay, with all its appurtenances, and without a rival, devolved to us. The way of cruising here is this. You keep hovering about the entrance of the bay, in one beat and out the next. But at times--not always, as in other parts of the group--a racehorse of a current sweeps right across its mouth. So, with all sails set, you carefully ply your tacks. How often, standing at the foremast head at sunrise, with our patient prow pointed in between these isles, did I gaze upon that land, not of cakes, but of clinkers, not of streams of sparkling water, but arrested torrents of tormented lava. As the ship runs in from the open sea, Narborough presents its side in one dark craggy mass, soaring up some five or six thousand feet, at which point it hoods itself in heavy clouds, whose lowest level fold is as clearly defined against the rocks as the snow-line against the Andes. There is dire mischief going on in that upper dark. There toil the demons of fire, who, at intervals, irradiate the nights with a strange spectral illumination for miles and miles around, but unaccompanied by any further demonstration; or else, suddenly announce themselves by terrific concussions, and the full drama of a volcanic eruption. The blacker that cloud by day, the more may you look for light by night. Often whalemen have found themselves cruising nigh that burning mountain when all aglow with a ball-room blaze. Or, rather, glass-works, you may call this same vitreous isle of Narborough, with its tall chimney-stacks. Where we still stand, here on Rodondo, we cannot see all the other isles, but it is a good place from which to point out where they lie. Yonder, though, to the E.N.E., I mark a distant dusky ridge. It is Abington Isle, one of the most northerly of the group; so solitary, remote, and blank, it looks like No-Man's Land seen off our northern shore. I doubt whether two human beings ever touched upon that spot. So far as yon Abington Isle is concerned, Adam and his billions of posterity remain uncreated. Ranging south of Abington, and quite out of sight behind the long spine of Albemarle, lies James's Isle, so called by the early Buccaneers after the luckless Stuart, Duke of York. Observe here, by the way, that, excepting the isles particularized in comparatively recent times, and which mostly received the names of famous Admirals, the Encantadas were first christened by the Spaniards; but these Spanish names were generally effaced on English charts by the subsequent christenings of the Buccaneers, who, in the middle of the seventeenth century, called them after English noblemen and kings. Of these loyal freebooters and the things which associate their name with the Encantadas, we shall hear anon. Nay, for one little item, immediately; for between James's Isle and Albemarle, lies a fantastic islet, strangely known as "Cowley's Enchanted Isle." But, as all the group is deemed enchanted, the reason must be given for the spell within a spell involved by this particular designation. The name was bestowed by that excellent Buccaneer himself, on his first visit here. Speaking in his published voyages of this spot, he says--"My fancy led me to call it Cowley's Enchanted Isle, for, we having had a sight of it upon several points of the compass, it appeared always in so many different forms; sometimes like a ruined fortification; upon another point like a great city," etc. No wonder though, that among the Encantadas all sorts of ocular deceptions and mirages should be met. That Cowley linked his name with this self-transforming and bemocking isle, suggests the possibility that it conveyed to him some meditative image of himself. At least, as is not impossible, if he were any relative of the mildly-thoughtful and self-upbraiding poet Cowley, who lived about his time, the conceit might seem unwarranted; for that sort of thing evinced in the naming of this isle runs in the blood, and may be seen in pirates as in poets. Still south of James's Isle lie Jervis Isle, Duncan Isle, Grossman's Isle, Brattle Isle, Wood's Isle, Chatham Isle, and various lesser isles, for the most part an archipelago of aridities, without inhabitant, history, or hope of either in all time to come. But not far from these are rather notable isles--Barrington, Charles's, Norfolk, and Hood's. Succeeding chapters will reveal some ground for their notability. * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Four: A Pisgah View From the Rock

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-four-a-pisgah-view-from-the-rock

Mount Pisgah is in the Bible; that's the reference there. Melville gets silly and says to climb the rock, you should travel round the world and learn juggling. The point is that you can't really climb the rock. So this is a sort of imaginative vision. He says you can see the coast of South America, and other islands about. Has he mentioned it's very isolated yet? It's very isolated. He tells the story of a ship that tried to get from Peru to Chili which took four months to go a ten day trip because of nasty calms and currents. But the great explorer Juan Fernandez finally figured out that you need to put your ship farther out to sea rather than hugging the coast, and that works much better. Back to the rock and looking out; he describes some other islands. He describes the inhabitants of Albemarle, which include no people, and lots of lizards, snakes and spiders. It also has an inlet where sperm whales come. There's an anecdote about William Cowley, an explorer who named an island after himself, calling it Cowley's Enchanted Isle. He called it an enchanted isle because it seemed to change shape and aspect. He called it Cowley's island because he was egotistical, presumably

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_8_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 9

chapter 9, sketch fifth the frigate, and ship flyaway

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Fifth: The Frigate, and Ship Flyaway", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-fifth-the-frigate-and-ship-flyaway", "summary": "This is a really unusually pointless anecdote about U.S. explorer David Porter and his ship the Essex. His crew saw a ship, tried to catch it, and didn't. But it was in the Enchanted Isles, so everything seemed mysterious and...enchanted. Shmoop note: \"The Encantadas\" was the most popular piece in The Piazza Tales, initially. Go figure.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH FIFTH. THE FRIGATE, AND SHIP FLYAWAY. "Looking far forth into the ocean wide, A goodly ship with banners bravely dight, And flag in her top-gallant I espide, Through the main sea making her merry flight." Ere quitting Rodondo, it must not be omitted that here, in 1813, the U.S. frigate Essex, Captain David Porter, came near leaving her bones. Lying becalmed one morning with a strong current setting her rapidly towards the rock, a strange sail was descried, which--not out of keeping with alleged enchantments of the neighborhood--seemed to be staggering under a violent wind, while the frigate lay lifeless as if spell-bound. But a light air springing up, all sail was made by the frigate in chase of the enemy, as supposed--he being deemed an English whale-ship--but the rapidity of the current was so great, that soon all sight was lost of him; and, at meridian, the Essex, spite of her drags, was driven so close under the foam-lashed cliffs of Rodondo that, for a time, all hands gave her up. A smart breeze, however, at last helped her off, though the escape was so critical as to seem almost miraculous. Thus saved from destruction herself, she now made use of that salvation to destroy the other vessel, if possible. Renewing the chase in the direction in which the stranger had disappeared, sight was caught of him the following morning. Upon being descried he hoisted American colors and stood away from the Essex. A calm ensued; when, still confident that the stranger was an Englishman, Porter dispatched a cutter, not to board the enemy, but drive back his boats engaged in towing him. The cutter succeeded. Cutters were subsequently sent to capture him; the stranger now showing English colors in place of American. But, when the frigate's boats were within a short distance of their hoped-for prize, another sudden breeze sprang up; the stranger, under all sail, bore off to the westward, and, ere night, was hull down ahead of the Essex, which, all this time, lay perfectly becalmed. This enigmatic craft--American in the morning, and English in the evening--her sails full of wind in a calm--was never again beheld. An enchanted ship no doubt. So, at least, the sailors swore. This cruise of the Essex in the Pacific during the war of 1812, is, perhaps, the strangest and most stirring to be found in the history of the American navy. She captured the furthest wandering vessels; visited the remotest seas and isles; long hovered in the charmed vicinity of the enchanted group; and, finally, valiantly gave up the ghost fighting two English frigates in the harbor of Valparaiso. Mention is made of her here for the same reason that the Buccaneers will likewise receive record; because, like them, by long cruising among the isles, tortoise-hunting upon their shores, and generally exploring them; for these and other reasons, the Essex is peculiarly associated with the Encantadas. Here be it said that you have but three, eye-witness authorities worth mentioning touching the Enchanted Isles:--Cowley, the Buccaneer (1684); Colnet the whaling-ground explorer (1798); Porter, the post captain (1813). Other than these you have but barren, bootless allusions from some few passing voyagers or compilers. * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Fifth: The Frigate, and Ship Flyaway

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-fifth-the-frigate-and-ship-flyaway

This is a really unusually pointless anecdote about U.S. explorer David Porter and his ship the Essex. His crew saw a ship, tried to catch it, and didn't. But it was in the Enchanted Isles, so everything seemed mysterious and...enchanted. Shmoop note: "The Encantadas" was the most popular piece in The Piazza Tales, initially. Go figure.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_9_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 10

chapter 10, sketch sixth barrington isle and the buccaneers

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Sixth: Barrington Isle and the Buccaneers", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-sixth-barrington-isle-and-the-buccaneers", "summary": "Hey, there's a quote from Spenser. Hello quote from Spenser. Melville tells you that Barrington Island was the home of pirates, or buccaneers. Its isolation meant that pirates could hang out without fear of being hunted down and arrested. Barrington Island has trees and fruit and is generally pleasant, unlike all the other islands around. Thus a happy place for pirates. The narrative quotes some unknown sentimental traveler. Why? Maybe because random quotation is fun? Anyway, the random quotation and Melville agree that pirates are awful, but argue that some of them are maybe not so bad. You wonder what the random quotation person would say if pirates robbed him. But that we shall never know.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH SIXTH. BARRINGTON ISLE AND THE BUCCANEERS. "Let us all servile base subjection scorn, And as we be sons of the earth so wide, Let us our father's heritage divide, And challenge to ourselves our portions dew Of all the patrimony, which a few hold on hugger-mugger in their hand." * * * * * "Lords of the world, and so will wander free, Whereso us listeth, uncontroll'd of any." * * * * * "How bravely now we live, how jocund, how near the first inheritance, without fear, how free from little troubles!" Near two centuries ago Barrington Isle was the resort of that famous wing of the West Indian Buccaneers, which, upon their repulse from the Cuban waters, crossing the Isthmus of Darien, ravaged the Pacific side of the Spanish colonies, and, with the regularity and timing of a modern mail, waylaid the royal treasure-ships plying between Manilla and Acapulco. After the toils of piratic war, here they came to say their prayers, enjoy their free-and-easies, count their crackers from the cask, their doubloons from the keg, and measure their silks of Asia with long Toledos for their yard-sticks. As a secure retreat, an undiscoverable hiding-place, no spot in those days could have been better fitted. In the centre of a vast and silent sea, but very little traversed--surrounded by islands, whose inhospitable aspect might well drive away the chance navigator--and yet within a few days' sail of the opulent countries which they made their prey--the unmolested Buccaneers found here that tranquillity which they fiercely denied to every civilized harbor in that part of the world. Here, after stress of weather, or a temporary drubbing at the hands of their vindictive foes, or in swift flight with golden booty, those old marauders came, and lay snugly out of all harm's reach. But not only was the place a harbor of safety, and a bower of ease, but for utility in other things it was most admirable. Barrington Isle is, in many respects, singularly adapted to careening, refitting, refreshing, and other seamen's purposes. Not only has it good water, and good anchorage, well sheltered from all winds by the high land of Albemarle, but it is the least unproductive isle of the group. Tortoises good for food, trees good for fuel, and long grass good for bedding, abound here, and there are pretty natural walks, and several landscapes to be seen. Indeed, though in its locality belonging to the Enchanted group, Barrington Isle is so unlike most of its neighbors, that it would hardly seem of kin to them. "I once landed on its western side," says a sentimental voyager long ago, "where it faces the black buttress of Albemarle. I walked beneath groves of trees--not very lofty, and not palm trees, or orange trees, or peach trees, to be sure--but, for all that, after long sea-faring, very beautiful to walk under, even though they supplied no fruit. And here, in calm spaces at the heads of glades, and on the shaded tops of slopes commanding the most quiet scenery--what do you think I saw? Seats which might have served Brahmins and presidents of peace societies. Fine old ruins of what had once been symmetric lounges of stone and turf, they bore every mark both of artificialness and age, and were, undoubtedly, made by the Buccaneers. One had been a long sofa, with back and arms, just such a sofa as the poet Gray might have loved to throw himself upon, his Crebillon in hand. "Though they sometimes tarried here for months at a time, and used the spot for a storing-place for spare spars, sails, and casks; yet it is highly improbable that the Buccaneers ever erected dwelling-houses upon the isle. They never were here except their ships remained, and they would most likely have slept on board. I mention this, because I cannot avoid the thought, that it is hard to impute the construction of these romantic seats to any other motive than one of pure peacefulness and kindly fellowship with nature. That the Buccaneers perpetrated the greatest outrages is very true--that some of them were mere cutthroats is not to be denied; but we know that here and there among their host was a Dampier, a Wafer, and a Cowley, and likewise other men, whose worst reproach was their desperate fortunes--whom persecution, or adversity, or secret and unavengeable wrongs, had driven from Christian society to seek the melancholy solitude or the guilty adventures of the sea. At any rate, long as those ruins of seats on Barrington remain, the most singular monuments are furnished to the fact, that all of the Buccaneers were not unmitigated monsters. "But during my ramble on the isle I was not long in discovering other tokens, of things quite in accordance with those wild traits, popularly, and no doubt truly enough, imputed to the freebooters at large. Had I picked up old sails and rusty hoops I would only have thought of the ship's carpenter and cooper. But I found old cutlasses and daggers reduced to mere threads of rust, which, doubtless, had stuck between Spanish ribs ere now. These were signs of the murderer and robber; the reveler likewise had left his trace. Mixed with shells, fragments of broken jars were lying here and there, high up upon the beach. They were precisely like the jars now used upon the Spanish coast for the wine and Pisco spirits of that country. "With a rusty dagger-fragment in one hand, and a bit of a wine-jar in another, I sat me down on the ruinous green sofa I have spoken of, and bethought me long and deeply of these same Buccaneers. Could it be possible, that they robbed and murdered one day, reveled the next, and rested themselves by turning meditative philosophers, rural poets, and seat-builders on the third? Not very improbable, after all. For consider the vacillations of a man. Still, strange as it may seem, I must also abide by the more charitable thought; namely, that among these adventurers were some gentlemanly, companionable souls, capable of genuine tranquillity and virtue." * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Sixth: Barrington Isle and the Buccaneers

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-sixth-barrington-isle-and-the-buccaneers

Hey, there's a quote from Spenser. Hello quote from Spenser. Melville tells you that Barrington Island was the home of pirates, or buccaneers. Its isolation meant that pirates could hang out without fear of being hunted down and arrested. Barrington Island has trees and fruit and is generally pleasant, unlike all the other islands around. Thus a happy place for pirates. The narrative quotes some unknown sentimental traveler. Why? Maybe because random quotation is fun? Anyway, the random quotation and Melville agree that pirates are awful, but argue that some of them are maybe not so bad. You wonder what the random quotation person would say if pirates robbed him. But that we shall never know.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_10_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 11

chapter 11, sketch seventh charles's isle and the dog king

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Seventh: Charles's Isle and the Dog King", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-seventh-charless-isle-and-the-dog-king", "summary": "And hey, here's another quote from Spenser. The comparison with the Faerie Queene just never gets old for Melville. Charles's Isle is near Barrington Isle. And for once, Melville has an actual story to tell, sort of. Three cheers for an actual story! Hip, hip, hooray! It's not that much of a story, but Shmoop is desperate, and will take what Shmoop can get. During Peru's independence struggle from Spain, there was one Creole guy who fought with Peru. A Creole is someone who has both European and Indian ancestry, by the by. Anyway, the Creole guy fought for Peru for money, but at the end of the revolution, they didn't have money to pay him, so they gave him Charles's Island, which was relatively inhabitable, and quite large. The Creole guy determined to rule the island, and brought some settlers over to be his subjects. To keep order he brought some large dogs with him. Things quickly went to pot, though; the subjects weren't keen on being ruled by the Creole and his dogs, so the Creole guy shot some of them What with the shooting people and the not being many there to begin with, the population wasn't very great. So the Creole guy replenished it by inducing people from whalers to abandon their posts, and join his not so very merry band. He's sneaky, our hero. But the folks who leave the whalers are sneaky too, and eventually there's a revolt and the Creole is driven away, back to Peru in exile. He presumably hoped to hear that his island was falling apart without him, and it sort of was. The place was completely lawless, and would encourage sailors to leave their ships for freedom when whalers landed. So whalers wouldn't land there any more, though deserters in the Encantadas still made their way there. That's it. Like Shmoop says, not much of a story, really, but you take what you can get.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH SEVENTH. CHARLES'S ISLE AND THE DOG-KING. --So with outragious cry, A thousand villeins round about him swarmed Out of the rocks and caves adjoining nye; Vile caitive wretches, ragged, rude, deformed; All threatning death, all in straunge manner armed; Some with unweldy clubs, some with long speares. Some rusty knives, some staves in fier warmd. * * * * * We will not be of any occupation, Let such vile vassals, born to base vocation, Drudge in the world, and for their living droyle, Which have no wit to live withouten toyle. Southwest of Barrington lies Charles's Isle. And hereby hangs a history which I gathered long ago from a shipmate learned in all the lore of outlandish life. During the successful revolt of the Spanish provinces from Old Spain, there fought on behalf of Peru a certain Creole adventurer from Cuba, who, by his bravery and good fortune, at length advanced himself to high rank in the patriot army. The war being ended, Peru found itself like many valorous gentlemen, free and independent enough, but with few shot in the locker. In other words, Peru had not wherewithal to pay off its troops. But the Creole--I forget his name--volunteered to take his pay in lands. So they told him he might have his pick of the Enchanted Isles, which were then, as they still remain, the nominal appanage of Peru. The soldier straightway embarks thither, explores the group, returns to Callao, and says he will take a deed of Charles's Isle. Moreover, this deed must stipulate that thenceforth Charles's Isle is not only the sole property of the Creole, but is forever free of Peru, even as Peru of Spain. To be short, this adventurer procures himself to be made in effect Supreme Lord of the Island, one of the princes of the powers of the earth.[A] [Footnote A: The American Spaniards have long been in the habit of making presents of islands to deserving individuals. The pilot Juan Fernandez procured a deed of the isle named after him, and for some years resided there before Selkirk came. It is supposed, however, that he eventually contracted the blues upon his princely property, for after a time he returned to the main, and as report goes, became a very garrulous barber in the city of Lima.] He now sends forth a proclamation inviting subjects to his as yet unpopulated kingdom. Some eighty souls, men and women, respond; and being provided by their leader with necessaries, and tools of various sorts, together with a few cattle and goats, take ship for the promised land; the last arrival on board, prior to sailing, being the Creole himself, accompanied, strange to say, by a disciplined cavalry company of large grim dogs. These, it was observed on the passage, refusing to consort with the emigrants, remained aristocratically grouped around their master on the elevated quarter-deck, casting disdainful glances forward upon the inferior rabble there; much as, from the ramparts, the soldiers of a garrison, thrown into a conquered town, eye the inglorious citizen-mob over which they are set to watch. Now Charles's Isle not only resembles Barrington Isle in being much more inhabitable than other parts of the group, but it is double the size of Barrington, say forty or fifty miles in circuit. Safely debarked at last, the company, under direction of their lord and patron, forthwith proceeded to build their capital city. They make considerable advance in the way of walls of clinkers, and lava floors, nicely sanded with cinders. On the least barren hills they pasture their cattle, while the goats, adventurers by nature, explore the far inland solitudes for a scanty livelihood of lofty herbage. Meantime, abundance of fish and tortoises supply their other wants. The disorders incident to settling all primitive regions, in the present case were heightened by the peculiarly untoward character of many of the pilgrims. His Majesty was forced at last to proclaim martial law, and actually hunted and shot with his own hand several of his rebellious subjects, who, with most questionable intentions, had clandestinely encamped in the interior, whence they stole by night, to prowl barefooted on tiptoe round the precincts of the lava-palace. It is to be remarked, however, that prior to such stern proceedings, the more reliable men had been judiciously picked out for an infantry body-guard, subordinate to the cavalry body-guard of dogs. But the state of politics in this unhappy nation may be somewhat imagined, from the circumstance that all who were not of the body-guard were downright plotters and malignant traitors. At length the death penalty was tacitly abolished, owing to the timely thought, that were strict sportsman's justice to be dispensed among such subjects, ere long the Nimrod King would have little or no remaining game to shoot. The human part of the life-guard was now disbanded, and set to work cultivating the soil, and raising potatoes; the regular army now solely consisting of the dog-regiment. These, as I have heard, were of a singularly ferocious character, though by severe training rendered docile to their master. Armed to the teeth, the Creole now goes in state, surrounded by his canine janizaries, whose terrific bayings prove quite as serviceable as bayonets in keeping down the surgings of revolt. But the census of the isle, sadly lessened by the dispensation of justice, and not materially recruited by matrimony, began to fill his mind with sad mistrust. Some way the population must be increased. Now, from its possessing a little water, and its comparative pleasantness of aspect, Charles's Isle at this period was occasionally visited by foreign whalers. These His Majesty had always levied upon for port charges, thereby contributing to his revenue. But now he had additional designs. By insidious arts he, from time to time, cajoles certain sailors to desert their ships, and enlist beneath his banner. Soon as missed, their captains crave permission to go and hunt them up. Whereupon His Majesty first hides them very carefully away, and then freely permits the search. In consequence, the delinquents are never found, and the ships retire without them. Thus, by a two-edged policy of this crafty monarch, foreign nations were crippled in the number of their subjects, and his own were greatly multiplied. He particularly petted these renegado strangers. But alas for the deep-laid schemes of ambitious princes, and alas for the vanity of glory. As the foreign-born Pretorians, unwisely introduced into the Roman state, and still more unwisely made favorites of the Emperors, at last insulted and overturned the throne, even so these lawless mariners, with all the rest of the body-guard and all the populace, broke out into a terrible mutiny, and defied their master. He marched against them with all his dogs. A deadly battle ensued upon the beach. It raged for three hours, the dogs fighting with determined valor, and the sailors reckless of everything but victory. Three men and thirteen dogs were left dead upon the field, many on both sides were wounded, and the king was forced to fly with the remainder of his canine regiment. The enemy pursued, stoning the dogs with their master into the wilderness of the interior. Discontinuing the pursuit, the victors returned to the village on the shore, stove the spirit casks, and proclaimed a Republic. The dead men were interred with the honors of war, and the dead dogs ignominiously thrown into the sea. At last, forced by stress of suffering, the fugitive Creole came down from the hills and offered to treat for peace. But the rebels refused it on any other terms than his unconditional banishment. Accordingly, the next ship that arrived carried away the ex-king to Peru. The history of the king of Charles's Island furnishes another illustration of the difficulty of colonizing barren islands with unprincipled pilgrims. Doubtless for a long time the exiled monarch, pensively ruralizing in Peru, which afforded him a safe asylum in his calamity, watched every arrival from the Encantadas, to hear news of the failure of the Republic, the consequent penitence of the rebels, and his own recall to royalty. Doubtless he deemed the Republic but a miserable experiment which would soon explode. But no, the insurgents had confederated themselves into a democracy neither Grecian, Roman, nor American. Nay, it was no democracy at all, but a permanent _Riotocracy_, which gloried in having no law but lawlessness. Great inducements being offered to deserters, their ranks were swelled by accessions of scamps from every ship which touched their shores. Charles's Island was proclaimed the asylum of the oppressed of all navies. Each runaway tar was hailed as a martyr in the cause of freedom, and became immediately installed a ragged citizen of this universal nation. In vain the captains of absconding seamen strove to regain them. Their new compatriots were ready to give any number of ornamental eyes in their behalf. They had few cannon, but their fists were not to be trifled with. So at last it came to pass that no vessels acquainted with the character of that country durst touch there, however sorely in want of refreshment. It became Anathema--a sea Alsatia--the unassailed lurking-place of all sorts of desperadoes, who in the name of liberty did just what they pleased. They continually fluctuated in their numbers. Sailors, deserting ships at other islands, or in boats at sea anywhere in that vicinity, steered for Charles's Isle, as to their sure home of refuge; while, sated with the life of the isle, numbers from time to time crossed the water to the neighboring ones, and there presenting themselves to strange captains as shipwrecked seamen, often succeeded in getting on board vessels bound to the Spanish coast, and having a compassionate purse made up for them on landing there. One warm night during my first visit to the group, our ship was floating along in languid stillness, when some one on the forecastle shouted "Light ho!" We looked and saw a beacon burning on some obscure land off the beam. Our third mate was not intimate with this part of the world. Going to the captain he said, "Sir, shall I put off in a boat? These must be shipwrecked men." The captain laughed rather grimly, as, shaking his fist towards the beacon, he rapped out an oath, and said--"No, no, you precious rascals, you don't juggle one of my boats ashore this blessed night. You do well, you thieves--you do benevolently to hoist a light yonder as on a dangerous shoal. It tempts no wise man to pull off and see what's the matter, but bids him steer small and keep off shore--that is Charles's Island; brace up, Mr. Mate, and keep the light astern." * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Seventh: Charles's Isle and the Dog King

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-seventh-charless-isle-and-the-dog-king

And hey, here's another quote from Spenser. The comparison with the Faerie Queene just never gets old for Melville. Charles's Isle is near Barrington Isle. And for once, Melville has an actual story to tell, sort of. Three cheers for an actual story! Hip, hip, hooray! It's not that much of a story, but Shmoop is desperate, and will take what Shmoop can get. During Peru's independence struggle from Spain, there was one Creole guy who fought with Peru. A Creole is someone who has both European and Indian ancestry, by the by. Anyway, the Creole guy fought for Peru for money, but at the end of the revolution, they didn't have money to pay him, so they gave him Charles's Island, which was relatively inhabitable, and quite large. The Creole guy determined to rule the island, and brought some settlers over to be his subjects. To keep order he brought some large dogs with him. Things quickly went to pot, though; the subjects weren't keen on being ruled by the Creole and his dogs, so the Creole guy shot some of them What with the shooting people and the not being many there to begin with, the population wasn't very great. So the Creole guy replenished it by inducing people from whalers to abandon their posts, and join his not so very merry band. He's sneaky, our hero. But the folks who leave the whalers are sneaky too, and eventually there's a revolt and the Creole is driven away, back to Peru in exile. He presumably hoped to hear that his island was falling apart without him, and it sort of was. The place was completely lawless, and would encourage sailors to leave their ships for freedom when whalers landed. So whalers wouldn't land there any more, though deserters in the Encantadas still made their way there. That's it. Like Shmoop says, not much of a story, really, but you take what you can get.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_12_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 13

chapter 13, sketch ninth hood's isle and the hermit oberlus

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Ninth: Hood's Isle and the Hermit Oberlus", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-ninth-hoods-isle-and-the-hermit-oberlus", "summary": "Spooky Spenser quote about some evil guy. Off to Hood's Isle, and a story about a hermit named Oberlus, who killed people. Oberlus is evil-looking and dressed in rags. He lives all alone on the island. He gets delusions of grandeur and decides he wants subjects. He gets hold of a firearm from somewhere. Oberlus sees a black sailor working and tries to kidnap him for his slave. But the black man escapes, and Oberlus is captured and whipped. But then he escapes again. Oberlus gets craftier, and rather than trying to steal sailors by force, he lures them to his hut, gets them drunk, and then ties them up till their ships leave. He then keeps them as slaves , using his blunderbuss and cruelty to keep them in line. Through ill-treatment they become in time allied with him and join him in his criminal endeavors. Oberlus decides to try to capture a ship, murder the crew, and take off from the island. One ship lands, and Oberlus manages to steal a boat. When another ship comes in, it founds Oberlus gone with his slaves/confederates. He gets to Payta without his confederates . He finds a woman in Payta who he hopes to get to come back to Hood's Island, but before that can happen he is arrested for sneaking around. And the story leaves him in prison, though it doesn't say whether he died there. Then there's a paragraph assuring you that this story is really true, really.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH NINTH. HOOD'S ISLE AND THE HERMIT OBERLUS. "That darkesome glen they enter, where they find That cursed man low sitting on the ground, Musing full sadly in his sullein mind; His griesly lockes long gronen and unbound, Disordered hong about his shoulders round, And hid his face, through which his hollow eyne Lookt deadly dull, and stared as astound; His raw-bone cheekes, through penurie and pine, Were shronke into the jawes, as he did never dine. His garments nought but many ragged clouts, With thornes together pind and patched reads, The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts." Southeast of Crossman's Isle lies Hood's Isle, or McCain's Beclouded Isle; and upon its south side is a vitreous cove with a wide strand of dark pounded black lava, called Black Beach, or Oberlus's Landing. It might fitly have been styled Charon's. It received its name from a wild white creature who spent many years here; in the person of a European bringing into this savage region qualities more diabolical than are to be found among any of the surrounding cannibals. About half a century ago, Oberlus deserted at the above-named island, then, as now, a solitude. He built himself a den of lava and clinkers, about a mile from the Landing, subsequently called after him, in a vale, or expanded gulch, containing here and there among the rocks about two acres of soil capable of rude cultivation; the only place on the isle not too blasted for that purpose. Here he succeeded in raising a sort of degenerate potatoes and pumpkins, which from time to time he exchanged with needy whalemen passing, for spirits or dollars. His appearance, from all accounts, was that of the victim of some malignant sorceress; he seemed to have drunk of Circe's cup; beast-like; rags insufficient to hide his nakedness; his befreckled skin blistered by continual exposure to the sun; nose flat; countenance contorted, heavy, earthy; hair and beard unshorn, profuse, and of fiery red. He struck strangers much as if he were a volcanic creature thrown up by the same convulsion which exploded into sight the isle. All bepatched and coiled asleep in his lonely lava den among the mountains, he looked, they say, as a heaped drift of withered leaves, torn from autumn trees, and so left in some hidden nook by the whirling halt for an instant of a fierce night-wind, which then ruthlessly sweeps on, somewhere else to repeat the capricious act. It is also reported to have been the strangest sight, this same Oberlus, of a sultry, cloudy morning, hidden under his shocking old black tarpaulin hat, hoeing potatoes among the lava. So warped and crooked was his strange nature, that the very handle of his hoe seemed gradually to have shrunk and twisted in his grasp, being a wretched bent stick, elbowed more like a savage's war-sickle than a civilized hoe-handle. It was his mysterious custom upon a first encounter with a stranger ever to present his back; possibly, because that was his better side, since it revealed the least. If the encounter chanced in his garden, as it sometimes did--the new-landed strangers going from the sea-side straight through the gorge, to hunt up the queer green-grocer reported doing business here--Oberlus for a time hoed on, unmindful of all greeting, jovial or bland; as the curious stranger would turn to face him, the recluse, hoe in hand, as diligently would avert himself; bowed over, and sullenly revolving round his murphy hill. Thus far for hoeing. When planting, his whole aspect and all his gestures were so malevolently and uselessly sinister and secret, that he seemed rather in act of dropping poison into wells than potatoes into soil. But among his lesser and more harmless marvels was an idea he ever had, that his visitors came equally as well led by longings to behold the mighty hermit Oberlus in his royal state of solitude, as simply, to obtain potatoes, or find whatever company might be upon a barren isle. It seems incredible that such a being should possess such vanity; a misanthrope be conceited; but he really had his notion; and upon the strength of it, often gave himself amusing airs to captains. But after all, this is somewhat of a piece with the well-known eccentricity of some convicts, proud of that very hatefulness which makes them notorious. At other times, another unaccountable whim would seize him, and he would long dodge advancing strangers round the clinkered corners of his hut; sometimes like a stealthy bear, he would slink through the withered thickets up the mountains, and refuse to see the human face. Except his occasional visitors from the sea, for a long period, the only companions of Oberlus were the crawling tortoises; and he seemed more than degraded to their level, having no desires for a time beyond theirs, unless it were for the stupor brought on by drunkenness. But sufficiently debased as he appeared, there yet lurked in him, only awaiting occasion for discovery, a still further proneness. Indeed, the sole superiority of Oberlus over the tortoises was his possession of a larger capacity of degradation; and along with that, something like an intelligent will to it. Moreover, what is about to be revealed, perhaps will show, that selfish ambition, or the love of rule for its own sake, far from being the peculiar infirmity of noble minds, is shared by beings which have no mind at all. No creatures are so selfishly tyrannical as some brutes; as any one who has observed the tenants of the pasture must occasionally have observed. "This island's mine by Sycorax my mother," said Oberlus to himself, glaring round upon his haggard solitude. By some means, barter or theft--for in those days ships at intervals still kept touching at his Landing--he obtained an old musket, with a few charges of powder and ball. Possessed of arms, he was stimulated to enterprise, as a tiger that first feels the coming of its claws. The long habit of sole dominion over every object round him, his almost unbroken solitude, his never encountering humanity except on terms of misanthropic independence, or mercantile craftiness, and even such encounters being comparatively but rare; all this must have gradually nourished in him a vast idea of his own importance, together with a pure animal sort of scorn for all the rest of the universe. The unfortunate Creole, who enjoyed his brief term of royalty at Charles's Isle was perhaps in some degree influenced by not unworthy motives; such as prompt other adventurous spirits to lead colonists into distant regions and assume political preeminence over them. His summary execution of many of his Peruvians is quite pardonable, considering the desperate characters he had to deal with; while his offering canine battle to the banded rebels seems under the circumstances altogether just. But for this King Oberlus and what shortly follows, no shade of palliation can be given. He acted out of mere delight in tyranny and cruelty, by virtue of a quality in him inherited from Sycorax his mother. Armed now with that shocking blunderbuss, strong in the thought of being master of that horrid isle, he panted for a chance to prove his potency upon the first specimen of humanity which should fall unbefriended into his hands. Nor was he long without it. One day he spied a boat upon the beach, with one man, a negro, standing by it. Some distance off was a ship, and Oberlus immediately knew how matters stood. The vessel had put in for wood, and the boat's crew had gone into the thickets for it. From a convenient spot he kept watch of the boat, till presently a straggling company appeared loaded with billets. Throwing these on the beach, they again went into the thickets, while the negro proceeded to load the boat. Oberlus now makes all haste and accosts the negro, who, aghast at seeing any living being inhabiting such a solitude, and especially so horrific a one, immediately falls into a panic, not at all lessened by the ursine suavity of Oberlus, who begs the favor of assisting him in his labors. The negro stands with several billets on his shoulder, in act of shouldering others; and Oberlus, with a short cord concealed in his bosom, kindly proceeds to lift those other billets to their place. In so doing, he persists in keeping behind the negro, who, rightly suspicious of this, in vain dodges about to gain the front of Oberlus; but Oberlus dodges also; till at last, weary of this bootless attempt at treachery, or fearful of being surprised by the remainder of the party, Oberlus runs off a little space to a bush, and fetching his blunderbuss, savagely commands the negro to desist work and follow him. He refuses. Whereupon, presenting his piece, Oberlus snaps at him. Luckily the blunderbuss misses fire; but by this time, frightened out of his wits, the negro, upon a second intrepid summons, drops his billets, surrenders at discretion, and follows on. By a narrow defile familiar to him, Oberlus speedily removes out of sight of the water. On their way up the mountains, he exultingly informs the negro, that henceforth he is to work for him, and be his slave, and that his treatment would entirely depend on his future conduct. But Oberlus, deceived by the first impulsive cowardice of the black, in an evil moment slackens his vigilance. Passing through a narrow way, and perceiving his leader quite off his guard, the negro, a powerful fellow, suddenly grasps him in his arms, throws him down, wrests his musketoon from him, ties his hands with the monster's own cord, shoulders him, and returns with him down to the boat. When the rest of the party arrive, Oberlus is carried on board the ship. This proved an Englishman, and a smuggler; a sort of craft not apt to be over-charitable. Oberlus is severely whipped, then handcuffed, taken ashore, and compelled to make known his habitation and produce his property. His potatoes, pumpkins, and tortoises, with a pile of dollars he had hoarded from his mercantile operations were secured on the spot. But while the too vindictive smugglers were busy destroying his hut and garden, Oberlus makes his escape into the mountains, and conceals himself there in impenetrable recesses, only known to himself, till the ship sails, when he ventures back, and by means of an old file which he sticks into a tree, contrives to free himself from his handcuffs. Brooding among the ruins of his hut, and the desolate clinkers and extinct volcanoes of this outcast isle, the insulted misanthrope now meditates a signal revenge upon humanity, but conceals his purposes. Vessels still touch the Landing at times; and by-and-by Oberlus is enabled to supply them with some vegetables. Warned by his former failure in kidnapping strangers, he now pursues a quite different plan. When seamen come ashore, he makes up to them like a free-and-easy comrade, invites them to his hut, and with whatever affability his red-haired grimness may assume, entreats them to drink his liquor and be merry. But his guests need little pressing; and so, soon as rendered insensible, are tied hand and foot, and pitched among the clinkers, are there concealed till the ship departs, when, finding themselves entirely dependent upon Oberlus, alarmed at his changed demeanor, his savage threats, and above all, that shocking blunderbuss, they willingly enlist under him, becoming his humble slaves, and Oberlus the most incredible of tyrants. So much so, that two or three perish beneath his initiating process. He sets the remainder--four of them--to breaking the caked soil; transporting upon their backs loads of loamy earth, scooped up in moist clefts among the mountains; keeps them on the roughest fare; presents his piece at the slightest hint of insurrection; and in all respects converts them into reptiles at his feet--plebeian garter-snakes to this Lord Anaconda. At last, Oberlus contrives to stock his arsenal with four rusty cutlasses, and an added supply of powder and ball intended for his blunderbuss. Remitting in good part the labor of his slaves, he now approves himself a man, or rather devil, of great abilities in the way of cajoling or coercing others into acquiescence with his own ulterior designs, however at first abhorrent to them. But indeed, prepared for almost any eventual evil by their previous lawless life, as a sort of ranging Cow-Boys of the sea, which had dissolved within them the whole moral man, so that they were ready to concrete in the first offered mould of baseness now; rotted down from manhood by their hopeless misery on the isle; wonted to cringe in all things to their lord, himself the worst of slaves; these wretches were now become wholly corrupted to his hands. He used them as creatures of an inferior race; in short, he gaffles his four animals, and makes murderers of them; out of cowards fitly manufacturing bravos. Now, sword or dagger, human arms are but artificial claws and fangs, tied on like false spurs to the fighting cock. So, we repeat, Oberlus, czar of the isle, gaffles his four subjects; that is, with intent of glory, puts four rusty cutlasses into their hands. Like any other autocrat, he had a noble army now. It might be thought a servile war would hereupon ensue. Arms in the hands of trodden slaves? how indiscreet of Emperor Oberlus! Nay, they had but cutlasses--sad old scythes enough--he a blunderbuss, which by its blind scatterings of all sorts of boulders, clinkers, and other scoria would annihilate all four mutineers, like four pigeons at one shot. Besides, at first he did not sleep in his accustomed hut; every lurid sunset, for a time, he might have been seen wending his way among the riven mountains, there to secrete himself till dawn in some sulphurous pitfall, undiscoverable to his gang; but finding this at last too troublesome, he now each evening tied his slaves hand and foot, hid the cutlasses, and thrusting them into his barracks, shut to the door, and lying down before it, beneath a rude shed lately added, slept out the night, blunderbuss in hand. It is supposed that not content with daily parading over a cindery solitude at the head of his fine army, Oberlus now meditated the most active mischief; his probable object being to surprise some passing ship touching at his dominions, massacre the crew, and run away with her to parts unknown. While these plans were simmering in his head, two ships touch in company at the isle, on the opposite side to his; when his designs undergo a sudden change. The ships are in want of vegetables, which Oberlus promises in great abundance, provided they send their boats round to his landing, so that the crews may bring the vegetables from his garden; informing the two captains, at the same time, that his rascals--slaves and soldiers--had become so abominably lazy and good-for-nothing of late, that he could not make them work by ordinary inducements, and did not have the heart to be severe with them. The arrangement was agreed to, and the boats were sent and hauled upon the beach. The crews went to the lava hut; but to their surprise nobody was there. After waiting till their patience was exhausted, they returned to the shore, when lo, some stranger--not the Good Samaritan either--seems to have very recently passed that way. Three of the boats were broken in a thousand pieces, and the fourth was missing. By hard toil over the mountains and through the clinkers, some of the strangers succeeded in returning to that side of the isle where the ships lay, when fresh boats are sent to the relief of the rest of the hapless party. However amazed at the treachery of Oberlus, the two captains, afraid of new and still more mysterious atrocities--and indeed, half imputing such strange events to the enchantments associated with these isles--perceive no security but in instant flight; leaving Oberlus and his army in quiet possession of the stolen boat. On the eve of sailing they put a letter in a keg, giving the Pacific Ocean intelligence of the affair, and moored the keg in the bay. Some time subsequent, the keg was opened by another captain chancing to anchor there, but not until after he had dispatched a boat round to Oberlus's Landing. As may be readily surmised, he felt no little inquietude till the boat's return: when another letter was handed him, giving Oberlus's version of the affair. This precious document had been found pinned half-mildewed to the clinker wall of the sulphurous and deserted hut. It ran as follows: showing that Oberlus was at least an accomplished writer, and no mere boor; and what is more, was capable of the most tristful eloquence. "Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated gentleman that lives. I am a patriot, exiled from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny. "Banished to these Enchanted Isles, I have again and again besought captains of ships to sell me a boat, but always have been refused, though I offered the handsomest prices in Mexican dollars. At length an opportunity presented of possessing myself of one, and I did not let it slip. "I have been long endeavoring, by hard labor and much solitary suffering, to accumulate something to make myself comfortable in a virtuous though unhappy old age; but at various times have been robbed and beaten by men professing to be Christians. "To-day I sail from the Enchanted group in the good boat Charity bound to the Feejee Isles. "FATHERLESS OBERLUS. "_P.S._--Behind the clinkers, nigh the oven, you will find the old fowl. Do not kill it; be patient; I leave it setting; if it shall have any chicks, I hereby bequeath them to you, whoever you may be. But don't count your chicks before they are hatched." The fowl proved a starveling rooster, reduced to a sitting posture by sheer debility. Oberlus declares that he was bound to the Feejee Isles; but this was only to throw pursuers on a false scent. For, after a long time, he arrived, alone in his open boat, at Guayaquil. As his miscreants were never again beheld on Hood's Isle, it is supposed, either that they perished for want of water on the passage to Guayaquil, or, what is quite as probable, were thrown overboard by Oberlus, when he found the water growing scarce. From Guayaquil Oberlus proceeded to Payta; and there, with that nameless witchery peculiar to some of the ugliest animals, wound himself into the affections of a tawny damsel; prevailing upon her to accompany him back to his Enchanted Isle; which doubtless he painted as a Paradise of flowers, not a Tartarus of clinkers. But unfortunately for the colonization of Hood's Isle with a choice variety of animated nature, the extraordinary and devilish aspect of Oberlus made him to be regarded in Payta as a highly suspicious character. So that being found concealed one night, with matches in his pocket, under the hull of a small vessel just ready to be launched, he was seized and thrown into jail. The jails in most South American towns are generally of the least wholesome sort. Built of huge cakes of sun-burnt brick, and containing but one room, without windows or yard, and but one door heavily grated with wooden bars, they present both within and without the grimmest aspect. As public edifices they conspicuously stand upon the hot and dusty Plaza, offering to view, through the gratings, their villainous and hopeless inmates, burrowing in all sorts of tragic squalor. And here, for a long time, Oberlus was seen; the central figure of a mongrel and assassin band; a creature whom it is religion to detest, since it is philanthropy to hate a misanthrope. _Note_.--They who may be disposed to question the possibility of the character above depicted, are referred to the 2d vol. of Porter's Voyage into the Pacific, where they will recognize many sentences, for expedition's sake derived verbatim from thence, and incorporated here; the main difference--save a few passing reflections--between the two accounts being, that the present writer has added to Porter's facts accessory ones picked up in the Pacific from reliable sources; and where facts conflict, has naturally preferred his own authorities to Porter's. As, for instance, _his_ authorities place Oberlus on Hood's Isle: Porter's, on Charles's Isle. The letter found in the hut is also somewhat different; for while at the Encantadas he was informed that, not only did it evince a certain clerkliness, but was full of the strangest satiric effrontery which does not adequately appear in Porter's version. I accordingly altered it to suit the general character of its author. * * * * *

Chapter 5, Sketch Ninth: Hood's Isle and the Hermit Oberlus

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Spooky Spenser quote about some evil guy. Off to Hood's Isle, and a story about a hermit named Oberlus, who killed people. Oberlus is evil-looking and dressed in rags. He lives all alone on the island. He gets delusions of grandeur and decides he wants subjects. He gets hold of a firearm from somewhere. Oberlus sees a black sailor working and tries to kidnap him for his slave. But the black man escapes, and Oberlus is captured and whipped. But then he escapes again. Oberlus gets craftier, and rather than trying to steal sailors by force, he lures them to his hut, gets them drunk, and then ties them up till their ships leave. He then keeps them as slaves , using his blunderbuss and cruelty to keep them in line. Through ill-treatment they become in time allied with him and join him in his criminal endeavors. Oberlus decides to try to capture a ship, murder the crew, and take off from the island. One ship lands, and Oberlus manages to steal a boat. When another ship comes in, it founds Oberlus gone with his slaves/confederates. He gets to Payta without his confederates . He finds a woman in Payta who he hopes to get to come back to Hood's Island, but before that can happen he is arrested for sneaking around. And the story leaves him in prison, though it doesn't say whether he died there. Then there's a paragraph assuring you that this story is really true, really.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/15859-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Piazza Tales/section_13_part_0.txt

The Piazza Tales.chapter 14

chapter 14, sketch tenth runaways, castaways, solitaries, grave stones, etc.

{"name": "Chapter 5, Sketch Tenth: Runaways, Castaways, Solitaries, Grave-Stones, Etc.", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-tenth-runaways-castaways-solitaries-grave-stones-etc", "summary": "The narrator tells you that no other part of the world has as many hermits living there as the Galapagos. Captains can be tyrannical and awful, and escaping into the Galapagos is one of the few ways sailors have to get away. Turtle-hunting makes hermits sometimes too; people go into the interiors, get lost, and their ships leave without them. Or sometimes people are exiled by their captains. He tells a story of a guy marooned on an island who was dying of thirst, till he came upon a seal, stabbed it, and sucked its blood. Ick. Vampire travel writing. And another story about a guy who escaped an island by killing seals and making a float of their corpses. He says people sometimes post bottles with messages in them on sticks; a kind of hermits' post office. And as a cheery end, he talks about gravestones on the islands. And that's it. Farewell, Galapagos novella. You were long, and your popularity is hard to figure, but at least Shmoop is done with you.", "analysis": ""}

SKETCH TENTH. RUNAWAYS, CASTAWAYS, SOLITARIES, GRAVE-STONES, ETC. "And all about old stocks and stubs of trees, Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen, Did hang upon ragged knotty knees, On which had many wretches hanged been." Some relics of the hut of Oberlus partially remain to this day at the head of the clinkered valley. Nor does the stranger, wandering among other of the Enchanted Isles, fail to stumble upon still other solitary abodes, long abandoned to the tortoise and the lizard. Probably few parts of earth have, in modern times, sheltered so many solitaries. The reason is, that these isles are situated in a distant sea, and the vessels which occasionally visit them are mostly all whalers, or ships bound on dreary and protracted voyages, exempting them in a good degree from both the oversight and the memory of human law. Such is the character of some commanders and some seamen, that under these untoward circumstances, it is quite impossible but that scenes of unpleasantness and discord should occur between them. A sullen hatred of the tyrannic ship will seize the sailor, and he gladly exchanges it for isles, which, though blighted as by a continual sirocco and burning breeze, still offer him, in their labyrinthine interior, a retreat beyond the possibility of capture. To flee the ship in any Peruvian or Chilian port, even the smallest and most rustical, is not unattended with great risk of apprehension, not to speak of jaguars. A reward of five pesos sends fifty dastardly Spaniards into the wood, who, with long knives, scour them day and night in eager hopes of securing their prey. Neither is it, in general, much easier to escape pursuit at the isles of Polynesia. Those of them which have felt a civilizing influence present the same difficulty to the runaway with the Peruvian ports, the advanced natives being quite as mercenary and keen of knife and scent as the retrograde Spaniards; while, owing to the bad odor in which all Europeans lie, in the minds of aboriginal savages who have chanced to hear aught of them, to desert the ship among primitive Polynesians, is, in most cases, a hope not unforlorn. Hence the Enchanted Isles become the voluntary tarrying places of all sorts of refugees; some of whom too sadly experience the fact, that flight from tyranny does not of itself insure a safe asylum, far less a happy home. Moreover, it has not seldom happened that hermits have been made upon the isles by the accidents incident to tortoise-hunting. The interior of most of them is tangled and difficult of passage beyond description; the air is sultry and stifling; an intolerable thirst is provoked, for which no running stream offers its kind relief. In a few hours, under an equatorial sun, reduced by these causes to entire exhaustion, woe betide the straggler at the Enchanted Isles! Their extent is such-as to forbid an adequate search, unless weeks are devoted to it. The impatient ship waits a day or two; when, the missing man remaining undiscovered, up goes a stake on the beach, with a letter of regret, and a keg of crackers and another of water tied to it, and away sails the craft. Nor have there been wanting instances where the inhumanity of some captains has led them to wreak a secure revenge upon seamen who have given their caprice or pride some singular offense. Thrust ashore upon the scorching marl, such mariners are abandoned to perish outright, unless by solitary labors they succeed in discovering some precious dribblets of moisture oozing from a rock or stagnant in a mountain pool. I was well acquainted with a man, who, lost upon the Isle of Narborough, was brought to such extremes by thirst, that at last he only saved his life by taking that of another being. A large hair-seal came upon the beach. He rushed upon it, stabbed it in the neck, and then throwing himself upon the panting body quaffed at the living wound; the palpitations of the creature's dying heart injected life into the drinker. Another seaman, thrust ashore in a boat upon an isle at which no ship ever touched, owing to its peculiar sterility and the shoals about it, and from which all other parts of the group were hidden--this man, feeling that it was sure death to remain there, and that nothing worse than death menaced him in quitting it, killed seals, and inflating their skins, made a float, upon which he transported himself to Charles's Island, and joined the republic there. But men, not endowed with courage equal to such desperate attempts, find their only resource in forthwith seeking some watering-place, however precarious or scanty; building a hut; catching tortoises and birds; and in all respects preparing for a hermit life, till tide or time, or a passing ship arrives to float them off. At the foot of precipices on many of the isles, small rude basins in the rocks are found, partly filled with rotted rubbish or vegetable decay, or overgrown with thickets, and sometimes a little moist; which, upon examination, reveal plain tokens of artificial instruments employed in hollowing them out, by some poor castaway or still more miserable runaway. These basins are made in places where it was supposed some scanty drops of dew might exude into them from the upper crevices. The relics of hermitages and stone basins are not the only signs of vanishing humanity to be found upon the isles. And, curious to say, that spot which of all others in settled communities is most animated, at the Enchanted Isles presents the most dreary of aspects. And though it may seem very strange to talk of post-offices in this barren region, yet post-offices are occasionally to be found there. They consist of a stake and a bottle. The letters being not only sealed, but corked. They are generally deposited by captains of Nantucketers for the benefit of passing fishermen, and contain statements as to what luck they had in whaling or tortoise-hunting. Frequently, however, long months and months, whole years glide by and no applicant appears. The stake rots and falls, presenting no very exhilarating object. If now it be added that grave-stones, or rather grave-boards, are also discovered upon some of the isles, the picture will be complete. Upon the beach of James's Isle, for many years, was to be seen a rude finger-post, pointing inland. And, perhaps, taking it for some signal of possible hospitality in this otherwise desolate spot--some good hermit living there with his maple dish--the stranger would follow on in the path thus indicated, till at last he would come out in a noiseless nook, and find his only welcome, a dead man--his sole greeting the inscription over a grave. Here, in 1813, fell, in a daybreak duel, a lieutenant of the U.S. frigate Essex, aged twenty-one: attaining his majority in death. It is but fit that, like those old monastic institutions of Europe, whose inmates go not out of their own walls to be inurned, but are entombed there where they die, the Encantadas, too, should bury their own dead, even as the great general monastery of earth does hers. It is known that burial in the ocean is a pure necessity of sea-faring life, and that it is only done when land is far astern, and not clearly visible from the bow. Hence, to vessels cruising in the vicinity of the Enchanted Isles, they afford a convenient Potter's Field. The interment over, some good-natured forecastle poet and artist seizes his paint-brush, and inscribes a doggerel epitaph. When, after a long lapse of time, other good-natured seamen chance to come upon the spot, they usually make a table of the mound, and quaff a friendly can to the poor soul's repose. As a specimen of these epitaphs, take the following, found in a bleak gorge of Chatham Isle:-- "Oh, Brother Jack, as you pass by, As you are now, so once was I. Just so game, and just so gay, But now, alack, they've stopped my pay. No more I peep out of my blinkers, Here I be--tucked in with clinkers!"

Chapter 5, Sketch Tenth: Runaways, Castaways, Solitaries, Grave-Stones, Etc.

https://web.archive.org/web/20201207031456/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-piazza-tales/summary/chapter-5-sketch-tenth-runaways-castaways-solitaries-grave-stones-etc

The narrator tells you that no other part of the world has as many hermits living there as the Galapagos. Captains can be tyrannical and awful, and escaping into the Galapagos is one of the few ways sailors have to get away. Turtle-hunting makes hermits sometimes too; people go into the interiors, get lost, and their ships leave without them. Or sometimes people are exiled by their captains. He tells a story of a guy marooned on an island who was dying of thirst, till he came upon a seal, stabbed it, and sucked its blood. Ick. Vampire travel writing. And another story about a guy who escaped an island by killing seals and making a float of their corpses. He says people sometimes post bottles with messages in them on sticks; a kind of hermits' post office. And as a cheery end, he talks about gravestones on the islands. And that's it. Farewell, Galapagos novella. You were long, and your popularity is hard to figure, but at least Shmoop is done with you.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_1_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 1.scene 2

act 1, scene 2

{"name": "Act 1, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-1-scene-2", "summary": "After dinner, Evans sends a servant named Peter Simple to hand-deliver a letter to a woman named Mistress Quickly. Since Mistress Quickly is chummy with Anne Page, Evans wants her to talk to Anne about marrying Slender. We find out that Mistress Quickly is the servant of a guy named Doctor Caius and lives at his house. Then Evans decides to let us in on a little gossip: apparently, Mistress Quickly doesn't just do Doctor Caius's laundry and cooking. She's also his \"oman\" . In other words, Mistress Quickly is probably sleeping with her boss. Brain Snack: In Henry IV Part 1, Mistress Quickly isn't a servant--she's the hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern, which is the kind of seedy bar where criminals and prostitutes hang out. Since The Merry Wives of Windsor is basically a spin-off of Henry IV Part 1, Shakespeare would have expected his audience to know all about Mistress Quickly's shady ways.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 2. The same. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.] EVANS. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which is the way; and there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. SIMPLE. Well, sir. EVANS. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it is a 'oman that altogether's acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master's desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone: I will make an end of my dinner; there's pippins and cheese to come. [Exeunt.]

Act 1, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-1-scene-2

After dinner, Evans sends a servant named Peter Simple to hand-deliver a letter to a woman named Mistress Quickly. Since Mistress Quickly is chummy with Anne Page, Evans wants her to talk to Anne about marrying Slender. We find out that Mistress Quickly is the servant of a guy named Doctor Caius and lives at his house. Then Evans decides to let us in on a little gossip: apparently, Mistress Quickly doesn't just do Doctor Caius's laundry and cooking. She's also his "oman" . In other words, Mistress Quickly is probably sleeping with her boss. Brain Snack: In Henry IV Part 1, Mistress Quickly isn't a servant--she's the hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern, which is the kind of seedy bar where criminals and prostitutes hang out. Since The Merry Wives of Windsor is basically a spin-off of Henry IV Part 1, Shakespeare would have expected his audience to know all about Mistress Quickly's shady ways.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_6_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 2.scene 3

act 2, scene 3

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-2-scene-3", "summary": "Remember that Caius challenged Evans to a duel? Well, they're getting ready to rumble in a field in Windsor Park. Caius is all dramatic. He slashes his sword around and declares that Evans is lucky he's a no-show--otherwise, the clergyman would be dog meat by now. Here comes someone--but it's not Evans. It's the Host of the Garter Inn, with Master Page, Slender, and Shallow, all there to see the big fight. The Host is all \"Gee, Caius, where's Evans? Did you kill him already?\" Caius waves around his sword and talks more trash about Evans in his super thick and super hilarious French accent. Shallow and Page point out that Doctor Caius is supposed to heal people, not kill them, but who asked them? The Host proceeds to insult Caius by using a bunch of English slang that the French doctor doesn't understand. At one point, he calls him \"Monsieur Mockwater\" . Caius asks \"Mockvater? Vat is that?\" Oh, you know, just a little English slang for \"brave.\" Caius declares that he's got just as much \"mockwater\" as an Englishman. The Host thinks this is absolutely hilarious, but he eventually stops laughing long enough to whisper to his friends that they should go over to Frogmore fields where Evans is waiting. He promises to bring Caius there later so they can have some more fun. Then, Page, Shallow, and Slender take off for Frogmore. The Host tells Caius that Anne Page is having dinner with friends at a farmhouse on the other side of Frogmore fields and that he'll lead the way for Caius to see her. Caius is totally psyched to have an opportunity to put the moves on her.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 3. A field near Windsor. [Enter CAIUS and RUGBY.] CAIUS. Jack Rugby! RUGBY. Sir? CAIUS. Vat is de clock, Jack? RUGBY. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible vell dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. RUGBY. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came. CAIUS. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. RUGBY. Alas, sir, I cannot fence! CAIUS. Villany, take your rapier. RUGBY. Forbear; here's company. [Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.] HOST. Bless thee, bully doctor! SHALLOW. Save you, Master Doctor Caius! PAGE. Now, good Master Doctor! SLENDER. Give you good morrow, sir. CAIUS. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for? HOST. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead? CAIUS. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show his face. HOST. Thou art a Castalion King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy! CAIUS. I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. SHALLOW. He is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? PAGE. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. SHALLOW. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page. PAGE. 'Tis true, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor. HOST. Pardon, guest-justice.--A word, Monsieur Mockwater. CAIUS. Mock-vater! Vat is dat? HOST. Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. CAIUS. By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman.--Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. HOST. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. CAIUS. Clapper-de-claw! Vat is dat? HOST. That is, he will make thee amends. CAIUS. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it. HOST. And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag. CAIUS. Me tank you for dat. HOST. And, moreover, bully--but first: Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. [Aside to them.] PAGE. Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? SHALLOW. We will do it. PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER. Adieu, good Master Doctor. [Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] CAIUS. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. HOST. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler; go about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well? CAIUS. By gar, 'tis good; vell said. HOST. Let us wag, then. CAIUS. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [Exeunt.]

Act 2, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-2-scene-3

Remember that Caius challenged Evans to a duel? Well, they're getting ready to rumble in a field in Windsor Park. Caius is all dramatic. He slashes his sword around and declares that Evans is lucky he's a no-show--otherwise, the clergyman would be dog meat by now. Here comes someone--but it's not Evans. It's the Host of the Garter Inn, with Master Page, Slender, and Shallow, all there to see the big fight. The Host is all "Gee, Caius, where's Evans? Did you kill him already?" Caius waves around his sword and talks more trash about Evans in his super thick and super hilarious French accent. Shallow and Page point out that Doctor Caius is supposed to heal people, not kill them, but who asked them? The Host proceeds to insult Caius by using a bunch of English slang that the French doctor doesn't understand. At one point, he calls him "Monsieur Mockwater" . Caius asks "Mockvater? Vat is that?" Oh, you know, just a little English slang for "brave." Caius declares that he's got just as much "mockwater" as an Englishman. The Host thinks this is absolutely hilarious, but he eventually stops laughing long enough to whisper to his friends that they should go over to Frogmore fields where Evans is waiting. He promises to bring Caius there later so they can have some more fun. Then, Page, Shallow, and Slender take off for Frogmore. The Host tells Caius that Anne Page is having dinner with friends at a farmhouse on the other side of Frogmore fields and that he'll lead the way for Caius to see her. Caius is totally psyched to have an opportunity to put the moves on her.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_7_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "Act 3, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-3-scene-1", "summary": "Over at Frogmore fields, Evans has been waiting for Caius to show up. He's carrying a big sword and a Bible. Simple is there, too, and Evans sends him off to look for Caius. Evans whips open his bible and declares \"Jeshu pless me\" , right before swearing to God that he's going to knock Caius's \"urinals about his knave's costard.\" Then, for some reason he starts singing a popular love song. Simple shows up with Shallow and Page who proceed to make fun of Evans for holding a bible and sword at the same time. Then the Host appears with John Rugby and Doctor Caius. Okay, is everyone here? Caius and Evans draw their swords... But, before anyone can stab anyone else in the guts, Shallow and Page step in and take away their weapons. The Host says the guys would be better off \"hacking our English\" instead of hacking into each others' body parts. In other words, the Host can't stand the sound of Caius' and Evans' foreign accents but that doesn't mean he wants them kill each other. Plus, trash talk is more fun than physical violence. Caius and Evans both have a \"You're so lucky they just took away my sword\" kind of moment and act like they actually want to fight. Everyone leaves, except for Slender, Caius, and Evans. Evans and Caius whisper to each other that the Host is just messing with them and trying to make them look foolish. They agree to be friends and vow to get revenge. Meanwhile, Slender has been standing around sighing and carrying on about \"sweet Anne Page.\" Hmm. If Slender loves Anne so much, why was he going to let his friend Evans fight over her with Doctor Caius? We call shenanigans.", "analysis": ""}

ACT III SCENE 1. A field near Frogmore. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.] EVANS. I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic? SIMPLE. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way. EVANS. I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. SIMPLE. I will, Sir. [Exit.] EVANS. Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have goot opportunities for the 'ork: pless my soul! [Sings] To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sings madrigals; There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow-- Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry. [Sings.] Melodious birds sing madrigals,-- Whenas I sat in Pabylon,-- And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow,-- [Re-enter SIMPLE.] SIMPLE. Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh. EVANS. He's welcome. [Sings] To shallow rivers, to whose falls-- Heaven prosper the right!--What weapons is he? SIMPLE. No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. EVANS. Pray you give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms. [Reads in a book.] [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] SHALLOW. How now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. SLENDER. [Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page! PAGE. 'Save you, good Sir Hugh! EVANS. Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you! SHALLOW. What, the sword and the word! Do you study them both, Master Parson? PAGE. And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day! EVANS. There is reasons and causes for it. PAGE. We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson. EVANS. Fery well; what is it? PAGE. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. SHALLOW. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. EVANS. What is he? PAGE. I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. EVANS. Got's will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. PAGE. Why? EVANS. He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen,--and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. PAGE. I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him. SLENDER. [Aside] O, sweet Anne Page! SHALLOW. It appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder; here comes Doctor Caius. [Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY.] PAGE. Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon. SHALLOW. So do you, good Master Doctor. HOST. Disarm them, and let them question; let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. CAIUS. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear: verefore will you not meet-a me? EVANS. [Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you use your patience; in good time. CAIUS. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. EVANS. [Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other men's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [Aloud.] I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments. CAIUS. Diable!--Jack Rugby,--mine Host de Jarretiere,--have I not stay for him to kill him? Have I not, at de place I did appoint? EVANS. As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place appointed. I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. HOST. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaullia; French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer! CAIUS. Ay, dat is very good; excellent! HOST. Peace, I say! Hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? No; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so;--give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. SHALLOW. Trust me, a mad host!--Follow, gentlemen, follow. SLENDER. [Aside] O, sweet Anne Page! [Exeunt SHALLOW, SLENDER, PAGE, and HOST.] CAIUS. Ha, do I perceive dat? Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? EVANS. This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. CAIUS. By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too. EVANS. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you follow. [Exeunt.]

Act 3, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-3-scene-1

Over at Frogmore fields, Evans has been waiting for Caius to show up. He's carrying a big sword and a Bible. Simple is there, too, and Evans sends him off to look for Caius. Evans whips open his bible and declares "Jeshu pless me" , right before swearing to God that he's going to knock Caius's "urinals about his knave's costard." Then, for some reason he starts singing a popular love song. Simple shows up with Shallow and Page who proceed to make fun of Evans for holding a bible and sword at the same time. Then the Host appears with John Rugby and Doctor Caius. Okay, is everyone here? Caius and Evans draw their swords... But, before anyone can stab anyone else in the guts, Shallow and Page step in and take away their weapons. The Host says the guys would be better off "hacking our English" instead of hacking into each others' body parts. In other words, the Host can't stand the sound of Caius' and Evans' foreign accents but that doesn't mean he wants them kill each other. Plus, trash talk is more fun than physical violence. Caius and Evans both have a "You're so lucky they just took away my sword" kind of moment and act like they actually want to fight. Everyone leaves, except for Slender, Caius, and Evans. Evans and Caius whisper to each other that the Host is just messing with them and trying to make them look foolish. They agree to be friends and vow to get revenge. Meanwhile, Slender has been standing around sighing and carrying on about "sweet Anne Page." Hmm. If Slender loves Anne so much, why was he going to let his friend Evans fight over her with Doctor Caius? We call shenanigans.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_12_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-1", "summary": "Mistress Page chats with Mistress Quickly as she attempts to drop off her son at school. Evans shows up and announces that school has been canceled that day. Mistress Page complains that her little boy is having a hard time with his Latin grammar, and she asks Evans to give him a mini-tutorial. Evans proceeds to give little Willy a Latin grammar lesson while Mistress Page and Mistress Quickly stand by and watch. Mistress Quickly knows zero Latin and winds up misinterpreting the whole lesson, and so she accuses Evans of teaching little William a bunch of dirty words. Evans finishes the lesson and calls Mistress Quickly a \"lunatic.\" Brain snack: Most literary critics think that this scene is designed so William Shakespeare can give a shout-out to his own experiences as a young schoolboy. 'Cause, yeah, otherwise we're really not sure what this scene is doing here.", "analysis": ""}

ACT IV. SCENE I. The street. [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS QUICKLY, and WILLIAM.] MRS. PAGE. Is he at Master Ford's already, think'st thou? QUICKLY. Sure he is by this; or will be presently; but truly he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. MRS. PAGE. I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young man here to school. Look where his master comes; 'tis a playing day, I see. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS.] How now, Sir Hugh, no school to-day? EVANS. No; Master Slender is let the boys leave to play. QUICKLY. Blessing of his heart! MRS. PAGE. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book; I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence. EVANS. Come hither, William; hold up your head; come. MRS. PAGE. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your master; be not afraid. EVANS. William, how many numbers is in nouns? WILLIAM. Two. QUICKLY. Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say 'Od's nouns.' EVANS. Peace your tattlings! What is 'fair,' William? WILLIAM. Pulcher. QUICKLY. Polecats! There are fairer things than polecats, sure. EVANS. You are a very simplicity 'oman; I pray you, peace. What is 'lapis,' William? WILLIAM. A stone. EVANS. And what is 'a stone,' William? WILLIAM. A pebble. EVANS. No, it is 'lapis'; I pray you remember in your prain. WILLIAM. Lapis. EVANS. That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles? WILLIAM. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined: Singulariter, nominativo; hic, haec, hoc. EVANS. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case? WILLIAM. Accusativo, hinc. EVANS. I pray you, have your remembrance, child. Accusativo, hung, hang, hog. QUICKLY. 'Hang-hog' is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. EVANS. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative case, William? WILLIAM. O vocativo, O. EVANS. Remember, William: focative is caret. QUICKLY. And that's a good root. EVANS. 'Oman, forbear. MRS. PAGE. Peace. EVANS. What is your genitive case plural, William? WILLIAM. Genitive case? EVANS. Ay. WILLIAM. Genitive: horum, harum, horum. QUICKLY. Vengeance of Jenny's case; fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore. EVANS. For shame, 'oman. QUICKLY. You do ill to teach the child such words. He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call 'horum;' fie upon you! EVANS. 'Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires. MRS. PAGE. Prithee, hold thy peace. EVANS. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. WILLIAM. Forsooth, I have forgot. EVANS. It is qui, quae, quod; if you forget your 'quis', your 'quaes', and your 'quods', you must be preeches. Go your ways and play; go. MRS. PAGE. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. EVANS. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. MRS. PAGE. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit SIR HUGH.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [Exeunt.]

Act 4, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-1

Mistress Page chats with Mistress Quickly as she attempts to drop off her son at school. Evans shows up and announces that school has been canceled that day. Mistress Page complains that her little boy is having a hard time with his Latin grammar, and she asks Evans to give him a mini-tutorial. Evans proceeds to give little Willy a Latin grammar lesson while Mistress Page and Mistress Quickly stand by and watch. Mistress Quickly knows zero Latin and winds up misinterpreting the whole lesson, and so she accuses Evans of teaching little William a bunch of dirty words. Evans finishes the lesson and calls Mistress Quickly a "lunatic." Brain snack: Most literary critics think that this scene is designed so William Shakespeare can give a shout-out to his own experiences as a young schoolboy. 'Cause, yeah, otherwise we're really not sure what this scene is doing here.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_14_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 4.scene 3

act 4, scene 3

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-3", "summary": "At the Garter Inn, Bardolph chats with the Host. Bardolph wants to know if a group of German guests can borrow some horses so they can meet the German Duke at Windsor Castle. The Host agrees but he's not happy about, it since the Germans guests have been at the Inn for a week and haven't paid any of their bills. So he's going to over-charge them. Obviously.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 3. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter HOST and BARDOLPH.] BARDOLPH. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses; the Duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. HOST. What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen; they speak English? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir; I'll call them to you. HOST. They shall have my horses, but I'll make them pay; I'll sauce them; they have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests. They must come off; I'll sauce them. Come. [Exeunt.]

Act 4, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-3

At the Garter Inn, Bardolph chats with the Host. Bardolph wants to know if a group of German guests can borrow some horses so they can meet the German Duke at Windsor Castle. The Host agrees but he's not happy about, it since the Germans guests have been at the Inn for a week and haven't paid any of their bills. So he's going to over-charge them. Obviously.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_15_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 4.scene 4

act 4, scene 4

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-4", "summary": "Back at the Ford's house, the married couples have a good laugh about the pranks that have been played on Falstaff. Ford apologizes to his wife and vows never to mistrust her again. They all agree that the \"merry wives\" should punk Falstaff again, just to make sure he's learned his lesson about preying on honest housewives. Mistress Page remembers an old folktale about \"Herne the hunter,\" a spooky ghost that haunts Windsor Forest at night during the winter. Apparently, \"Herne the hunter\" walks around an old oak tree at midnight, rattling his chains, bewitching the local cattle, and scaring the you-know-what out of the locals--especially old people who still believe in ghosts. Mistress Ford suggests that they get Falstaff to wear a set of horns on his head and meet them at the old haunted oak at midnight. Mistress Page says she'll get her son and daughter and a bunch of little kids to dress up like \"urchins, oafs, and fairies\" to scare Falstaff by singing some crazy song and pinching him until he confesses that he's been trying to seduce Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. Falstaff will be totally humiliated in front of EVERYONE. Good times! Evans volunteers to be the children's drama coach and runs off to help them get ready. Meanwhile, Ford runs off to buy costumes and masks for the kids. Page is totally psyched. He makes plans to use the prank as an opportunity to help Slender elope with Anne during all the confusion. Mistress Page has a similar idea. Since Anne will be wearing a disguise during the prank, she thinks it's the perfect time for Caius to run away with her without anybody noticing. This is going to work out well.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 4. A room in FORD'S house. [Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] EVANS. 'Tis one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever I did look upon. PAGE. And did he send you both these letters at an instant? MRS. PAGE. Within a quarter of an hour. FORD. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt; I rather will suspect the sun with cold Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand, In him that was of late an heretic, As firm as faith. PAGE. 'Tis well, 'tis well; no more. Be not as extreme in submission As in offence; But let our plot go forward: let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. FORD. There is no better way than that they spoke of. PAGE. How? To send him word they'll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he'll never come! EVANS. You say he has been thrown in the rivers; and has been grievously peaten as an old 'oman; methinks there should be terrors in him, that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished; he shall have no desires. PAGE. So think I too. MRS. FORD. Devise but how you'll use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. MRS. PAGE. There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns; And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner: You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Received, and did deliver to our age, This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. PAGE. Why, yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak. But what of this? MRS. FORD. Marry, this is our device; That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, Disguis'd, like Herne, with huge horns on his head. PAGE. Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come, And in this shape. When you have brought him thither, What shall be done with him? What is your plot? MRS. PAGE. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, And three or four more of their growth, we'll dress Like urchins, ouphs, and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden, As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song; upon their sight We two in great amazedness will fly: Then let them all encircle him about, And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight; And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. MRS. FORD. And till he tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound, And burn him with their tapers. MRS. PAGE. The truth being known, We'll all present ourselves; dis-horn the spirit, And mock him home to Windsor. FORD. The children must Be practis'd well to this or they'll ne'er do 't. EVANS. I will teach the children their behaviours; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber. FORD. That will be excellent. I'll go buy them vizards. MRS. PAGE. My Nan shall be the Queen of all the Fairies, Finely attired in a robe of white. PAGE. That silk will I go buy. [Aside.] And in that time Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away, And marry her at Eton. Go, send to Falstaff straight. FORD. Nay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook; He'll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he'll come. MRS. PAGE. Fear not you that. Go, get us properties And tricking for our fairies. EVANS. Let us about it. It is admirable pleasures, and fery honest knaveries. [Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS.] MRS. PAGE. Go, Mistress Ford. Send Quickly to Sir John to know his mind. [Exit MRS. FORD.] I'll to the Doctor; he hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot; And he my husband best of all affects: The Doctor is well money'd, and his friends Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her, Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. [Exit.]

Act 4, Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-4

Back at the Ford's house, the married couples have a good laugh about the pranks that have been played on Falstaff. Ford apologizes to his wife and vows never to mistrust her again. They all agree that the "merry wives" should punk Falstaff again, just to make sure he's learned his lesson about preying on honest housewives. Mistress Page remembers an old folktale about "Herne the hunter," a spooky ghost that haunts Windsor Forest at night during the winter. Apparently, "Herne the hunter" walks around an old oak tree at midnight, rattling his chains, bewitching the local cattle, and scaring the you-know-what out of the locals--especially old people who still believe in ghosts. Mistress Ford suggests that they get Falstaff to wear a set of horns on his head and meet them at the old haunted oak at midnight. Mistress Page says she'll get her son and daughter and a bunch of little kids to dress up like "urchins, oafs, and fairies" to scare Falstaff by singing some crazy song and pinching him until he confesses that he's been trying to seduce Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. Falstaff will be totally humiliated in front of EVERYONE. Good times! Evans volunteers to be the children's drama coach and runs off to help them get ready. Meanwhile, Ford runs off to buy costumes and masks for the kids. Page is totally psyched. He makes plans to use the prank as an opportunity to help Slender elope with Anne during all the confusion. Mistress Page has a similar idea. Since Anne will be wearing a disguise during the prank, she thinks it's the perfect time for Caius to run away with her without anybody noticing. This is going to work out well.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_17_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 4.scene 6

act 4, scene 6

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-6", "summary": "The Host returns to the Garter Inn after trying to chase down the guys who stole his horses. He's super bummed but cheers up right away when Fenton offers him some gold if he'll help him elope with Anne.The Host loves money so, naturally, he takes it. Fenton's got a plan that involves the wives' plot to punk Falstaff that night in the woods at the haunted oak. Anne has promised both her parents that she'll run off that night and elope with the guy of their choosing. But! Instead of marrying one of those two chumps, Anne's going to run off and marry Fenton during all the confusion of the Falstaff prank. Fenton wants the Host to arrange for a \"vicar\" to meet these two crazy kids at the church so they can get hitched while everyone's busy humiliating Falstaff. The Host agrees and Fenton promises to give him some more money afterward.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 6. Another room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FENTON and HOST.] HOST. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy; I will give over all. FENTON. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose, And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. HOST. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your counsel. FENTON. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page, Who, mutually, hath answered my affection, So far forth as herself might be her chooser, Even to my wish. I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at; The mirth whereof so larded with my matter That neither, singly, can be manifested Without the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff Hath a great scare: the image of the jest I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host: To-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one, Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen; The purpose why is here: in which disguise, While other jests are something rank on foot, Her father hath commanded her to slip Away with Slender, and with him at Eton Immediately to marry; she hath consented: Now, sir, Her mother, even strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away, While other sports are tasking of their minds; And at the deanery, where a priest attends, Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot She seemingly obedient likewise hath Made promise to the doctor. Now thus it rests: Her father means she shall be all in white; And in that habit, when Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go, She shall go with him: her mother hath intended The better to denote her to the doctor,-- For they must all be mask'd and vizarded-- That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob'd, With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, To pinch her by the hand: and, on that token, The maid hath given consent to go with him. HOST. Which means she to deceive, father or mother? FENTON. Both, my good host, to go along with me: And here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one, And in the lawful name of marrying, To give our hearts united ceremony. HOST. Well, husband your device; I'll to the vicar. Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. FENTON. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; Besides, I'll make a present recompense. [Exeunt.]

Act 4, Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-4-scene-6

The Host returns to the Garter Inn after trying to chase down the guys who stole his horses. He's super bummed but cheers up right away when Fenton offers him some gold if he'll help him elope with Anne.The Host loves money so, naturally, he takes it. Fenton's got a plan that involves the wives' plot to punk Falstaff that night in the woods at the haunted oak. Anne has promised both her parents that she'll run off that night and elope with the guy of their choosing. But! Instead of marrying one of those two chumps, Anne's going to run off and marry Fenton during all the confusion of the Falstaff prank. Fenton wants the Host to arrange for a "vicar" to meet these two crazy kids at the church so they can get hitched while everyone's busy humiliating Falstaff. The Host agrees and Fenton promises to give him some more money afterward.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_18_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-5-scene-1", "summary": "At the Garter Inn, Falstaff chats with Mistress Quickly, who promises to help him put together his \"Herne the Hunter\" costume. Ford shows up in his \"Brooke\" disguise, and Falstaff tells him all about being beaten by that crazy guy Master Ford. Falstaff admits he's never been beaten so badly in his life, not even when he was a snot-nosed kid who went around causing mischief and playing hooky from school. So, that's saying something. Finally, Falstaff vows to get back at Ford by hooking up with his wife in the woods that night.", "analysis": ""}

ACT V. SCENE 1. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS QUICKLY.] FALSTAFF. Prithee, no more prattling; go: I'll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away! go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away! QUICKLY. I'll provide you a chain, and I'll do what I can to get you a pair of horns. FALSTAFF. Away, I say; time wears; hold up your head, and mince. [Exit MRS. QUICKLY.] [Enter FORD.] How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known tonight, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne's oak, and you shall see wonders. FORD. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed? FALSTAFF. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man; but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you: he beat me grievously in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along with me; I'll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant, and whipped top, I knew not what 'twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me: I'll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow. [Exeunt.]

Act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-5-scene-1

At the Garter Inn, Falstaff chats with Mistress Quickly, who promises to help him put together his "Herne the Hunter" costume. Ford shows up in his "Brooke" disguise, and Falstaff tells him all about being beaten by that crazy guy Master Ford. Falstaff admits he's never been beaten so badly in his life, not even when he was a snot-nosed kid who went around causing mischief and playing hooky from school. So, that's saying something. Finally, Falstaff vows to get back at Ford by hooking up with his wife in the woods that night.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1517-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merry Wives of Windsor/section_19_part_0.txt

The Merry Wives of Windsor.act 5.scene 2

act 5, scene 2

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-5-scene-2", "summary": "Later that night, Page, Shallow, and Slender walk near Windsor Park. Slender says he and Anne have worked out code words to help them recognize one another. Shallow reminds him Anne's going to be wearing all white, so there's no need for code words. Master Page says it's a dark night, which will help them with their plan, and the three continue into the woods, excited.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 2. Windsor Park. [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] PAGE. Come, come; we'll couch i' the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter. SLENDER. Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her, and we have a nay-word how to know one another. I come to her in white and cry 'mum'; she cries 'budget,' and by that we know one another. SHALLOW. That's good too; but what needs either your 'mum' or her 'budget'? The white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o'clock. PAGE. The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let's away; follow me. [Exeunt.]

Act 5, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219173213/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merry-wives-of-windsor/summary/act-5-scene-2

Later that night, Page, Shallow, and Slender walk near Windsor Park. Slender says he and Anne have worked out code words to help them recognize one another. Shallow reminds him Anne's going to be wearing all white, so there's no need for code words. Master Page says it's a dark night, which will help them with their plan, and the three continue into the woods, excited.