Datasets:

pszemraj

/

booksum-short

like 4

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_13_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-1", "summary": "During the heat of the day, Benvolio and Mercutio are loitering on the streets of Verona when Tybalt arrives looking for Romeo. Benvolio wishes to avoid a confrontation with the Capulets; however, Mercutio is deliberately provocative and tries to draw Tybalt into an argument so that they can fight. Romeo appears and Tybalt insults him, hoping he will respond to the challenge, but Romeo refuses because he is now related to Tybalt through his marriage to Juliet. Mercutio, disgusted by Romeo's reluctance to fight, answers Tybalt's insults on Romeo's behalf. Tybalt and Mercutio draw their swords and fight. To stop the battle, Romeo steps between them and Tybalt stabs Mercutio under Romeo's arm. Mercutio's wound is fatal and he dies crying \"A plague o' both your houses!\" Blinded by rage over Mercutio's death, Romeo attacks Tybalt and kills him. Romeo is forced to flee a mob of citizens as the Prince, the heads of the two households, and their wives appear at the scene. After Benvolio gives an account of what has happened, the Prince banishes Romeo from Verona under the penalty of death and orders Lords Montague and Capulet to pay a heavy fine.", "analysis": "The hopeful tone of Act II changes dramatically at the beginning of Act III as Romeo becomes embroiled in the brutal conflict between the families. The searing heat, flaring tempers, and sudden violence of this scene contrast sharply with the romantic, peaceful previous night. The play reaches a dramatic crescendo as Romeo and Juliet's private world clashes with the public feud with tragic consequences. Mercutio's death is the catalyst for the tragic turn the play takes from this point onward. True to character, the hot-headed Mercutio starts a quarrel the instant Tybalt requests a word with him, by responding, \"make it a word and a blow.\" Tybalt at first ignores Mercutio's insults because, ironically again, he's saving his blade for Romeo. Romeo, by contrast, is as passionate about love as Tybalt and Mercutio are about hostility. Romeo appears, cheerful and contented with having wed Juliet only hours before, and unaware that he's even been challenged to a duel. Until Mercutio dies, Romeo remains emotionally distinct from the other characters in the scene. Romeo walks atop his euphoric cloud buoyed by blissful thoughts of marriage to Juliet, peace, unity, and harmony. In response to Tybalt's attempts to initiate a fight, Romeo tells Tybalt that he loves \"thee better than thou canst devise.\" Ironically, Romeo's refusal to duel with Tybalt brings about the very acceleration of violence he sought to prevent. In Romeo's mind, he has shed his identity as a Montague and has become one with Juliet, his wife. Romeo's separation echoes the balcony scene where he said \"Call me but love...Henceforth I never will be Romeo.\" However, Tybalt seeks revenge against Romeo because a Montague appeared at a Capulet ball. While Romeo no longer labels himself Montague, Tybalt still sees Romeo as standing on the wrong side of a clear line that divides the families. Mercutio is disgusted by Romeo's abandonment of traditionally masculine aggression. Tybalt does not understand why Romeo will not respond to his dueling challenge -- a traditional mechanism to assert and protect masculine nobility. Romeo's separation from these typical modes of interaction is both an abandonment of traditional masculinity and a departure from the temporal and divisive perspective of the feud. Romeo and Juliet's love embraces a transcendent, intensely unified concept of love. Their extraordinary love removes them from the animosity that drives the feud; however, that love is also flawed by Romeo acting out of anger rather than out of his love for Juliet. Indeed, as soon as Mercutio confronts Tybalt on Romeo's behalf, Romeo's fall from his pinnacle of bliss seems destined. The hope that sprung from Romeo's marriage to Juliet is dashed in a few moments of swordplay. In a moment of profound irony, Romeo's attempt to stand between two combatants -- his act of benevolent intervention -- facilitates Tybalt's fatal thrust that kills Mercutio. Thus, Romeo's gesture of peace results in Mercutio's death and Romeo's becoming ensnared in the family conflict after all. Mercutio's final speeches reflect a mixture of anger and disbelief that he has been fatally injured as a result of the \"ancient grudge\" between the Montagues and the Capulets; he repeatedly curses, \"A plague o' both your houses.\" Even his characteristic wit turns bitter as Mercutio treats the subject of his own death with humorous wordplay: \"Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.\" In the final irony of this scene, Mercutio never learns for what cause he was wounded. He believes he is wounded for a fight, not for a love. In shocked disbelief, he asks Romeo \"Why the devil / came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.\" Romeo blames himself for Mercutio's death because he placed his love for Juliet before consideration of his friend. Romeo thus attacks Tybalt to assuage his guilt. However, by doing so, he disregards any effect that his choice may have on Juliet. His action is impulsive and reckless. Romeo's rage overpowers his sensibility, and his fortunes are sealed. By attacking Tybalt in a blind fury, he has become one with fiery Tybalt; one with quick-tempered Mercutio, and one with the embittered patriarchs who originated the feud. Tybalt's death brings Romeo a moment of clarity as he realizes that he is the helpless victim of fate: \"O, I am fortune's fool!\" he cries, struck deeply by a sense of anger, injustice, and futility. The speed with which Mercutio and Tybalt's deaths occur, together with Romeo's marriage and subsequent banishment, all contribute to a sense of inevitability -- that a chain of events has been set in motion over which the protagonists have no control. Mercutio's dying curse upon the houses resonates as the voice of fate itself. Glossary abroad out and about. by the operation of the second cup by the time the second cup of liquor has taken effect upon him. addle muddled and, perhaps, rotten. doublet a man's close-fitting jacket with or without sleeves, worn chiefly from the 14th to the 16th centuries. tutor me from quarrelling teach me how to avoid getting into a quarrel. simple feeble or foolish. fiddlestick the bow for a fiddle. Mercutio puns on the word as he draws his rapier. zounds an oath. The abbreviated form of the oath \"By God's wounds.\" bandying to give and take; to exchange in an angry or argumentative manner. sped done for. ally relative, kinsman. cousin loosely, any relative by blood or marriage. aspir'd to rise high; to tower. conduct guide. amerce to punish by imposing a fine."}

ACT III. Scene I. A public place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men. Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire. The day is hot, the Capulets abroad. And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. Ben. Am I like such a fellow? Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what to? Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. Mer. The fee simple? O simple! Enter Tybalt and others. Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. Mer. By my heel, I care not. Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you. Mer. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. Mer. Could you not take some occasion without giving Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. Mer. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us. Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure, Enter Romeo. Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Mer. But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower! Your worship in that sense may call him man. Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: thou art a villain. Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore farewell. I see thou knowest me not. Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. Rom. I do protest I never injur'd thee, But love thee better than thou canst devise Till thou shalt know the reason of my love; And so good Capulet, which name I tender As dearly as mine own, be satisfied. Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.] Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk? Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me? Mer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. That I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Tyb. I am for you. [Draws.] Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mer. Come, sir, your passado! [They fight.] Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio in, and flies [with his Followers]. Mer. I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing? Ben. What, art thou hurt? Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [Exit Page.] Rom. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much. Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. Rom. I thought all for the best. Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses! They have made worms' meat of me. I have it, And soundly too. Your houses! [Exit. [supported by Benvolio]. Rom. This gentleman, the Prince's near ally, My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt In my behalf- my reputation stain'd With Tybalt's slander- Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel Enter Benvolio. Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead! That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Rom. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end. Enter Tybalt. Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Rom. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity, And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back again That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both, must go with him. Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. Rom. This shall determine that. They fight. Tybalt falls. Ben. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amaz'd. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! Rom. O, I am fortune's fool! Ben. Why dost thou stay? Exit Romeo. Enter Citizens. Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio? Tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he? Ben. There lies that Tybalt. Citizen. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee in the Prince's name obey. Enter Prince [attended], Old Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and [others]. Prince. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? Ben. O noble Prince. I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. Cap. Wife. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child! O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill'd Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin! Prince. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did stay. Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure. All this- uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, 'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled; But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd revenge, And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain; And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. Cap. Wife. He is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give. Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not live. Prince. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? Mon. Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio's friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Prince. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate's proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-1

During the heat of the day, Benvolio and Mercutio are loitering on the streets of Verona when Tybalt arrives looking for Romeo. Benvolio wishes to avoid a confrontation with the Capulets; however, Mercutio is deliberately provocative and tries to draw Tybalt into an argument so that they can fight. Romeo appears and Tybalt insults him, hoping he will respond to the challenge, but Romeo refuses because he is now related to Tybalt through his marriage to Juliet. Mercutio, disgusted by Romeo's reluctance to fight, answers Tybalt's insults on Romeo's behalf. Tybalt and Mercutio draw their swords and fight. To stop the battle, Romeo steps between them and Tybalt stabs Mercutio under Romeo's arm. Mercutio's wound is fatal and he dies crying "A plague o' both your houses!" Blinded by rage over Mercutio's death, Romeo attacks Tybalt and kills him. Romeo is forced to flee a mob of citizens as the Prince, the heads of the two households, and their wives appear at the scene. After Benvolio gives an account of what has happened, the Prince banishes Romeo from Verona under the penalty of death and orders Lords Montague and Capulet to pay a heavy fine.

The hopeful tone of Act II changes dramatically at the beginning of Act III as Romeo becomes embroiled in the brutal conflict between the families. The searing heat, flaring tempers, and sudden violence of this scene contrast sharply with the romantic, peaceful previous night. The play reaches a dramatic crescendo as Romeo and Juliet's private world clashes with the public feud with tragic consequences. Mercutio's death is the catalyst for the tragic turn the play takes from this point onward. True to character, the hot-headed Mercutio starts a quarrel the instant Tybalt requests a word with him, by responding, "make it a word and a blow." Tybalt at first ignores Mercutio's insults because, ironically again, he's saving his blade for Romeo. Romeo, by contrast, is as passionate about love as Tybalt and Mercutio are about hostility. Romeo appears, cheerful and contented with having wed Juliet only hours before, and unaware that he's even been challenged to a duel. Until Mercutio dies, Romeo remains emotionally distinct from the other characters in the scene. Romeo walks atop his euphoric cloud buoyed by blissful thoughts of marriage to Juliet, peace, unity, and harmony. In response to Tybalt's attempts to initiate a fight, Romeo tells Tybalt that he loves "thee better than thou canst devise." Ironically, Romeo's refusal to duel with Tybalt brings about the very acceleration of violence he sought to prevent. In Romeo's mind, he has shed his identity as a Montague and has become one with Juliet, his wife. Romeo's separation echoes the balcony scene where he said "Call me but love...Henceforth I never will be Romeo." However, Tybalt seeks revenge against Romeo because a Montague appeared at a Capulet ball. While Romeo no longer labels himself Montague, Tybalt still sees Romeo as standing on the wrong side of a clear line that divides the families. Mercutio is disgusted by Romeo's abandonment of traditionally masculine aggression. Tybalt does not understand why Romeo will not respond to his dueling challenge -- a traditional mechanism to assert and protect masculine nobility. Romeo's separation from these typical modes of interaction is both an abandonment of traditional masculinity and a departure from the temporal and divisive perspective of the feud. Romeo and Juliet's love embraces a transcendent, intensely unified concept of love. Their extraordinary love removes them from the animosity that drives the feud; however, that love is also flawed by Romeo acting out of anger rather than out of his love for Juliet. Indeed, as soon as Mercutio confronts Tybalt on Romeo's behalf, Romeo's fall from his pinnacle of bliss seems destined. The hope that sprung from Romeo's marriage to Juliet is dashed in a few moments of swordplay. In a moment of profound irony, Romeo's attempt to stand between two combatants -- his act of benevolent intervention -- facilitates Tybalt's fatal thrust that kills Mercutio. Thus, Romeo's gesture of peace results in Mercutio's death and Romeo's becoming ensnared in the family conflict after all. Mercutio's final speeches reflect a mixture of anger and disbelief that he has been fatally injured as a result of the "ancient grudge" between the Montagues and the Capulets; he repeatedly curses, "A plague o' both your houses." Even his characteristic wit turns bitter as Mercutio treats the subject of his own death with humorous wordplay: "Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man." In the final irony of this scene, Mercutio never learns for what cause he was wounded. He believes he is wounded for a fight, not for a love. In shocked disbelief, he asks Romeo "Why the devil / came you between us? I was hurt under your arm." Romeo blames himself for Mercutio's death because he placed his love for Juliet before consideration of his friend. Romeo thus attacks Tybalt to assuage his guilt. However, by doing so, he disregards any effect that his choice may have on Juliet. His action is impulsive and reckless. Romeo's rage overpowers his sensibility, and his fortunes are sealed. By attacking Tybalt in a blind fury, he has become one with fiery Tybalt; one with quick-tempered Mercutio, and one with the embittered patriarchs who originated the feud. Tybalt's death brings Romeo a moment of clarity as he realizes that he is the helpless victim of fate: "O, I am fortune's fool!" he cries, struck deeply by a sense of anger, injustice, and futility. The speed with which Mercutio and Tybalt's deaths occur, together with Romeo's marriage and subsequent banishment, all contribute to a sense of inevitability -- that a chain of events has been set in motion over which the protagonists have no control. Mercutio's dying curse upon the houses resonates as the voice of fate itself. Glossary abroad out and about. by the operation of the second cup by the time the second cup of liquor has taken effect upon him. addle muddled and, perhaps, rotten. doublet a man's close-fitting jacket with or without sleeves, worn chiefly from the 14th to the 16th centuries. tutor me from quarrelling teach me how to avoid getting into a quarrel. simple feeble or foolish. fiddlestick the bow for a fiddle. Mercutio puns on the word as he draws his rapier. zounds an oath. The abbreviated form of the oath "By God's wounds." bandying to give and take; to exchange in an angry or argumentative manner. sped done for. ally relative, kinsman. cousin loosely, any relative by blood or marriage. aspir'd to rise high; to tower. conduct guide. amerce to punish by imposing a fine.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_14_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-2", "summary": "Juliet waits impatiently for night to fall so that she can celebrate her wedding night with Romeo. The Nursearrives and in her grief, misleads Juliet into thinking that Romeo has been killed. When the Nurse eventually reveals that it is Tybalt who is dead, Juliet's fears are only slightly relieved. Upon hearing that Romeo has been banished, Juliet is overwhelmed by grief. The Nurse tells Juliet that Romeo is hiding at Friar Laurence's cell and Juliet sends the Nurse with a ring, bidding Romeo to come and \"take his last farewell.\"", "analysis": "Within the peaceful confines of the Capulet orchard, Juliet looks forward to the \"amorous rites\" of her marriage to Romeo. Juliet's impatience in anticipation of the nurse's arrival echoes her excited anticipation in Act II, Scene 5, when she had to wait for news of the wedding arrangements. A considerable sense of impending doom hangs in the atmosphere. Although she is unaware of the tragic news that awaits her, Juliet's soliloquy fantasizing about her wedding night embroiders tragic images into the fabric of her epithalamion, or wedding song. Light and dark imagery again play important roles in creating mood, foreshadowing action, and giving fate a vehicle by which to visit itself upon the characters in the play. Juliet beckons the darkness because it has been a sanctuary for the couple, \"if love be blind, / It best agrees with night.\" She and Romeo met under the cover of night; they agreed to marry as they were shrouded in darkness and were forced to part as dawn broke; they consummate their marriage at night; and they ultimately die together under the cover of night. Their affinity for the darkness illustrates their separation from the temporal, feuding world. Although external light has become their enemy, the lovers have often provided light for each other. Juliet's eyes were like the stars in Act II, Scene 2, in Act I, Scene 5, she \"doth teach the torches to burn bright!,\" and Juliet was Romeo's sun in the balcony scene. Here, Romeo brings \"day in night.\" Juliet begs fate to \"cut Romeo out in little stars\" so that \"all the world be in love with night.\" These stars represent both the timeless quality of the couple's love and their fate as \"star-cross'd lovers\" who will only truly be united in death. The Nurse's report transforms Juliet from an anxious young bride into a bereft widow. Even when Juliet understands that Romeo is not dead, his banishment is equivalent to death in her eyes: \"I'll to my wedding bed / And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\" The association between Juliet and death as her bridegroom once again pairs the themes of love and death and emphasizes that her young life is constantly overshadowed by death. Juliet feels conflicted because her love for Romeo clashes with her love and sense of duty to Tybalt, her cousin. Juliet expresses her conflicting emotions for Romeo using oxymoronic language: \"Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical.\" The Nurse, on the other hand, expresses her feelings plainly. As part of the Capulet household, she grieves the loss of Tybalt as a family member. The Nurse praises Tybalt and blames Romeo for what has happened. In fact, the Nurse's curse, \"Shame come to Romeo\" acts as a catalyst for Juliet, helping to clarify her feelings. Juliet's initial shock at Tybalt's death gives way to her intense feelings of love for Romeo and a notable transition in her character. Henceforth, Juliet's loyalty is firmly grounded in her love of Romeo and no longer predicated along family lines. She is now a wife first and a daughter, cousin, Capulet second. The Nurse's inability to comprehend the intensity of Juliet's love for Romeo shows a significant development in her relationship with Juliet, who is emerging as a young woman with her own opinions and emotions. She no longer relies on her Nurse for maternal guidance. The rift between the Nurse and Juliet foreshadows the final split in their relationship which occurs in Act III, Scene 5 when the Nurse betrays Juliet by advising her to forget Romeo and marry Paris. Glossary waggoner driver. As Phaeton . . . immediately Phaeton, the son of Apollo, was allowed to drive the chariot of the sun for a day. His reckless driving nearly set the earth on fire and Zeus, the king of the gods, struck him dead with a thunderbolt. wink close and be unable to see. civil night sober, serious night. lose a winning match . . . stainless maidenhoods that is, win Romeo by surrendering to him. unmann'd untrained; also, as yet husbandless. cords the rope ladder so that Romeo can climb up to Juliet's balcony. death-darting eye of cockatrice a cockatrice is a fabulous serpent supposedly hatched from a cock's egg and having power to kill by a look. bedaubed smeared or stained with blood. divinest show excellent appearance. all naught all wicked. all dissemblers all liars. aqua vitae alcoholic spirits. tributary paying tribute. modern commonplace."}

Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet alone. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it; and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, Enter Nurse, with cords. And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down.] Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! Jul. Can heaven be so envious? Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! Jul. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,' And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if there be such an 'I'; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.' If be be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.' Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, (God save the mark!) here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman That ever I should live to see thee dead! Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living, if those two are gone? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did! alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st- A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! Nurse. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murd'red me. I would forget it fain; But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds! 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banished.' That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there; Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished'- to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. 'Romeo is banished'- There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd. He made you for a highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse. I'll to my wedding bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell. Jul. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight And bid him come to take his last farewell. Exeunt.

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-2

Juliet waits impatiently for night to fall so that she can celebrate her wedding night with Romeo. The Nursearrives and in her grief, misleads Juliet into thinking that Romeo has been killed. When the Nurse eventually reveals that it is Tybalt who is dead, Juliet's fears are only slightly relieved. Upon hearing that Romeo has been banished, Juliet is overwhelmed by grief. The Nurse tells Juliet that Romeo is hiding at Friar Laurence's cell and Juliet sends the Nurse with a ring, bidding Romeo to come and "take his last farewell."

Within the peaceful confines of the Capulet orchard, Juliet looks forward to the "amorous rites" of her marriage to Romeo. Juliet's impatience in anticipation of the nurse's arrival echoes her excited anticipation in Act II, Scene 5, when she had to wait for news of the wedding arrangements. A considerable sense of impending doom hangs in the atmosphere. Although she is unaware of the tragic news that awaits her, Juliet's soliloquy fantasizing about her wedding night embroiders tragic images into the fabric of her epithalamion, or wedding song. Light and dark imagery again play important roles in creating mood, foreshadowing action, and giving fate a vehicle by which to visit itself upon the characters in the play. Juliet beckons the darkness because it has been a sanctuary for the couple, "if love be blind, / It best agrees with night." She and Romeo met under the cover of night; they agreed to marry as they were shrouded in darkness and were forced to part as dawn broke; they consummate their marriage at night; and they ultimately die together under the cover of night. Their affinity for the darkness illustrates their separation from the temporal, feuding world. Although external light has become their enemy, the lovers have often provided light for each other. Juliet's eyes were like the stars in Act II, Scene 2, in Act I, Scene 5, she "doth teach the torches to burn bright!," and Juliet was Romeo's sun in the balcony scene. Here, Romeo brings "day in night." Juliet begs fate to "cut Romeo out in little stars" so that "all the world be in love with night." These stars represent both the timeless quality of the couple's love and their fate as "star-cross'd lovers" who will only truly be united in death. The Nurse's report transforms Juliet from an anxious young bride into a bereft widow. Even when Juliet understands that Romeo is not dead, his banishment is equivalent to death in her eyes: "I'll to my wedding bed / And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead." The association between Juliet and death as her bridegroom once again pairs the themes of love and death and emphasizes that her young life is constantly overshadowed by death. Juliet feels conflicted because her love for Romeo clashes with her love and sense of duty to Tybalt, her cousin. Juliet expresses her conflicting emotions for Romeo using oxymoronic language: "Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical." The Nurse, on the other hand, expresses her feelings plainly. As part of the Capulet household, she grieves the loss of Tybalt as a family member. The Nurse praises Tybalt and blames Romeo for what has happened. In fact, the Nurse's curse, "Shame come to Romeo" acts as a catalyst for Juliet, helping to clarify her feelings. Juliet's initial shock at Tybalt's death gives way to her intense feelings of love for Romeo and a notable transition in her character. Henceforth, Juliet's loyalty is firmly grounded in her love of Romeo and no longer predicated along family lines. She is now a wife first and a daughter, cousin, Capulet second. The Nurse's inability to comprehend the intensity of Juliet's love for Romeo shows a significant development in her relationship with Juliet, who is emerging as a young woman with her own opinions and emotions. She no longer relies on her Nurse for maternal guidance. The rift between the Nurse and Juliet foreshadows the final split in their relationship which occurs in Act III, Scene 5 when the Nurse betrays Juliet by advising her to forget Romeo and marry Paris. Glossary waggoner driver. As Phaeton . . . immediately Phaeton, the son of Apollo, was allowed to drive the chariot of the sun for a day. His reckless driving nearly set the earth on fire and Zeus, the king of the gods, struck him dead with a thunderbolt. wink close and be unable to see. civil night sober, serious night. lose a winning match . . . stainless maidenhoods that is, win Romeo by surrendering to him. unmann'd untrained; also, as yet husbandless. cords the rope ladder so that Romeo can climb up to Juliet's balcony. death-darting eye of cockatrice a cockatrice is a fabulous serpent supposedly hatched from a cock's egg and having power to kill by a look. bedaubed smeared or stained with blood. divinest show excellent appearance. all naught all wicked. all dissemblers all liars. aqua vitae alcoholic spirits. tributary paying tribute. modern commonplace.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_15_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-3", "summary": "Friar Laurence tells Romeo that the Prince has sentenced him to banishment rather than death. Romeo is distraught because he regards banishment as a form of living death when he cannot be with Juliet. The Friar tries to reason with Romeo, but young Romeo is inconsolable -- \"with his own tears made drunk.\" The Nurse arrives and tells Romeo of Juliet's grief. Hearing this, Romeo tries to take his own life, but is prevented by the Nurse. The Friar advises Romeo to go to Juliet that night as he had planned, and then before daybreak, flee to Mantua. The Friar promises to find a way to announce Romeo and Juliet's marriage publicly and thereby gain a pardon for Romeo to return safely.", "analysis": "This scene parallels the previous scene where Juliet reacted to the news of Romeo's banishment with forceful emotion, yet controlled expressions of grief. In contrast, Romeo responds to his banishment with wailing hysteria and a failed suicide attempt. Their reactions show the clear differences between Romeo and Juliet's respective emotional maturity levels. Whereas grief-stricken Juliet lamented her fate, her marriage, and her life, Romeo falls to the floor grappling for a dagger with which to end his suffering. As when he attacked and killed Tybalt, he has little concern for the effect his actions will have on Juliet. Romeo again rages against the tyranny his name has inflicted on his life. He angrily blames his name for the interfering with his romance with Juliet and wishes to cut from his body that part that houses his name. He distinguishes himself from his identity as a Montague by saying that it was \"that name's cursed hand / Murdered her kinsman.\" The audience, however, readily observes that the effects of fate are amplified by Romeo's own impulsive behavior. The Friar instantly links Romeo and Juliet's marriage with death when he says that Romeo is \"wedded to calamity.\" The Friar's words echo Juliet's thoughts at the end of the previous scene when she says that Romeo's banishment will be a form of living death. Likewise, Romeo declares \"Then banished' / Is death, misterm'd.\" Indeed, throughout the play, Romeo and Juliet are described as being wedded to death -- these descriptions not only foreshadow the play's conclusion but also underscore fate as an omnipotent, controlling power that draws the characters inextricably toward their doom. This scene is also driven by the conflict between the older and younger generations. The Friar chastises Romeo and reminds him of his good fortune that the Prince has commuted his sentence from death to a \"gentler judgement\" of exile. Although Romeo heretofore sought the wise counsel of Friar Laurence, a holy man of spiritual learning, now that Romeo's situation has grown critical, the Friar's advice is not as well received. The Friar's contemplative work is far removed from the blind passion and emotional torment that Romeo is experiencing. Romeo, in his agitated state, is unable to accept the calm, philosophical reasoning the Friar offers. As in previous and subsequent scenes, the older generation's failure to comprehend the depth of Romeo and Juliet's passion isolates the lovers from sources of wisdom that might otherwise prevent their tragic fates. Glossary parts attractive qualities. doom judgment. world's exile Romeo feels exiled from the world. validity value or worth. state rank. fond foolish. Displant a town transplant a town; that is, do the near-impossible. Taking the measure of an unmade grave Romeo is lying on the ground in despair. simpleness foolishness. conceal'd lady Juliet, Romeo's secret wife. cancell'd love Romeo thinks that his killing Tybalt will render his marriage to Juliet null and void. sack to plunder or loot. rail'st complain. usurer . . . usest . . . use indeed alliterative puns on \"usury\" and \"use\": Romeo is not putting his talents to their proper use. form of wax not a real man, no more durable than a wax figure. pouts upon treats with contempt. blaze proclaim in public. sojourn to live somewhere temporarily."}

Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence]. Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not? Friar. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.' Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock [within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; Knock. Run to my study.- By-and-by!- God's will, What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! Knock. Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Draws his dagger.] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exeunt.

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-3

Friar Laurence tells Romeo that the Prince has sentenced him to banishment rather than death. Romeo is distraught because he regards banishment as a form of living death when he cannot be with Juliet. The Friar tries to reason with Romeo, but young Romeo is inconsolable -- "with his own tears made drunk." The Nurse arrives and tells Romeo of Juliet's grief. Hearing this, Romeo tries to take his own life, but is prevented by the Nurse. The Friar advises Romeo to go to Juliet that night as he had planned, and then before daybreak, flee to Mantua. The Friar promises to find a way to announce Romeo and Juliet's marriage publicly and thereby gain a pardon for Romeo to return safely.

This scene parallels the previous scene where Juliet reacted to the news of Romeo's banishment with forceful emotion, yet controlled expressions of grief. In contrast, Romeo responds to his banishment with wailing hysteria and a failed suicide attempt. Their reactions show the clear differences between Romeo and Juliet's respective emotional maturity levels. Whereas grief-stricken Juliet lamented her fate, her marriage, and her life, Romeo falls to the floor grappling for a dagger with which to end his suffering. As when he attacked and killed Tybalt, he has little concern for the effect his actions will have on Juliet. Romeo again rages against the tyranny his name has inflicted on his life. He angrily blames his name for the interfering with his romance with Juliet and wishes to cut from his body that part that houses his name. He distinguishes himself from his identity as a Montague by saying that it was "that name's cursed hand / Murdered her kinsman." The audience, however, readily observes that the effects of fate are amplified by Romeo's own impulsive behavior. The Friar instantly links Romeo and Juliet's marriage with death when he says that Romeo is "wedded to calamity." The Friar's words echo Juliet's thoughts at the end of the previous scene when she says that Romeo's banishment will be a form of living death. Likewise, Romeo declares "Then banished' / Is death, misterm'd." Indeed, throughout the play, Romeo and Juliet are described as being wedded to death -- these descriptions not only foreshadow the play's conclusion but also underscore fate as an omnipotent, controlling power that draws the characters inextricably toward their doom. This scene is also driven by the conflict between the older and younger generations. The Friar chastises Romeo and reminds him of his good fortune that the Prince has commuted his sentence from death to a "gentler judgement" of exile. Although Romeo heretofore sought the wise counsel of Friar Laurence, a holy man of spiritual learning, now that Romeo's situation has grown critical, the Friar's advice is not as well received. The Friar's contemplative work is far removed from the blind passion and emotional torment that Romeo is experiencing. Romeo, in his agitated state, is unable to accept the calm, philosophical reasoning the Friar offers. As in previous and subsequent scenes, the older generation's failure to comprehend the depth of Romeo and Juliet's passion isolates the lovers from sources of wisdom that might otherwise prevent their tragic fates. Glossary parts attractive qualities. doom judgment. world's exile Romeo feels exiled from the world. validity value or worth. state rank. fond foolish. Displant a town transplant a town; that is, do the near-impossible. Taking the measure of an unmade grave Romeo is lying on the ground in despair. simpleness foolishness. conceal'd lady Juliet, Romeo's secret wife. cancell'd love Romeo thinks that his killing Tybalt will render his marriage to Juliet null and void. sack to plunder or loot. rail'st complain. usurer . . . usest . . . use indeed alliterative puns on "usury" and "use": Romeo is not putting his talents to their proper use. form of wax not a real man, no more durable than a wax figure. pouts upon treats with contempt. blaze proclaim in public. sojourn to live somewhere temporarily.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_16_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-4", "summary": "Late on Monday evening, Capulet and Paris discuss how Juliet's grief over Tybalt's death has prevented Paris from continuing his courtship of Juliet. Suddenly, as Paris prepares to leave, Capulet offers him Juliet's hand in marriage. He tells Paris that Juliet will obey his patriarchal wishes and marry Paris on Thursday. Paris eagerly agrees to the arrangements, and Lady Capulet is sent to convey the news to Juliet.", "analysis": "The clash between parents and children, youth and old age, is further explored in this scene when Juliet's father suddenly decides that she should marry Paris as soon as possible. Whereas Friar Laurence tried to use the wisdom of his years to encourage the young, impetuous Romeo to have patience and bide his time until he could claim his bride, here Juliet's father makes rash plans for his daughter's future. Capulet's impulsive decision to hasten Juliet's wedding day precipitates the Friar's plot to have Juliet fake her own death to avoid the marriage. Capulet's repeated references to specific days and times create an oppressive sense of urgency as events rush towards their tragic conclusion. He reasons that since it is Monday night, Wednesday would be too soon due to Tybalt's death; therefore, Thursday would be an appropriate time for a wedding. Capulet's confidence that Juliet will obey his will and consent to marry Paris contrasts sharply with his demeanor in Act I, Scene 2. At the masquerade ball, he told Paris he would agree to the match only if Juliet agreed. Now his assurances to Paris about his dutiful daughter's compliance are dramatically ironic because Juliet has already defied her father's authority, having married Romeo earlier that day. Indeed, the older generation is distinctly out of touch as Juliet is upstairs consummating her marriage to Romeo even as Capulet offers her hand to Paris. Although Capulet's sudden change of heart appears arbitrary -- he doesn't explain why the wedding must take place so quickly -- the decision reflects his imperious and impetuous nature, which has undoubtedly kept the feud well-fueled. His language also suggests a shift from parental concern for his daughter's emotional maturity to consideration for her material comfort and social status. Capulet, like his wife, is anxious to have his daughter marry successfully. In this scene, he conspicuously addresses Paris using a series of titles that indicate Paris' social superiority, \"Sir Paris,\" \"noble earl,\" and \"My lord.\" Paris is a relative of the Prince, and as Capulet's son-in-law, would bring Capulet's family increased wealth and status. Capulet would never be able to understand, let alone agree to, a marriage for Juliet based solely on love. Glossary move persaude. mew'd up a mew is a cage for molting hawks. Juliet has shut herself away to grieve. desperate tender bold offer. mark you me take notice of what I say; pay attention. soft hush! Wait a moment! Ha! ha! Capulet is reflecting on the plans he is making; he is not laughing. ado fuss; trouble; excitement. held him carelessly thought little of him, neglected his memory. by and by soon."}

Scene IV. Capulet's house Enter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris. Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her (mark you me?) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this? Par. Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it early by-and-by. Good night. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-4

Late on Monday evening, Capulet and Paris discuss how Juliet's grief over Tybalt's death has prevented Paris from continuing his courtship of Juliet. Suddenly, as Paris prepares to leave, Capulet offers him Juliet's hand in marriage. He tells Paris that Juliet will obey his patriarchal wishes and marry Paris on Thursday. Paris eagerly agrees to the arrangements, and Lady Capulet is sent to convey the news to Juliet.

The clash between parents and children, youth and old age, is further explored in this scene when Juliet's father suddenly decides that she should marry Paris as soon as possible. Whereas Friar Laurence tried to use the wisdom of his years to encourage the young, impetuous Romeo to have patience and bide his time until he could claim his bride, here Juliet's father makes rash plans for his daughter's future. Capulet's impulsive decision to hasten Juliet's wedding day precipitates the Friar's plot to have Juliet fake her own death to avoid the marriage. Capulet's repeated references to specific days and times create an oppressive sense of urgency as events rush towards their tragic conclusion. He reasons that since it is Monday night, Wednesday would be too soon due to Tybalt's death; therefore, Thursday would be an appropriate time for a wedding. Capulet's confidence that Juliet will obey his will and consent to marry Paris contrasts sharply with his demeanor in Act I, Scene 2. At the masquerade ball, he told Paris he would agree to the match only if Juliet agreed. Now his assurances to Paris about his dutiful daughter's compliance are dramatically ironic because Juliet has already defied her father's authority, having married Romeo earlier that day. Indeed, the older generation is distinctly out of touch as Juliet is upstairs consummating her marriage to Romeo even as Capulet offers her hand to Paris. Although Capulet's sudden change of heart appears arbitrary -- he doesn't explain why the wedding must take place so quickly -- the decision reflects his imperious and impetuous nature, which has undoubtedly kept the feud well-fueled. His language also suggests a shift from parental concern for his daughter's emotional maturity to consideration for her material comfort and social status. Capulet, like his wife, is anxious to have his daughter marry successfully. In this scene, he conspicuously addresses Paris using a series of titles that indicate Paris' social superiority, "Sir Paris," "noble earl," and "My lord." Paris is a relative of the Prince, and as Capulet's son-in-law, would bring Capulet's family increased wealth and status. Capulet would never be able to understand, let alone agree to, a marriage for Juliet based solely on love. Glossary move persaude. mew'd up a mew is a cage for molting hawks. Juliet has shut herself away to grieve. desperate tender bold offer. mark you me take notice of what I say; pay attention. soft hush! Wait a moment! Ha! ha! Capulet is reflecting on the plans he is making; he is not laughing. ado fuss; trouble; excitement. held him carelessly thought little of him, neglected his memory. by and by soon.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_17_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-5", "summary": "At dawn on Tuesday morning, Romeo and Juliet make their final exchanges of love before Romeo leaves for Mantua. The lovers try to resist the coming day that heralds their separation by pretending that it is still night and that the bird they hear is the nightingale and not the lark, a morning bird. However, the ominous threat of the Prince's sentence of death finally forces the lovers to part. Juliet's mother arrives and, believing that Juliet weeps for Tybalt rather than the departure of Romeo, tries to comfort Juliet with her plan to have Romeo poisoned. Lady Capulet then tells Juliet the happy news that she is to marry Paris on Thursday. Juliet is stunned and tells her mother that she cannot be married in such haste. Her father enters expecting to find Juliet excited about the wedding he arranged on her behalf. When she expresses opposition, he becomes enraged and demands that Juliet obey his \"decree\" and prepare to be wed. The Nurse tries to defend Juliet, but to no avail. Capulet threatens to disown his daughter if she continues to oppose him. The scene concludes with the Nurse advising Juliet to obey her father, and Juliet resolves to seek the advice of Friar Laurence.", "analysis": "Once again, the dawn divides Romeo and Juliet, this time, for good. As the sun's rays \"lace the severing clouds,\" Juliet wishes the sound of the morning lark were actually the call of the nightingale. Juliet tries to deny the arrival of the coming day to prolong her time with Romeo. Their language is passionate and intense as Romeo agrees to stay and face his death. As in previous scenes, Romeo and Juliet's love flourishes in the dark, but daylight brings separation and ill fortune: Juliet says reluctantly, \"window, let day in, and let life out.\" As Romeo descends the balcony, Juliet experiences a frightening vision of Romeo \"as one dead in the bottom of a tomb.\" This prophetic image will prove true in the final scene when Juliet awakens from her drug-induced slumber to find Romeo dead on the floor of the Capulet tomb. Once again, images of love and death intertwine, infecting the joy of their wedding night with the foreshadowing of their coming deaths. Lady Capulet, unaware that Juliet grieves for Romeo's banishment rather than the death of Tybalt, tries to comfort her daughter with her plans to avenge Tybalt's death by poisoning Romeo. The speech is full of dramatic irony since Lady Capulet's hope of poisoning Romeo anticipates the method he chooses to take his own life in the final act of the play. Although Romeo drinks the poison by his own hand, it is the hatred, driven in part by Lady Capulet that gives him cause. Far from a loving, maternal figure, Lady Capulet is cold and vengeful. She, like Tybalt, is prepared to continue the feud without regard to the authority of the Prince. Lady Capulet is brutally calculating -- her venomous ire at Juliet's refusal to marry Paris leads her to say that she wishes \"the fool were married to her grave.\" Once again the image of Juliet's grave as her wedding bed anticipates the lovers' tragic reunion in death. It is as if Lady Capulet, by her single-minded focus on the family feud, condemns her own daughter to her fate. Juliet's interaction with both her mother and her father in this scene confirms the failure of parental love because their sole concern is with a socially acceptable marriage that will improve the wealth and status of the Capulet family rather than the happiness of their daughter. When Capulet refused, in Act I, Scene 2, to consent to his daughter's marriage to Paris unless she also was willing, he seemed concerned for Juliet's welfare. Such parental concern altogether evaporates into authoritarian, patriarchal ranting as Capulet shouts epithets, calling Juliet \"baggage\" and \"carrion\" for refusing his order. Capulet now uses Juliet's youth to mock her reluctance to marry, calling her a crying child and whining puppet. Capulet has degraded his daughter to chattel -- an item to be brokered for value. In his fury, Capulet threatens Juliet with violence and disinheritance if she continues to disobey him, \"hang! Beg! Starve! Die in the streets! / For by my soul I'll ne'er acknowledge thee.\" Capulet's sudden transformation from seemingly concerned parent to vengeful adversary illustrates his tendency toward impulsive, cruel, and reckless behavior. These tendencies may have contributed to the origination of the feud itself. He has shown such tendencies previously -- he wanted to engage the Montagues in a sword fight using his long sword; he viciously denounced Paris for wishing to duel Romeo at the masquerade ball; and now he has turned on his only daughter with threats of disinheritance. He literally places her in a \"nothing to lose\" position and thereby encourages the defiance he resents so mightily. While Juliet's parents react with extreme bitterness, Juliet handles herself with striking maturity. No longer the dutiful teenage daughter of the Capulets, she is a young woman, a bride, a wife. Her answers are skillfully truthful yet pragmatically deceptive. In response to her mother's desire to have Romeo killed, Juliet remarks that she \"never shall be satisfied / With Romeo, till I behold him -- dead.\" Juliet's mother interprets this as anger over Romeo killing Tybalt. However, in the Elizabethan vernacular, a man's death also means his sexual climax. Since Juliet has just ventured into the realm of physical love, she desires it again -- both as a youthful desire for pleasure as well as a mature yearning for further spiritual contact with Romeo. The Nurse, who has been more of a mother figure to Juliet than her biological mother, fails Juliet at this critical moment. To comfort Juliet in her desperate situation, the Nurse offers her an easy solution -- marry Paris and forget the \"dishclout\" Romeo. This amoral recommendation betrays Juliet's trust and indicates the Nurse's inability to understand the passionate intensity and spiritual nature of Romeo and Juliet's love. After all, the Nurse regards love as a temporary, physical relationship, and she sees Juliet's marriage to Paris in entirely practical and economic terms. The Nurse's failure to stand up for Juliet in the face of Capulet's onslaught is also understandable. She lacks Juliet's latitude to defy the Capulets. Although a loyal servant, the Nurse is not family and is keenly aware of her subordinated social position. She has been instrumental in facilitating Juliet's secret marriage and now seeks to cover the liabilities of her actions. Each member of Juliet's primary family has abandoned her. Still a young person in need of an older person's support, she flees to the Friar as a source of aid and counsel. Juliet's isolation is nearly complete, and yet she is calm and resolute, as she determines to die rather than enter into a bigamous marriage with Paris: \"If all else fail, myself have power to die.\" Glossary night's candles the stars. Cynthia's brow the moon. care desire. hunt's-up morning song used to wake huntsmen and, more traditionally, a newly married bride. runagate fugitive . dram potion. wrought arranged for. mistress minion spoiled hussy. hurdle a kind of frame or sled on which prisoners in England were drawn through the streets to execution. hilding a low, contemptible person. rate to scold severely; chide. smatter to utter or gossip; an onomatopoeic word like \"chatter.\" demesnes the land around a mansion; lands of an estate. puling fool whimpering child. mammet doll or puppet. challenge claim. dishclout a cloth for washing dishes. beshrew to curse: mainly in mild imprecations."}

Scene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window. Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on the way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is not day. Jul. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes; O, now I would they had chang'd voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day! O, now be gone! More light and light it grows. Rom. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes! Enter Nurse. Nurse. Madam! Jul. Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. [Exit.] Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend. He goeth down. Jul. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo! Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! Exit. Jul. O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. Lady. [within] Ho, daughter! are you up? Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother. Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Enter Mother. Lady. Why, how now, Juliet? Jul. Madam, I am not well. Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain, madam? Lady. That same villain Romeo. Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.- God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives. Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin's death! Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company; And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. Jul. Indeed I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him- dead- Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him! Lady. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy That thou expects not nor I look'd not for. Jul. Madam, in happy time! What day is that? Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride! I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how be will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew, But for the sunset of my brother's son It rains downright. How now? a conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Evermore show'ring? In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind: For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs, Who, raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you delivered to her our decree? Lady. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap. Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife. How? Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Jul. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love. Cap. How, how, how, how, choplogic? What is this? 'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I thank you not'- And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage! You tallow-face! Lady. Fie, fie! what, are you mad? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me! My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding! Nurse. God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go! Nurse. I speak no treason. Cap. O, God-i-god-en! Nurse. May not one speak? Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it not. Lady. You are too hot. Cap. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early, At home, abroad, alone, in company, Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been To have her match'd; and having now provided A gentleman of princely parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man- And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love; I am too young, I pray you pardon me'! But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to't, think on't; I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit. Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. Lady. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit. Jul. O God!- O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself! What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County. O, he's a lovely gentleman! Romeo's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first; or if it did not, Your first is dead- or 'twere as good he were As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speak'st thou this from thy heart? Nurse. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both. Jul. Amen! Nurse. What? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell, To make confession and to be absolv'd. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor! Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit.

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-5

At dawn on Tuesday morning, Romeo and Juliet make their final exchanges of love before Romeo leaves for Mantua. The lovers try to resist the coming day that heralds their separation by pretending that it is still night and that the bird they hear is the nightingale and not the lark, a morning bird. However, the ominous threat of the Prince's sentence of death finally forces the lovers to part. Juliet's mother arrives and, believing that Juliet weeps for Tybalt rather than the departure of Romeo, tries to comfort Juliet with her plan to have Romeo poisoned. Lady Capulet then tells Juliet the happy news that she is to marry Paris on Thursday. Juliet is stunned and tells her mother that she cannot be married in such haste. Her father enters expecting to find Juliet excited about the wedding he arranged on her behalf. When she expresses opposition, he becomes enraged and demands that Juliet obey his "decree" and prepare to be wed. The Nurse tries to defend Juliet, but to no avail. Capulet threatens to disown his daughter if she continues to oppose him. The scene concludes with the Nurse advising Juliet to obey her father, and Juliet resolves to seek the advice of Friar Laurence.

Once again, the dawn divides Romeo and Juliet, this time, for good. As the sun's rays "lace the severing clouds," Juliet wishes the sound of the morning lark were actually the call of the nightingale. Juliet tries to deny the arrival of the coming day to prolong her time with Romeo. Their language is passionate and intense as Romeo agrees to stay and face his death. As in previous scenes, Romeo and Juliet's love flourishes in the dark, but daylight brings separation and ill fortune: Juliet says reluctantly, "window, let day in, and let life out." As Romeo descends the balcony, Juliet experiences a frightening vision of Romeo "as one dead in the bottom of a tomb." This prophetic image will prove true in the final scene when Juliet awakens from her drug-induced slumber to find Romeo dead on the floor of the Capulet tomb. Once again, images of love and death intertwine, infecting the joy of their wedding night with the foreshadowing of their coming deaths. Lady Capulet, unaware that Juliet grieves for Romeo's banishment rather than the death of Tybalt, tries to comfort her daughter with her plans to avenge Tybalt's death by poisoning Romeo. The speech is full of dramatic irony since Lady Capulet's hope of poisoning Romeo anticipates the method he chooses to take his own life in the final act of the play. Although Romeo drinks the poison by his own hand, it is the hatred, driven in part by Lady Capulet that gives him cause. Far from a loving, maternal figure, Lady Capulet is cold and vengeful. She, like Tybalt, is prepared to continue the feud without regard to the authority of the Prince. Lady Capulet is brutally calculating -- her venomous ire at Juliet's refusal to marry Paris leads her to say that she wishes "the fool were married to her grave." Once again the image of Juliet's grave as her wedding bed anticipates the lovers' tragic reunion in death. It is as if Lady Capulet, by her single-minded focus on the family feud, condemns her own daughter to her fate. Juliet's interaction with both her mother and her father in this scene confirms the failure of parental love because their sole concern is with a socially acceptable marriage that will improve the wealth and status of the Capulet family rather than the happiness of their daughter. When Capulet refused, in Act I, Scene 2, to consent to his daughter's marriage to Paris unless she also was willing, he seemed concerned for Juliet's welfare. Such parental concern altogether evaporates into authoritarian, patriarchal ranting as Capulet shouts epithets, calling Juliet "baggage" and "carrion" for refusing his order. Capulet now uses Juliet's youth to mock her reluctance to marry, calling her a crying child and whining puppet. Capulet has degraded his daughter to chattel -- an item to be brokered for value. In his fury, Capulet threatens Juliet with violence and disinheritance if she continues to disobey him, "hang! Beg! Starve! Die in the streets! / For by my soul I'll ne'er acknowledge thee." Capulet's sudden transformation from seemingly concerned parent to vengeful adversary illustrates his tendency toward impulsive, cruel, and reckless behavior. These tendencies may have contributed to the origination of the feud itself. He has shown such tendencies previously -- he wanted to engage the Montagues in a sword fight using his long sword; he viciously denounced Paris for wishing to duel Romeo at the masquerade ball; and now he has turned on his only daughter with threats of disinheritance. He literally places her in a "nothing to lose" position and thereby encourages the defiance he resents so mightily. While Juliet's parents react with extreme bitterness, Juliet handles herself with striking maturity. No longer the dutiful teenage daughter of the Capulets, she is a young woman, a bride, a wife. Her answers are skillfully truthful yet pragmatically deceptive. In response to her mother's desire to have Romeo killed, Juliet remarks that she "never shall be satisfied / With Romeo, till I behold him -- dead." Juliet's mother interprets this as anger over Romeo killing Tybalt. However, in the Elizabethan vernacular, a man's death also means his sexual climax. Since Juliet has just ventured into the realm of physical love, she desires it again -- both as a youthful desire for pleasure as well as a mature yearning for further spiritual contact with Romeo. The Nurse, who has been more of a mother figure to Juliet than her biological mother, fails Juliet at this critical moment. To comfort Juliet in her desperate situation, the Nurse offers her an easy solution -- marry Paris and forget the "dishclout" Romeo. This amoral recommendation betrays Juliet's trust and indicates the Nurse's inability to understand the passionate intensity and spiritual nature of Romeo and Juliet's love. After all, the Nurse regards love as a temporary, physical relationship, and she sees Juliet's marriage to Paris in entirely practical and economic terms. The Nurse's failure to stand up for Juliet in the face of Capulet's onslaught is also understandable. She lacks Juliet's latitude to defy the Capulets. Although a loyal servant, the Nurse is not family and is keenly aware of her subordinated social position. She has been instrumental in facilitating Juliet's secret marriage and now seeks to cover the liabilities of her actions. Each member of Juliet's primary family has abandoned her. Still a young person in need of an older person's support, she flees to the Friar as a source of aid and counsel. Juliet's isolation is nearly complete, and yet she is calm and resolute, as she determines to die rather than enter into a bigamous marriage with Paris: "If all else fail, myself have power to die." Glossary night's candles the stars. Cynthia's brow the moon. care desire. hunt's-up morning song used to wake huntsmen and, more traditionally, a newly married bride. runagate fugitive . dram potion. wrought arranged for. mistress minion spoiled hussy. hurdle a kind of frame or sled on which prisoners in England were drawn through the streets to execution. hilding a low, contemptible person. rate to scold severely; chide. smatter to utter or gossip; an onomatopoeic word like "chatter." demesnes the land around a mansion; lands of an estate. puling fool whimpering child. mammet doll or puppet. challenge claim. dishclout a cloth for washing dishes. beshrew to curse: mainly in mild imprecations.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_18_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1", "summary": "On Tuesday morning, Paris tells Friar Laurence of his proposed marriage to Juliet -- a wedding scheduled to take place in two days. The Friar expresses concern that the wedding has been arranged too quickly, and he offers various reasons to delay the ceremony. Paris believes that Capulet hastened the nuptials out of concern for Juliet's grief over Tybalt's death. Juliet arrives at the Friar's cell and manages to cleverly sidestep Paris' compliments and references to their upcoming marriage. Paris then leaves, and Juliet begs the Friar for a solution to her tragic dilemma because she fears that death is her only option. The Friar offers Juliet a remedy -- a sleeping potion that she is to take on Wednesday night, the evening before the wedding. The potion will render Juliet unconscious, and she will appear to be dead for 42 hours, during which time her body will rest in the family tomb. In the meantime, the Friar will let Romeo know of this plan. Juliet immediately agrees and leaves with the potion.", "analysis": "This scene acts as a watershed -- a defining moment -- in the play's overall structure. In this scene, Juliet's decision to accept the Friar's potion demonstrates her commitment to defying her father's rule, asserting her independence, and accepting her resolution to die in order to be with Romeo. Juliet's composure in this scene is exceptional. She is surprised to find Paris at the Friar's cell -- a development that contributes significantly to the dramatic tension in the scene. The tension in the cell is electric as Juliet and Paris engage in a rigid and formal exchange known as stichomythia -- an exchange between characters in which their dialogue switches back and forth across alternating lines. Paris shows himself to be a proper and courteous suitor, while Juliet proves her nimble mind as she evades Paris's questions and compliments. Paris, like Capulet, believes that marriage will cure Juliet's grief, which if left unsupervised, may result in extreme melancholy. Ironically, Juliet recently has made a series of mature, reasoned decisions, such as defying her family, marrying, and now, sacrificing her life for her forbidden love -- all of which are contrary to Paris and Capulet's paternalistic view of her need for adult male guidance. Juliet's conversation with the Friar parallels Act III, Scene 3, because Juliet, like Romeo, now believes that only death can offer a solution to her dilemma: \"Be not so long to speak. I long to die / If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.\" Juliet's describes her fears about pursuing the Friar's plan as she contemplates the horrors she is prepared to face rather than marry Paris. The gothic images foreshadow the play's final scene in the Capulet tomb. She prepares to take the potion and exclaims, \"And bid me go into a new-made grave / And hide me with a dead man in his shroud.\" Although these images suggest the wild fears of a spirited young teenager, they also highlight her bravery and the depth of her love for her husband. The Friar's willingness to help Juliet reflects his concern for his own role in the unfolding events. He has performed an illicit marriage and must now strive to prevent being implicated in the bigamous marriage between Juliet and Paris. The Friar has exposed himself to substantial personal liability, but he faces many opportunities to absolve himself of any involvement. The Friar is a peace-loving yet powerless character whose efforts to promote good are as subject to the whims of fate as anyone else's in the play. The plan Friar Laurence concocts to place Juliet in a deathlike state so that she may emerge from the tomb to be reunited with her husband appears both farfetched and morbidly weird. In the context of the play, however, the plan manifests themes previously and repeatedly intertwined -- love, marriage, life, and death. By placing Juliet into a suspended state, the Friar is reversing the traditional birth/death paradigm -- he is creating death in order to draw out life. This theme echoes his words from Act II, Scene 3, \"The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. / What is her burying grave, that is her womb\" . Through the Friar's plan, the cycle of life and death is reversed; Juliet must appear to die in order to share her life with her husband. Romeo and Juliet's love has transcended the hollow concerns of the other mortal players. Now in order to be united, Romeo and Juliet must rise above the troublesome, temporal world in which mortal players squander their lives in fighting and feuding rather than in living and loving. The Friar uses his knowledge of flowers and herbs to conceive Juliet's remedial concoction. In Act II, Scene 3, the Friar describes the dual qualities of the flower that is capable of healing yet has the power to act as a poison. The drug the Friar offers Juliet is compounded of opposites and will give Juliet the appearance of death so that she can regain her life and her love. The Friar's plan serves as the mechanism of hope for Juliet, but due to the influence of fate, becomes the vehicle of the tragedy itself. The Friar's plan to fake Juliet's death using a sleeping drug would have been accepted by Shakespeare's audience, because medical knowledge was extremely limited in the 16th century. Up to the mid-19th century, physicians often were unable to distinguish between deep comas and death, making real the possibility that someone could be buried alive. When her nurse discovers Juliet, the family accepts that she is dead simply from her appearance, without having the fact confirmed by a physician. Glossary nothing slow to slack his haste by no means reluctant if I should slow him down in his haste. uneven is the course the decision is arbitrary and one-sided. society companionship. pensive sad; melancholy. shield forbid. prorogue postpone; delay. extremes severe difficulties. cop'st is willing to face or encounter. charnel house a building or place where corpses or bones are deposited. reeky emitting a strong, unpleasant smell. chapless without the lower jaw. humour fluid. surcease cease; stop. wanny pale. supple government muscular movement. stark stiff or rigid, as a corpse. drift intention. toy triviality."}

ACT IV. Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris. Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. You say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.- Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be. Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That cop'st with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, Or shut me nightly in a charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud- Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1

On Tuesday morning, Paris tells Friar Laurence of his proposed marriage to Juliet -- a wedding scheduled to take place in two days. The Friar expresses concern that the wedding has been arranged too quickly, and he offers various reasons to delay the ceremony. Paris believes that Capulet hastened the nuptials out of concern for Juliet's grief over Tybalt's death. Juliet arrives at the Friar's cell and manages to cleverly sidestep Paris' compliments and references to their upcoming marriage. Paris then leaves, and Juliet begs the Friar for a solution to her tragic dilemma because she fears that death is her only option. The Friar offers Juliet a remedy -- a sleeping potion that she is to take on Wednesday night, the evening before the wedding. The potion will render Juliet unconscious, and she will appear to be dead for 42 hours, during which time her body will rest in the family tomb. In the meantime, the Friar will let Romeo know of this plan. Juliet immediately agrees and leaves with the potion.

This scene acts as a watershed -- a defining moment -- in the play's overall structure. In this scene, Juliet's decision to accept the Friar's potion demonstrates her commitment to defying her father's rule, asserting her independence, and accepting her resolution to die in order to be with Romeo. Juliet's composure in this scene is exceptional. She is surprised to find Paris at the Friar's cell -- a development that contributes significantly to the dramatic tension in the scene. The tension in the cell is electric as Juliet and Paris engage in a rigid and formal exchange known as stichomythia -- an exchange between characters in which their dialogue switches back and forth across alternating lines. Paris shows himself to be a proper and courteous suitor, while Juliet proves her nimble mind as she evades Paris's questions and compliments. Paris, like Capulet, believes that marriage will cure Juliet's grief, which if left unsupervised, may result in extreme melancholy. Ironically, Juliet recently has made a series of mature, reasoned decisions, such as defying her family, marrying, and now, sacrificing her life for her forbidden love -- all of which are contrary to Paris and Capulet's paternalistic view of her need for adult male guidance. Juliet's conversation with the Friar parallels Act III, Scene 3, because Juliet, like Romeo, now believes that only death can offer a solution to her dilemma: "Be not so long to speak. I long to die / If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy." Juliet's describes her fears about pursuing the Friar's plan as she contemplates the horrors she is prepared to face rather than marry Paris. The gothic images foreshadow the play's final scene in the Capulet tomb. She prepares to take the potion and exclaims, "And bid me go into a new-made grave / And hide me with a dead man in his shroud." Although these images suggest the wild fears of a spirited young teenager, they also highlight her bravery and the depth of her love for her husband. The Friar's willingness to help Juliet reflects his concern for his own role in the unfolding events. He has performed an illicit marriage and must now strive to prevent being implicated in the bigamous marriage between Juliet and Paris. The Friar has exposed himself to substantial personal liability, but he faces many opportunities to absolve himself of any involvement. The Friar is a peace-loving yet powerless character whose efforts to promote good are as subject to the whims of fate as anyone else's in the play. The plan Friar Laurence concocts to place Juliet in a deathlike state so that she may emerge from the tomb to be reunited with her husband appears both farfetched and morbidly weird. In the context of the play, however, the plan manifests themes previously and repeatedly intertwined -- love, marriage, life, and death. By placing Juliet into a suspended state, the Friar is reversing the traditional birth/death paradigm -- he is creating death in order to draw out life. This theme echoes his words from Act II, Scene 3, "The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. / What is her burying grave, that is her womb" . Through the Friar's plan, the cycle of life and death is reversed; Juliet must appear to die in order to share her life with her husband. Romeo and Juliet's love has transcended the hollow concerns of the other mortal players. Now in order to be united, Romeo and Juliet must rise above the troublesome, temporal world in which mortal players squander their lives in fighting and feuding rather than in living and loving. The Friar uses his knowledge of flowers and herbs to conceive Juliet's remedial concoction. In Act II, Scene 3, the Friar describes the dual qualities of the flower that is capable of healing yet has the power to act as a poison. The drug the Friar offers Juliet is compounded of opposites and will give Juliet the appearance of death so that she can regain her life and her love. The Friar's plan serves as the mechanism of hope for Juliet, but due to the influence of fate, becomes the vehicle of the tragedy itself. The Friar's plan to fake Juliet's death using a sleeping drug would have been accepted by Shakespeare's audience, because medical knowledge was extremely limited in the 16th century. Up to the mid-19th century, physicians often were unable to distinguish between deep comas and death, making real the possibility that someone could be buried alive. When her nurse discovers Juliet, the family accepts that she is dead simply from her appearance, without having the fact confirmed by a physician. Glossary nothing slow to slack his haste by no means reluctant if I should slow him down in his haste. uneven is the course the decision is arbitrary and one-sided. society companionship. pensive sad; melancholy. shield forbid. prorogue postpone; delay. extremes severe difficulties. cop'st is willing to face or encounter. charnel house a building or place where corpses or bones are deposited. reeky emitting a strong, unpleasant smell. chapless without the lower jaw. humour fluid. surcease cease; stop. wanny pale. supple government muscular movement. stark stiff or rigid, as a corpse. drift intention. toy triviality.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_19_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-2", "summary": "Juliet returns to the Capulet house to find wedding preparations well underway. She tells her father that she will abide by his wishes and agree to marry Paris. Lord Capulet is so overjoyed at the news that he decides to move the wedding from Thursday to Wednesday. Lady Capulet protests, saying that such quick notice doesn't allow enough time to prepare, but the euphoric Lord Capulet ignores her. Juliet is now to be married the following morning.", "analysis": "Here, fate twists Juliet's fortunes once again. Capulet, in his impulsive zeal, complicates the Friar's plan by moving the wedding forward a full day. Juliet must take the potion that night and lapse into a suspended state 24 hours sooner than the Friar had anticipated. This development reduces the amount of time the Friar will have to notify Romeo in Mantua. Juliet has acquiesced to Capulet's reckless whims and appears compliant -- even excited to an extent. This enthusiasm, however feigned, seems to heighten her father's zeal even further. Juliet shows great composure in facing her father, even though she knows that his plans and her arrangements are so different. Juliet's enthusiasm is, however, at least somewhat genuine since the mechanism by which she intends to resolve her personal crisis is already in motion. Capulet, of course, misinterprets Juliet's apparent good cheer, believing that Friar Laurence has persuaded Juliet to marry Paris. Capulet is characteristically impulsive, rash, and unpredictable. His blind enthusiasm leads him to insist that his entire family and staff work through the night to make adequate preparations for the hastened ceremony. In this scene, he shows a greater disrespect for his wife than in previous scenes. His blathering authoritarianism reaches new levels as he again insults Juliet, accusing her of \"peevish, self-willed harlotry.\" He completely dominates his wife, disregarding her desire to delay the wedding and ordering her to Juliet's room to help the Nurse. The comparison between Juliet and her mother is noteworthy. Whereas Lady Capulet cannot exercise any control in her life and receives no respect from her husband, Juliet has taken control of her life and tries to exert some influence over her situation. She has become self-possessed to the extent that she can command her own fate; however, when society eliminates her options, she is left with the only thing she can control -- her death. Juliet displays remarkable powers of duplicity as she describes her meeting with Paris at the Friar's cell. She tells her father that she gave him, \"what becomed love I might / Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.\" To Capulet, the statement confirms Juliet's total compliance with his wishes. Clearly, however, as Romeo's wife, Juliet's devotion to Romeo is absolute. Juliet's duplicity goes beyond her skillful use of language. She partakes willingly in the wedding preparation; however, amid all the frenzy, Juliet prepares for her presumed death. She has emotionally removed herself from her surroundings. Her trust rests in the Friar and her love in Romeo. The Capulet household is alive with activity on her behalf -- for an occasion she neither desires nor intends to attend. The people around her have betrayed her, and the wedding preparations manifest that betrayal. Glossary none ill no bad ones. I'll try . . . fingers from the saying that only bad cooks will not be able to lick their own fingers; that is, the servants will see if they are willing to test their own cooking. unfurnish'd unprepared, without supplies. forsooth yes indeed. harlotry willful behavior or hussy. Capulet regards his daughter with contempt. gadding wandering about in an idle or restless way. enjoined ordered. becomed befitting; becoming. bound obliged or indebted. closet a small room or cupboard for clothes. provision food and other supplies. huswife a housewife."}

Scene II. Capulet's house. Enter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen, two or three. Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. [Exit a Servingman.] Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so? Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Cap. Go, begone. Exit Servingman. We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding? Jul. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this. I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is as't should be. Let me see the County. Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Mother. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow. Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. Mother. We shall be short in our provision. 'Tis now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho! They are all forth; well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. Exeunt.

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-2

Juliet returns to the Capulet house to find wedding preparations well underway. She tells her father that she will abide by his wishes and agree to marry Paris. Lord Capulet is so overjoyed at the news that he decides to move the wedding from Thursday to Wednesday. Lady Capulet protests, saying that such quick notice doesn't allow enough time to prepare, but the euphoric Lord Capulet ignores her. Juliet is now to be married the following morning.

Here, fate twists Juliet's fortunes once again. Capulet, in his impulsive zeal, complicates the Friar's plan by moving the wedding forward a full day. Juliet must take the potion that night and lapse into a suspended state 24 hours sooner than the Friar had anticipated. This development reduces the amount of time the Friar will have to notify Romeo in Mantua. Juliet has acquiesced to Capulet's reckless whims and appears compliant -- even excited to an extent. This enthusiasm, however feigned, seems to heighten her father's zeal even further. Juliet shows great composure in facing her father, even though she knows that his plans and her arrangements are so different. Juliet's enthusiasm is, however, at least somewhat genuine since the mechanism by which she intends to resolve her personal crisis is already in motion. Capulet, of course, misinterprets Juliet's apparent good cheer, believing that Friar Laurence has persuaded Juliet to marry Paris. Capulet is characteristically impulsive, rash, and unpredictable. His blind enthusiasm leads him to insist that his entire family and staff work through the night to make adequate preparations for the hastened ceremony. In this scene, he shows a greater disrespect for his wife than in previous scenes. His blathering authoritarianism reaches new levels as he again insults Juliet, accusing her of "peevish, self-willed harlotry." He completely dominates his wife, disregarding her desire to delay the wedding and ordering her to Juliet's room to help the Nurse. The comparison between Juliet and her mother is noteworthy. Whereas Lady Capulet cannot exercise any control in her life and receives no respect from her husband, Juliet has taken control of her life and tries to exert some influence over her situation. She has become self-possessed to the extent that she can command her own fate; however, when society eliminates her options, she is left with the only thing she can control -- her death. Juliet displays remarkable powers of duplicity as she describes her meeting with Paris at the Friar's cell. She tells her father that she gave him, "what becomed love I might / Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty." To Capulet, the statement confirms Juliet's total compliance with his wishes. Clearly, however, as Romeo's wife, Juliet's devotion to Romeo is absolute. Juliet's duplicity goes beyond her skillful use of language. She partakes willingly in the wedding preparation; however, amid all the frenzy, Juliet prepares for her presumed death. She has emotionally removed herself from her surroundings. Her trust rests in the Friar and her love in Romeo. The Capulet household is alive with activity on her behalf -- for an occasion she neither desires nor intends to attend. The people around her have betrayed her, and the wedding preparations manifest that betrayal. Glossary none ill no bad ones. I'll try . . . fingers from the saying that only bad cooks will not be able to lick their own fingers; that is, the servants will see if they are willing to test their own cooking. unfurnish'd unprepared, without supplies. forsooth yes indeed. harlotry willful behavior or hussy. Capulet regards his daughter with contempt. gadding wandering about in an idle or restless way. enjoined ordered. becomed befitting; becoming. bound obliged or indebted. closet a small room or cupboard for clothes. provision food and other supplies. huswife a housewife.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_20_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-3", "summary": "Juliet and her nurse make the final preparations for the wedding that is to take place the following morning. Lady Capulet offers her assistance, but Juliet asks to be left to her prayers and sends the Nurseand her mother away. Juliet then reflects on the Friar's plan. She wonders if the Friar has given her actual poison to cover his role in marrying a Capulet and a Montague. She decides she must trust the Friar. However if the potion fails to work, she resolves to die rather than marry Paris. To that end, she places a dagger by her bedside. Juliet's imagination runs wild as she imagines the horrors she will face if the plan does not work and she awakens alone in the tomb. Only when she imagines Tybalt's ghost moving toward Romeo to avenge itself does she muster the courage to take the potion and intercept Tybalt: O look, methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point! Stay, Tybalt, stay!", "analysis": "Juliet asserts her independence in this scene by asking her betrayers, the Nurse and Lady Capulet, to leave her alone. By this action, she both physically separates herself from her family and proactively takes a step toward the fruition of her plan to be with Romeo. This direct request marks a turning point for Juliet. Previously, she often reacted to her surroundings rather than making her own decisions. For example, she waited for instruction from Romeo as to when they would wed; she allowed her father to order a marriage to someone else; and she depended on the Friar to provide her with a plan to avoid a union with Paris. As the play has progressed, however, she has grown more mature and independent. She now steps forward to confront her greatest fears and reach toward her ultimate goal -- to be with Romeo. When Juliet is left alone, she is struck by the horror of her situation. She imagines the gruesome, grisly, nightmarish horrors one would expect of a 13-year-old facing her own mortality: being buried alive in the airless tomb and facing Tybalt's corpse \"festering in his shroud.\" At that moment, she is tempted to call for her nurse. However, at the instant of her greatest fear, Juliet realizes that she must act independently. She displays mature courage and determination as she prepares to take the final step in her defiance of both her parents and fate itself. Juliet accepts that she must now trust the Friar's potion, and if the plan fails, be prepared to take her own life with the dagger at her bedside. Once again, the play draws upon the themes of birth and death to emphasize the way in which Juliet must die and be placed in the tomb in order to be reborn to begin her new life with Romeo. She is resolute in her decisions. Her maturity has blossomed. She is no longer a young teenager; she is a woman and a wife who commands her own fortune. To this end, she places a dagger by her side -- a resonant statement of her independence. Glossary orisons prayers. state circumstances. cross unfavorable. culled picked out; selected. behoveful necessary or required. faint cold fear fear causing a chilling faintness. subtly hath ministered cunningly has administered. tried proved. conceit thought. receptacle repository or sepulcher. shrieks like mandrakes a mandrake is a poisonous plant whose root was thought to have magic powers because of its fancied resemblance to the human body. It was believed that the mandrake would shriek as it was pulled out of the ground, and to hear a mandrake's shriek was thought to bring death or madness. environ'd with surrounded by. rage insanity, madness."}

Scene III. Juliet's chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. Enter Mother. Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behooffull for our state to-morrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.] Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!- What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lays down a dagger. What if it be a poison which the friar Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place- As in a vault, an ancient receptacle Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud., And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains.

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-3

Juliet and her nurse make the final preparations for the wedding that is to take place the following morning. Lady Capulet offers her assistance, but Juliet asks to be left to her prayers and sends the Nurseand her mother away. Juliet then reflects on the Friar's plan. She wonders if the Friar has given her actual poison to cover his role in marrying a Capulet and a Montague. She decides she must trust the Friar. However if the potion fails to work, she resolves to die rather than marry Paris. To that end, she places a dagger by her bedside. Juliet's imagination runs wild as she imagines the horrors she will face if the plan does not work and she awakens alone in the tomb. Only when she imagines Tybalt's ghost moving toward Romeo to avenge itself does she muster the courage to take the potion and intercept Tybalt: O look, methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point! Stay, Tybalt, stay!

Juliet asserts her independence in this scene by asking her betrayers, the Nurse and Lady Capulet, to leave her alone. By this action, she both physically separates herself from her family and proactively takes a step toward the fruition of her plan to be with Romeo. This direct request marks a turning point for Juliet. Previously, she often reacted to her surroundings rather than making her own decisions. For example, she waited for instruction from Romeo as to when they would wed; she allowed her father to order a marriage to someone else; and she depended on the Friar to provide her with a plan to avoid a union with Paris. As the play has progressed, however, she has grown more mature and independent. She now steps forward to confront her greatest fears and reach toward her ultimate goal -- to be with Romeo. When Juliet is left alone, she is struck by the horror of her situation. She imagines the gruesome, grisly, nightmarish horrors one would expect of a 13-year-old facing her own mortality: being buried alive in the airless tomb and facing Tybalt's corpse "festering in his shroud." At that moment, she is tempted to call for her nurse. However, at the instant of her greatest fear, Juliet realizes that she must act independently. She displays mature courage and determination as she prepares to take the final step in her defiance of both her parents and fate itself. Juliet accepts that she must now trust the Friar's potion, and if the plan fails, be prepared to take her own life with the dagger at her bedside. Once again, the play draws upon the themes of birth and death to emphasize the way in which Juliet must die and be placed in the tomb in order to be reborn to begin her new life with Romeo. She is resolute in her decisions. Her maturity has blossomed. She is no longer a young teenager; she is a woman and a wife who commands her own fortune. To this end, she places a dagger by her side -- a resonant statement of her independence. Glossary orisons prayers. state circumstances. cross unfavorable. culled picked out; selected. behoveful necessary or required. faint cold fear fear causing a chilling faintness. subtly hath ministered cunningly has administered. tried proved. conceit thought. receptacle repository or sepulcher. shrieks like mandrakes a mandrake is a poisonous plant whose root was thought to have magic powers because of its fancied resemblance to the human body. It was believed that the mandrake would shriek as it was pulled out of the ground, and to hear a mandrake's shriek was thought to bring death or madness. environ'd with surrounded by. rage insanity, madness.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_21_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-4", "summary": "The time is 3 a.m., and Lord Capulet has not been to bed. The Capulet household has been alive throughout the night with frenetic wedding preparation activities. The day begins to break, and Capulet hears music signaling that Paris is approaching the house. He orders the Nurse to awaken Juliet.", "analysis": "The Capulet house bustles with activity as the family feverishly prepares for the wedding ceremony. Banter with the servants is frenetic and excited. The atmosphere is electrified with the joyful expectation of the upcoming marriage. The commotion on the lower floors provides a striking contrast with the scene upstairs, where the bride lies in bed, apparently dead. Capulet's final line is ironic when he notes the arrival of Paris, \"make haste! The bridegroom is come already.\" Capulet is unaware that Juliet is already a bride and that her bridegroom is Romeo, not Paris. The appearance of the bridegroom also foreshadows Capulet's speech of lamentation in the next scene, when he describes death as a rival suitor for Juliet. Glossary pastry place where pastry is made. curfew bell the bell used especially in the medieval and renaissance periods, which rang in the morning and evening to signal curfew. cot-quean a man who usurped the place of the housewife. The Nurse teases Capulet for the pride and concern he takes in household affairs. lesser cause that is, a woman, an amorous liaison. you have been a mouse-hunt in your time you have chased after women in your youth. \"Mouse\" was an amorous term for a woman and here suggests the image of a cat prowling after a mouse. jealous hood jealous wife. Capulet is humorously responding to his wife's remarks about his past. loggerhead a stupid fellow; blockhead. Capulet puns on the second servant's ability to find logs for the fire."}

Scene IV. Capulet's house. Enter Lady of the House and Nurse. Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Old Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd, The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica; Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed! Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. Exeunt Lady and Nurse. Cap. A jealous hood, a jealous hood! Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. What is there? Now, fellow, Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter; he will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. Play music. I hear him near. Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already: Make haste, I say. [Exeunt.]

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-4

The time is 3 a.m., and Lord Capulet has not been to bed. The Capulet household has been alive throughout the night with frenetic wedding preparation activities. The day begins to break, and Capulet hears music signaling that Paris is approaching the house. He orders the Nurse to awaken Juliet.

The Capulet house bustles with activity as the family feverishly prepares for the wedding ceremony. Banter with the servants is frenetic and excited. The atmosphere is electrified with the joyful expectation of the upcoming marriage. The commotion on the lower floors provides a striking contrast with the scene upstairs, where the bride lies in bed, apparently dead. Capulet's final line is ironic when he notes the arrival of Paris, "make haste! The bridegroom is come already." Capulet is unaware that Juliet is already a bride and that her bridegroom is Romeo, not Paris. The appearance of the bridegroom also foreshadows Capulet's speech of lamentation in the next scene, when he describes death as a rival suitor for Juliet. Glossary pastry place where pastry is made. curfew bell the bell used especially in the medieval and renaissance periods, which rang in the morning and evening to signal curfew. cot-quean a man who usurped the place of the housewife. The Nurse teases Capulet for the pride and concern he takes in household affairs. lesser cause that is, a woman, an amorous liaison. you have been a mouse-hunt in your time you have chased after women in your youth. "Mouse" was an amorous term for a woman and here suggests the image of a cat prowling after a mouse. jealous hood jealous wife. Capulet is humorously responding to his wife's remarks about his past. loggerhead a stupid fellow; blockhead. Capulet puns on the second servant's ability to find logs for the fire.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_22_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-5", "summary": "The scene opens early on Wednesday morning. The Nurse enters Juliet's room and discovers her seemingly lifeless body on the bed. The Nurse tries to wake her, but believing her to be dead, cries out to the family in desperation. The Capulets, Friar Laurence, and Paris enter the room in response to the Nurse's cries. They dramatically mourn Juliet's loss while the Friar maintains his deception by offering words of support about Divine Will, comforting the family by expressing the belief that Juliet is in heaven. He then arranges for Juliet's body to be taken to the family vault. Capulet orders that the wedding preparations be changed to funeral preparations. The scene concludes with a comic interlude between the wedding musicians and Peter, a Capulet servant, as they engage in bawdy wordplay.", "analysis": "The Nurse opens this scene by bantering humorously -- almost giddy in her hope and good humor as she speaks with brassy references to Juliet's wedding night. The Nurse anticipates that Juliet will get little sleep that night. The viewer knows, however, that the euphoria will be short-lived and that unspeakable sorrow awaits the Nurse. In the Capulet household, moods tend to change quickly. When the Nurse discovers Juliet's body, the tone of the scene immediately changes from excited anticipation to shocked sorrow. Romeo and Juliet again are ensnared in the love/death/marriage matrix that has defined and described their relationship from the beginning. Lady Capulet's chilling words echo loudly here, \"I would the fool were married to her grave\" . Capulet, who earlier referred to his daughter as carrion, speaks his most eloquent lines in the play, \"Death lies on her like untimely frost / Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.\" Recall Act I, Scene 2, when Capulet says \"the earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she.\" These passages blend the Friar's concept of nature as a cyclical force taking life to give life. Capulet bemoans the loss of his last hope; however, in a macabre mix of sex and death, he describes Juliet's death as a sexual experience, emphasizing the Elizabethan translation of death as sexual ecstasy. He tells Paris that death has taken Juliet's virginity: \"There she lies / Flower as she was / deflowered by him.\" This passage echoes Juliet's woeful proclamation in Act III, Scene 2 \"I'll to my bed; / And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!\" . Capulet continues saying \"Death is my son-in-law.\" These images mournfully anticipate the consummation of Romeo and Juliet's deaths in the final act of the play. Glossary pennyworths small portions. aqua vitae alcoholic spirits. settled has stopped flowing. deflowered by him having lost her virginity to him. confusion's . . . confusions the solution is not to be found in this uncontrollable grief. promotion advancement in rank. she should be advanced that is, through the socially advantageous marriage to Paris. in this love in your concern for her material and earthly well-being. rosemary evergreen herb which was used as a symbol of remembrance. ordained festival prepared for the wedding festivities. lour scowl or frown upon. pitiful case pitiful state of affairs. merry dump here an oxymoron: a sad tune or song. gleek a gesture of contempt or a rebuke. pate the head, esp. the top of the head. carry no crotchets put up with none of your notions or whims. catling a small lute or fiddle string made out of cat gut. prates talks much and foolishly; chatters. rebeck a three stringed fiddle. tarry for wait for."}

Scene V. Juliet's chamber. [Enter Nurse.] Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb! why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now! Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry, and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed! He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be? [Draws aside the curtains.] What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead! O weraday that ever I was born! Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady! Enter Mother. Mother. What noise is here? Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. What is the matter? Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life! Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help. Enter Father. Father. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd; she's dead! Alack the day! Mother. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. O woful time! Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians. Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight! Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day That ever ever I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woful day! O woful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd, By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now To murther, murther our solemnity? O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried! Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that lives married long, But she's best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, In all her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Nurse]. 1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up! For well you know this is a pitiful case. [Exit.] 1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.' 1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'', Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me. 1. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then? 1. Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1. Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. 1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 2. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound'- Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What say you, Simon Catling? 1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck? 2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? 3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer. I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no gold for sounding. 'Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit. 1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exeunt.

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-5

The scene opens early on Wednesday morning. The Nurse enters Juliet's room and discovers her seemingly lifeless body on the bed. The Nurse tries to wake her, but believing her to be dead, cries out to the family in desperation. The Capulets, Friar Laurence, and Paris enter the room in response to the Nurse's cries. They dramatically mourn Juliet's loss while the Friar maintains his deception by offering words of support about Divine Will, comforting the family by expressing the belief that Juliet is in heaven. He then arranges for Juliet's body to be taken to the family vault. Capulet orders that the wedding preparations be changed to funeral preparations. The scene concludes with a comic interlude between the wedding musicians and Peter, a Capulet servant, as they engage in bawdy wordplay.

The Nurse opens this scene by bantering humorously -- almost giddy in her hope and good humor as she speaks with brassy references to Juliet's wedding night. The Nurse anticipates that Juliet will get little sleep that night. The viewer knows, however, that the euphoria will be short-lived and that unspeakable sorrow awaits the Nurse. In the Capulet household, moods tend to change quickly. When the Nurse discovers Juliet's body, the tone of the scene immediately changes from excited anticipation to shocked sorrow. Romeo and Juliet again are ensnared in the love/death/marriage matrix that has defined and described their relationship from the beginning. Lady Capulet's chilling words echo loudly here, "I would the fool were married to her grave" . Capulet, who earlier referred to his daughter as carrion, speaks his most eloquent lines in the play, "Death lies on her like untimely frost / Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." Recall Act I, Scene 2, when Capulet says "the earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she." These passages blend the Friar's concept of nature as a cyclical force taking life to give life. Capulet bemoans the loss of his last hope; however, in a macabre mix of sex and death, he describes Juliet's death as a sexual experience, emphasizing the Elizabethan translation of death as sexual ecstasy. He tells Paris that death has taken Juliet's virginity: "There she lies / Flower as she was / deflowered by him." This passage echoes Juliet's woeful proclamation in Act III, Scene 2 "I'll to my bed; / And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!" . Capulet continues saying "Death is my son-in-law." These images mournfully anticipate the consummation of Romeo and Juliet's deaths in the final act of the play. Glossary pennyworths small portions. aqua vitae alcoholic spirits. settled has stopped flowing. deflowered by him having lost her virginity to him. confusion's . . . confusions the solution is not to be found in this uncontrollable grief. promotion advancement in rank. she should be advanced that is, through the socially advantageous marriage to Paris. in this love in your concern for her material and earthly well-being. rosemary evergreen herb which was used as a symbol of remembrance. ordained festival prepared for the wedding festivities. lour scowl or frown upon. pitiful case pitiful state of affairs. merry dump here an oxymoron: a sad tune or song. gleek a gesture of contempt or a rebuke. pate the head, esp. the top of the head. carry no crotchets put up with none of your notions or whims. catling a small lute or fiddle string made out of cat gut. prates talks much and foolishly; chatters. rebeck a three stringed fiddle. tarry for wait for.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_23_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 5.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scene-1", "summary": "In Mantua, Romeo mistakenly believes that his dreams portend good news because he dreamed that Julietfound him dead but revived him with her kisses. Romeo's servant, Balthasar, then reports to Romeo that Juliet has died. Romeo, controlling his grief, makes plans to return to Verona. He offers a poor apothecary a large amount of money to sell him poison illegally. The poison will enable Romeo to be reunited with Juliet in death.", "analysis": "Although the audience might expect to find Romeo in Mantua wallowing in the depths of despair over his banishment, he is actually in very good humor. He has dreamed that he died and Juliet's kisses breathed life back into his body. But, as Mercutio says in Act I, Scene 4, \"Dreamers often lie.\" Romeo's soliloquy is full of dramatic irony because the dream anticipates the play's final scene when Juliet awakes in the tomb to find Romeo dead and tries to kiss the poison from his lips. Tragedy is imminent when Balthasar arrives wearing boots -- a harbinger of doom in classical theater. Balthasar gently delivers to Romeo news that Juliet's \"body sleeps.\" Because the Friar's message did not reach Romeo in Mantua, Romeo's good mood shatters instantly. As fate again mischievously meddles in Romeo's life, his melodramatic idealism gives way to defiant anger, \"I defy you stars!\" Romeo rages against the malevolent influence of fate -- a driving force in the play from the outset. Previously, Romeo lamented being \"fortune's fool.\" Now, he acts out of frustration, anger, and bold defiance. This moment of defiance marks a change in Romeo's character. Henceforth, he is angry, cynical, and emboldened to defy his fate. His anger and frustration drive him to try to take command over his own life -- he decides that if he cannot be with Juliet in life, he will join her in death. His resolve to die echoes Juliet's expression that her last resort is her sanctuary -- they have the power to die. To this end, Romeo visits an impoverished apothecary. The apothecary's dusty, tomb-like shop is a museum of deathly horrors filled with the bodies of dead animals, \"skins,\" \"bladders,\" and \"old cakes of roses.\" The apothecary wears tattered clothes; his face is hung with \"overwhelming brows,\" and \"harp misery ha worn him to his bones.\" This cadaverous apothecary, a personification of death, brokers deathly poison to Romeo. Romeo wants a poison that will steal life \"violently as hasty powder fired.\" This phrase recalls the Friar's admonition to Romeo that violent loves die \"like fire and powder, / Which as they kiss, consume.\" . Haste drives one misfortune to collide with another throughout the play -- each event teasing the reader with a morsel of hope, then lurching the action forward toward the tragic conclusion. Romeo's hasty reaction to Mercutio's death causes his banishment from Mantua; Capulet's rash decision to move up the wedding day precipitates Romeo missing the message from the Friar; and later, Romeo's haste to consume the poison causes him to die just prior to Juliet's awakening. Haste throughout the play acts as a vehicle for fate to draw characters through a series of unfortunate coincidences that form the intricately intertwined plot of the tragedy itself. Glossary presage predict; forecast. my bosom's lord love. unaccustomed spirit unusually high spirits. lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts Romeo is almost walking on air. love's shadows dreams; visions. post-horses horses kept at a post house, or inn, for couriers and post chaises or for hire to travelers. weeds garments; clothing. overwhelming overhanging. culling of simples gathering herbs. a beggarly account of empty boxes empty boxes of little worth. remnants of packthread remains of strong, thick thread or twine for tying bundles, packages, and so on. old cakes of roses dried rose leaves pressed into cakes. penury extreme poverty. caitiff wretched. soon-speeding gear fast-acting. utters sells. cordial an invigorating medicine that stimulates the heart."}

ACT V. Scene I. Mantua. A street. Enter Romeo. Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips That I reviv'd and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted. News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again, For nothing can be ill if she be well. Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault And presently took post to tell it you. O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night. Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild and do import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd. Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man. No, my good lord. Rom. No matter. Get thee gone And hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight. Exit [Balthasar]. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, 'An if a man did need a poison now Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.' O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary! Enter Apothecary. Apoth. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker mall fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty and not thy will. Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off, and if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murther in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scene-1

In Mantua, Romeo mistakenly believes that his dreams portend good news because he dreamed that Julietfound him dead but revived him with her kisses. Romeo's servant, Balthasar, then reports to Romeo that Juliet has died. Romeo, controlling his grief, makes plans to return to Verona. He offers a poor apothecary a large amount of money to sell him poison illegally. The poison will enable Romeo to be reunited with Juliet in death.

Although the audience might expect to find Romeo in Mantua wallowing in the depths of despair over his banishment, he is actually in very good humor. He has dreamed that he died and Juliet's kisses breathed life back into his body. But, as Mercutio says in Act I, Scene 4, "Dreamers often lie." Romeo's soliloquy is full of dramatic irony because the dream anticipates the play's final scene when Juliet awakes in the tomb to find Romeo dead and tries to kiss the poison from his lips. Tragedy is imminent when Balthasar arrives wearing boots -- a harbinger of doom in classical theater. Balthasar gently delivers to Romeo news that Juliet's "body sleeps." Because the Friar's message did not reach Romeo in Mantua, Romeo's good mood shatters instantly. As fate again mischievously meddles in Romeo's life, his melodramatic idealism gives way to defiant anger, "I defy you stars!" Romeo rages against the malevolent influence of fate -- a driving force in the play from the outset. Previously, Romeo lamented being "fortune's fool." Now, he acts out of frustration, anger, and bold defiance. This moment of defiance marks a change in Romeo's character. Henceforth, he is angry, cynical, and emboldened to defy his fate. His anger and frustration drive him to try to take command over his own life -- he decides that if he cannot be with Juliet in life, he will join her in death. His resolve to die echoes Juliet's expression that her last resort is her sanctuary -- they have the power to die. To this end, Romeo visits an impoverished apothecary. The apothecary's dusty, tomb-like shop is a museum of deathly horrors filled with the bodies of dead animals, "skins," "bladders," and "old cakes of roses." The apothecary wears tattered clothes; his face is hung with "overwhelming brows," and "harp misery ha worn him to his bones." This cadaverous apothecary, a personification of death, brokers deathly poison to Romeo. Romeo wants a poison that will steal life "violently as hasty powder fired." This phrase recalls the Friar's admonition to Romeo that violent loves die "like fire and powder, / Which as they kiss, consume." . Haste drives one misfortune to collide with another throughout the play -- each event teasing the reader with a morsel of hope, then lurching the action forward toward the tragic conclusion. Romeo's hasty reaction to Mercutio's death causes his banishment from Mantua; Capulet's rash decision to move up the wedding day precipitates Romeo missing the message from the Friar; and later, Romeo's haste to consume the poison causes him to die just prior to Juliet's awakening. Haste throughout the play acts as a vehicle for fate to draw characters through a series of unfortunate coincidences that form the intricately intertwined plot of the tragedy itself. Glossary presage predict; forecast. my bosom's lord love. unaccustomed spirit unusually high spirits. lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts Romeo is almost walking on air. love's shadows dreams; visions. post-horses horses kept at a post house, or inn, for couriers and post chaises or for hire to travelers. weeds garments; clothing. overwhelming overhanging. culling of simples gathering herbs. a beggarly account of empty boxes empty boxes of little worth. remnants of packthread remains of strong, thick thread or twine for tying bundles, packages, and so on. old cakes of roses dried rose leaves pressed into cakes. penury extreme poverty. caitiff wretched. soon-speeding gear fast-acting. utters sells. cordial an invigorating medicine that stimulates the heart.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_24_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 5.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scene-2", "summary": "Friar Laurence discovers that Friar John, the messenger he sent to Mantua with a letter to Romeo explaining that Juliet is alive, has been quarantined because of an outbreak of the plague and prevented from leaving Verona. Friar Laurence then hurries to the Capulet tomb because it is nearly time for Juliet to wake.", "analysis": "Fate has once again altered the course of events in the play. In this instance, fate thwarts the Friar's plan by delaying his letter. The Friar cries, \"Unhappy fortune!\" echoing Romeo's earlier cry that he became \"fortune's fool.\" The scene is driven by an overwhelming sense of desperation as the Friar returns to the Capulet tomb to liberate Juliet. The audience may recall the Friar's words from Act II, Scene 3, that the earth is nature's mother and that her \"burying grave . . . is her womb.\" The Friar's desperate attempt to physically extricate Juliet from the womb-like tomb casts him in the role of symbolic midwife, who must deliver Juliet from the bowels of death. Now the philosophical Friar, more at home with ideas, must take action so that his entire plan does not decay into an abortive attempt to defy fate. Glossary barefoot brother another friar. to associate me to accompany me. searchers of the town health officers whose duty it was to view dead bodies and report on the cause of death. nice trivial. charge important matters. dear import of serious concern. crow a crowbar."}

Scene II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence. John. Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho! Enter Friar Laurence. Laur. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. John. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Laur. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? John. I could not send it- here it is again- Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Laur. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge, Of dear import; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Laur. Now, must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come- Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb! Exit.

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201109215341/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/romeo-and-juliet/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scene-2

Friar Laurence discovers that Friar John, the messenger he sent to Mantua with a letter to Romeo explaining that Juliet is alive, has been quarantined because of an outbreak of the plague and prevented from leaving Verona. Friar Laurence then hurries to the Capulet tomb because it is nearly time for Juliet to wake.

Fate has once again altered the course of events in the play. In this instance, fate thwarts the Friar's plan by delaying his letter. The Friar cries, "Unhappy fortune!" echoing Romeo's earlier cry that he became "fortune's fool." The scene is driven by an overwhelming sense of desperation as the Friar returns to the Capulet tomb to liberate Juliet. The audience may recall the Friar's words from Act II, Scene 3, that the earth is nature's mother and that her "burying grave . . . is her womb." The Friar's desperate attempt to physically extricate Juliet from the womb-like tomb casts him in the role of symbolic midwife, who must deliver Juliet from the bowels of death. Now the philosophical Friar, more at home with ideas, must take action so that his entire plan does not decay into an abortive attempt to defy fate. Glossary barefoot brother another friar. to associate me to accompany me. searchers of the town health officers whose duty it was to view dead bodies and report on the cause of death. nice trivial. charge important matters. dear import of serious concern. crow a crowbar.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_2_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 1.scene 2

act 1, scene 2

{"name": "Act 1, scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section3/", "summary": "On another street of Verona, Capulet walks with Paris, a noble kinsman of the Prince. The two discuss Paris's desire to marry Capulet's daughter, Juliet. Capulet is overjoyed, but also states that Juliet--not yet fourteen--is too young to get married. He asks Paris to wait two years. He assures Paris that he favors him as a suitor, and invites Paris to the traditional masquerade feast he is holding that very night so that Paris might begin to woo Juliet and win her heart. Capulet dispatches a servant, Peter, to invite a list of people to the feast. As Capulet and Paris walk away, Peter laments that he cannot read and will therefore have difficulty accomplishing his task. Romeo and Benvolio happen by, still arguing about whether Romeo will be able to forget his love. Peter asks Romeo to read the list to him; Rosaline's name is one of those on the list. Before departing, Peter invites Romeo and Benvolio to the party--assuming, he says, that they are not Montagues. Benvolio tells Romeo that the feast will be the perfect opportunity to compare Rosaline with the other beautiful women of Verona. Romeo agrees to go with him, but only because Rosaline herself will be there.", "analysis": "Analysis This scene introduces Paris as Capulet's pick for Juliet's husband and also sets into motion Romeo and Juliet's eventual meeting at the feast. In the process, the scene establishes how Juliet is subject to parental influence. Romeo might be forced into fights because of his father's enmity with the Capulets, but Juliet is far more constrained. Regardless of any inter-family strife, Juliet's father can force her to marry whomever he wants. Such is the difference between being a man and woman in Verona. It might seem a worse thing to be caught up in the violence of a brawl, but Juliet's status as a young woman leaves her with no power or choice in any social situation. Like any other female in this culture, she will be passed from the control of one man to another. In this scene, Capulet appears to be a kind-hearted man. He defers to Juliet's ability to choose for herself ). But his power to force her into a marriage if he feels it necessary is implicitly present. Thus parental influence in this tragedy becomes a tool of fate: Juliet's arranged marriage with Paris, and the traditional feud between Capulets and Montagues, will eventually contribute to the deaths of Romeo and Juliet. The forces that determine their fate are laid in place well before Romeo and Juliet even meet. The specter of parental influence evident in this scene should itself be understood as an aspect of the force wielded over individuals by social structures such as family, religion, and politics. All of these massive social structures will, in time, throw obstacles in the path of Romeo and Juliet's love. Peter, who cannot read, offers a touch of humor to this scene, especially in the way his illiteracy leads him to invite two Montagues to the party while expressly stating that no Montagues are invited. But Peter's poor education is also part of the entrenched social structures. Juliet has no power because she is a woman. Peter has no power because he is a lowly servant and therefore cannot read. Romeo, of course, is still lovelorn for Rosaline; but the audience can tell at this point that Romeo will meet Juliet at the feast, and expectations begin to rise. Through Shakespeare's ingenious manipulation of the plot, the audience starts to feel the rustlings of approaching fate."}

Scene II. A Street. Enter Capulet, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown. Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace. Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both, And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit? Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made. Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my earth. But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; My will to her consent is but a part. An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice. This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light. Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, And like her most whose merit most shall be; Which, on more view of many, mine, being one, May stand in number, though in reck'ning none. Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay- Exeunt [Capulet and Paris]. Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time! Enter Benvolio and Romeo. Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is lessoned by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another's languish. Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. Rom. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. Ben. For what, I pray thee? Rom. For your broken shin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is; Shut up in Prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd and tormented and- God-den, good fellow. Serv. God gi' go-den. I pray, sir, can you read? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see? Rom. Ay, If I know the letters and the language. Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry! Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read. He reads. 'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and Livia; Signior Valentio and His cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.' [Gives back the paper.] A fair assembly. Whither should they come? Serv. Up. Rom. Whither? Serv. To supper, to our house. Rom. Whose house? Serv. My master's. Rom. Indeed I should have ask'd you that before. Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry! Exit. Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st; With all the admired beauties of Verona. Go thither, and with unattainted eye Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; And these, who, often drown'd, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best. Rom. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [Exeunt.]

Act 1, scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section3/

On another street of Verona, Capulet walks with Paris, a noble kinsman of the Prince. The two discuss Paris's desire to marry Capulet's daughter, Juliet. Capulet is overjoyed, but also states that Juliet--not yet fourteen--is too young to get married. He asks Paris to wait two years. He assures Paris that he favors him as a suitor, and invites Paris to the traditional masquerade feast he is holding that very night so that Paris might begin to woo Juliet and win her heart. Capulet dispatches a servant, Peter, to invite a list of people to the feast. As Capulet and Paris walk away, Peter laments that he cannot read and will therefore have difficulty accomplishing his task. Romeo and Benvolio happen by, still arguing about whether Romeo will be able to forget his love. Peter asks Romeo to read the list to him; Rosaline's name is one of those on the list. Before departing, Peter invites Romeo and Benvolio to the party--assuming, he says, that they are not Montagues. Benvolio tells Romeo that the feast will be the perfect opportunity to compare Rosaline with the other beautiful women of Verona. Romeo agrees to go with him, but only because Rosaline herself will be there.

Analysis This scene introduces Paris as Capulet's pick for Juliet's husband and also sets into motion Romeo and Juliet's eventual meeting at the feast. In the process, the scene establishes how Juliet is subject to parental influence. Romeo might be forced into fights because of his father's enmity with the Capulets, but Juliet is far more constrained. Regardless of any inter-family strife, Juliet's father can force her to marry whomever he wants. Such is the difference between being a man and woman in Verona. It might seem a worse thing to be caught up in the violence of a brawl, but Juliet's status as a young woman leaves her with no power or choice in any social situation. Like any other female in this culture, she will be passed from the control of one man to another. In this scene, Capulet appears to be a kind-hearted man. He defers to Juliet's ability to choose for herself ). But his power to force her into a marriage if he feels it necessary is implicitly present. Thus parental influence in this tragedy becomes a tool of fate: Juliet's arranged marriage with Paris, and the traditional feud between Capulets and Montagues, will eventually contribute to the deaths of Romeo and Juliet. The forces that determine their fate are laid in place well before Romeo and Juliet even meet. The specter of parental influence evident in this scene should itself be understood as an aspect of the force wielded over individuals by social structures such as family, religion, and politics. All of these massive social structures will, in time, throw obstacles in the path of Romeo and Juliet's love. Peter, who cannot read, offers a touch of humor to this scene, especially in the way his illiteracy leads him to invite two Montagues to the party while expressly stating that no Montagues are invited. But Peter's poor education is also part of the entrenched social structures. Juliet has no power because she is a woman. Peter has no power because he is a lowly servant and therefore cannot read. Romeo, of course, is still lovelorn for Rosaline; but the audience can tell at this point that Romeo will meet Juliet at the feast, and expectations begin to rise. Through Shakespeare's ingenious manipulation of the plot, the audience starts to feel the rustlings of approaching fate.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_3_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 1.scene 3

act 1, scene 3

{"name": "Act 1, scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section4/", "summary": "In Capulet's house, just before the feast is to begin, Lady Capulet calls to the Nurse, needing help to find her daughter. Juliet enters, and Lady Capulet dismisses the Nurse so that she might speak with her daughter alone. She immediately changes her mind, however, and asks the Nurse to remain and add her counsel. Before Lady Capulet can begin to speak, the Nurse launches into a long story about how, as a child, an uncomprehending Juliet became an innocent accomplice to a sexual joke. Lady Capulet tries unsuccessfully to stop the wildly amused Nurse. An embarrassed Juliet forcefully commands that the Nurse stop. Lady Capulet asks Juliet what she thinks about getting married. Juliet replies that she has not given it any thought. Lady Capulet observes that she gave birth to Juliet when she was almost Juliet's current age. She excitedly continues that Juliet must begin to think about marriage because the \"valiant Paris\" has expressed an interest in her . Juliet dutifully replies that she will look upon Paris at the feast to see if she might love him. A servingman enters to announce the beginning of the feast.", "analysis": "Analysis Three scenes into the play, the audience finally meets the second title character. Thematically, this scene continues to develop the issue of parental influence, particularly the strength of that influence over girls. Lady Capulet, herself a woman who married at a young age, offers complete support for her husband's plan for their daughter, and puts pressure on Juliet to think about Paris as a husband before Juliet has begun to think about marriage at all. Juliet admits just how powerful the influence of her parents is when she says of Paris: \"I'll look to like, looking liking move; / But no more deep will I endart mine eye / Than your consent gives strength to make it fly\" . In effect, Juliet is saying that she will follow her mother's advice exactly in thinking about Paris. While providing a humorous moment, the Nurse's silly anecdote about Juliet as a baby also helps to portray the inevitability of Juliet's situation. The Nurse's husband's comment about Juliet falling on her back when she comes of age is a reference to Juliet one day engaging in the act of sex. His comment, therefore, shows that Juliet has been viewed as a potential object of sexuality and marriage since she was a toddler. In broad terms, Juliet's fate to someday be given away in marriage has been set since birth. Beyond thematic development, this scene provides magnificent insight into the three main female characters. Lady Capulet is a flighty, ineffectual mother: she dismisses the Nurse, seeking to speak alone with her daughter, but as soon as the Nurse begins to depart, Lady Capulet becomes nervous and calls the Nurse back. The Nurse, in her hilarious inability to stop telling the story about her husband's innuendo about Juliet's sexual development, shows a vulgar streak, but also a familiarity with Juliet that implies that it was she, and not Lady Capulet, who raised the girl. Indeed, it was the Nurse, and not Lady Capulet, who suckled Juliet as a baby . Juliet herself is revealed in this scene as a rather naive young girl who is obedient to her mother and the Nurse. But there are glimpses of a strength and intelligence in Juliet that are wholly absent in her mother. Where Lady Capulet cannot get the Nurse to cease with her story, Juliet stops it with a word. We noted already that Juliet's phrase \" But no more deep will I endart mine eye / Than your consent gives strength to make it fly\" seems to imply a complete acquiescence to her mother's control. But the phrase can also be interpreted as illustrating an effort on Juliet's part to use vague language as a means of asserting some control over her situation. In this phrase, while agreeing to see if she might be able to love Paris, she is at the same time saying that she will put no more enthusiasm into this effort than her mother demands. The phrase can therefore be interpreted as a sort of passive resistance. In this scene once again a direct comparison is drawn between servants and masters. In the course of the Nurse's story it becomes clear that her own daughter, who would be Juliet's age, died long ago. The Nurse's husband also has died. These deaths might simply be coincidental, but it seems just as likely that they correspond to the Nurse's lower station in life."}

Scene III. Capulet's house. Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse. Wife. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me. Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird! God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet! Enter Juliet. Jul. How now? Who calls? Nurse. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here. What is your will? Wife. This is the matter- Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again; I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. Wife. She's not fourteen. Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth- And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four- She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammastide? Wife. A fortnight and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls!) Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it), Of all the days of the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall. My lord and you were then at Mantua. Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood, She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day before, she broke her brow; And then my husband (God be with his soul! 'A was a merry man) took up the child. 'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidam, The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.' To see now how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas, I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he, And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.' Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace. Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.' And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow A bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone; A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.' Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd. An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count, I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man As all the world- why he's a man of wax. Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a flower. Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower. Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast. Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with beauty's pen; Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes, This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover. The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him making yourself no less. Nurse. No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love? Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter Servingman. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you follow straight. Wife. We follow thee. Exit [Servingman]. Juliet, the County stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. Exeunt.

Act 1, scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section4/

In Capulet's house, just before the feast is to begin, Lady Capulet calls to the Nurse, needing help to find her daughter. Juliet enters, and Lady Capulet dismisses the Nurse so that she might speak with her daughter alone. She immediately changes her mind, however, and asks the Nurse to remain and add her counsel. Before Lady Capulet can begin to speak, the Nurse launches into a long story about how, as a child, an uncomprehending Juliet became an innocent accomplice to a sexual joke. Lady Capulet tries unsuccessfully to stop the wildly amused Nurse. An embarrassed Juliet forcefully commands that the Nurse stop. Lady Capulet asks Juliet what she thinks about getting married. Juliet replies that she has not given it any thought. Lady Capulet observes that she gave birth to Juliet when she was almost Juliet's current age. She excitedly continues that Juliet must begin to think about marriage because the "valiant Paris" has expressed an interest in her . Juliet dutifully replies that she will look upon Paris at the feast to see if she might love him. A servingman enters to announce the beginning of the feast.

Analysis Three scenes into the play, the audience finally meets the second title character. Thematically, this scene continues to develop the issue of parental influence, particularly the strength of that influence over girls. Lady Capulet, herself a woman who married at a young age, offers complete support for her husband's plan for their daughter, and puts pressure on Juliet to think about Paris as a husband before Juliet has begun to think about marriage at all. Juliet admits just how powerful the influence of her parents is when she says of Paris: "I'll look to like, looking liking move; / But no more deep will I endart mine eye / Than your consent gives strength to make it fly" . In effect, Juliet is saying that she will follow her mother's advice exactly in thinking about Paris. While providing a humorous moment, the Nurse's silly anecdote about Juliet as a baby also helps to portray the inevitability of Juliet's situation. The Nurse's husband's comment about Juliet falling on her back when she comes of age is a reference to Juliet one day engaging in the act of sex. His comment, therefore, shows that Juliet has been viewed as a potential object of sexuality and marriage since she was a toddler. In broad terms, Juliet's fate to someday be given away in marriage has been set since birth. Beyond thematic development, this scene provides magnificent insight into the three main female characters. Lady Capulet is a flighty, ineffectual mother: she dismisses the Nurse, seeking to speak alone with her daughter, but as soon as the Nurse begins to depart, Lady Capulet becomes nervous and calls the Nurse back. The Nurse, in her hilarious inability to stop telling the story about her husband's innuendo about Juliet's sexual development, shows a vulgar streak, but also a familiarity with Juliet that implies that it was she, and not Lady Capulet, who raised the girl. Indeed, it was the Nurse, and not Lady Capulet, who suckled Juliet as a baby . Juliet herself is revealed in this scene as a rather naive young girl who is obedient to her mother and the Nurse. But there are glimpses of a strength and intelligence in Juliet that are wholly absent in her mother. Where Lady Capulet cannot get the Nurse to cease with her story, Juliet stops it with a word. We noted already that Juliet's phrase " But no more deep will I endart mine eye / Than your consent gives strength to make it fly" seems to imply a complete acquiescence to her mother's control. But the phrase can also be interpreted as illustrating an effort on Juliet's part to use vague language as a means of asserting some control over her situation. In this phrase, while agreeing to see if she might be able to love Paris, she is at the same time saying that she will put no more enthusiasm into this effort than her mother demands. The phrase can therefore be interpreted as a sort of passive resistance. In this scene once again a direct comparison is drawn between servants and masters. In the course of the Nurse's story it becomes clear that her own daughter, who would be Juliet's age, died long ago. The Nurse's husband also has died. These deaths might simply be coincidental, but it seems just as likely that they correspond to the Nurse's lower station in life.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_4_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 1.scene 4

act 1, scene 4

{"name": "Act 1, scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section5/", "summary": "O, then I see Queen Mab has been with you. . . .She is the fairies' midwife. . . . Romeo, Benvolio, and their friend Mercutio, all wearing masks, have gathered with a group of mask-wearing guests on their way to the Capulets' feast. Still melancholy, Romeo wonders how they will get into the Capulets' feast, since they are Montagues. When that concern is brushed aside, he states that he will not dance at the feast. Mercutio begins to gently mock Romeo, transforming all of Romeo's statements about love into blatantly sexual metaphors. Romeo refuses to engage in this banter, explaining that in a dream he learned that going to the feast was a bad idea. Mercutio responds with a long speech about Queen Mab of the fairies, who visits people's dreams. The speech begins as a flight of fancy, but Mercutio becomes almost entranced by it, and a bitter, fervent strain creeps in. Romeo steps in to stop the speech and calm Mercutio down. Mercutio admits that he has been talking of nothing, noting that dreams are but \"the children of an idle brain\" . Benvolio refocuses their attention on actually getting to the feast. Romeo voices one last concern: he has a feeling that the night's activities will set in motion the action of fate, resulting in untimely death. But, putting himself in the hands of \"he who hath the steerage of my course,\" Romeo's spirits rise, and he continues with his friends toward the feast .", "analysis": "Analysis This scene might seem unnecessary. As an audience, we already know that Romeo and his friends are headed to the feast. We already know that Romeo is melancholy and Benvolio more pragmatic. The inclusion of this scene does not directly offer plot exposition or plot progression. However, the scene does augment the general sense of fate through Romeo's statement of belief that the night's events will lead to untimely death. The audience, of course, knows that he will suffer an untimely death. When Romeo gives himself up to \"he that hath the steerage of my course,\" the audience feels fate take a tighter grasp on him . This scene also serves as introduction to the clever, whirling, entrancing Mercutio. Spinning wild puns left and right, seeming to speak them as freely as others breathe, Mercutio is established as a friend who can, gently or not, mock Romeo as no one else can. Though thoughtful, Benvolio does not have the quick wit for such behavior. With his wild speech and laughter, Mercutio is a man of excess. But his passions are of another sort than those that move Romeo to love and Tybalt to hate. Romeo's and Tybalt's passions are founded upon the acceptance of two different ideals trumpeted by society: the poetic tradition of love and the importance of honor. Mercutio believes in neither. In fact, Mercutio stands in contrast to all of the other characters in Romeo and Juliet because he is able to see through the blindness caused by wholehearted acceptance of the ideals sanctioned by society: he pokes holes in Romeo's rapturous adoption of the rhetoric of love just as he mocks Tybalt's fastidious adherence to the fashions of the day. It is no accident that Mercutio is the master punner in this play. A pun represents slippage, or twist, in the meaning of a word. That word, which previously meant one thing, now suddenly is revealed to have additional interpretations, and therefore becomes ambiguous. Just as Mercutio can see through words to other, usually debased meanings, he can also understand that the ideals held by those around him originate from less high-minded desires than anyone would care to admit. Mercutio's Queen Mab speech is one of the most famous in the play. Queen Mab, who brings dreams to sleeping people, seems to be loosely based on figures in the pagan Celtic mythology that predated Christianity's arrival in England. Yet the name holds a deeper meaning. The words \"quean\" and \"mab\" were references to whores in Elizabethan England. In Queen Mab, then, Mercutio creates a sort of conceptual pun: he alludes to a mythological tradition peopled with fairies and attaches it to a reference to prostitutes. He yokes the childish fun of fairies to a much darker vision of humanity. The speech itself reveals this dichotomy. A child would love Mercutio's description of a world of fairies replete with walnut carriages and insect steeds, its stories of a fairy bringing dreams to sleeping people. But take a closer look at those dreams. Queen Mab brings dreams suited to each individual, and each dream she brings seems to descend into deeper depravity and brutality: lovers dream of love; lawyers dream of law cases and making money; soldiers dream of \"cutting foreign throats\" . By the end of the speech, Queen Mab is the \"hag\" who teaches maidens to have sex. The child's fairy tale has spun into something much, much darker, though this dark vision is an accurate portrayal of society. Mercutio, as entertaining as he is, can be seen as offering an alternative vision of the grand tragedy that is Romeo and Juliet.\" Thou talk'st of nothing,\" Romeo says to Mercutio in order to force Mercutio to end the Queen Mab speech . Mercutio agrees, saying that dreams \"are the children of an idle brain\" . But don't Romeo's visions of love qualify as dreams? Don't Tybalt's fantasies of perfect proprietary and social standing count as dreams? And what about Friar Lawrence's dreams of bringing peace to Verona? In Mercutio's assessment, all of these desires \"are the children of an idle brain. \" All are delusions. Mercutio's comment can be seen as a single pinprick in the grand idealistic passions of love and family loyalty that animate the play. The Queen Mab speech by no means deflates the great tragedy and romantic ideals of Romeo and Juliet, but it adds to them the subtext of a pun, that dark flipside which offers an alternative view of reality."}

Scene IV. A street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other Maskers; Torchbearers. Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology? Ben. The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance; But, let them measure us by what they will, We'll measure them a measure, and be gone. Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling. Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. Mer. You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings And soar with them above a common bound. Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers; and so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love's heavy burthen do I sink. Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love- Too great oppression for a tender thing. Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in. A visor for a visor! What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs. Rom. A torch for me! Let wantons light of heart Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase, I'll be a candle-holder and look on; The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Mer. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word! If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! Rom. Nay, that's not so. Mer. I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. Rom. And we mean well, in going to this masque; But 'tis no wit to go. Mer. Why, may one ask? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. Mer. And so did I. Rom. Well, what was yours? Mer. That dreamers often lie. Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. Mer. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the smallest spider's web; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she 'gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, hairs, Which once untangled much misfortune bodes This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage. This is she- Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the North And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping South. Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves. Supper is done, and we shall come too late. Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels and expire the term Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast, By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen! Ben. Strike, drum. They march about the stage. [Exeunt.]

Act 1, scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section5/

O, then I see Queen Mab has been with you. . . .She is the fairies' midwife. . . . Romeo, Benvolio, and their friend Mercutio, all wearing masks, have gathered with a group of mask-wearing guests on their way to the Capulets' feast. Still melancholy, Romeo wonders how they will get into the Capulets' feast, since they are Montagues. When that concern is brushed aside, he states that he will not dance at the feast. Mercutio begins to gently mock Romeo, transforming all of Romeo's statements about love into blatantly sexual metaphors. Romeo refuses to engage in this banter, explaining that in a dream he learned that going to the feast was a bad idea. Mercutio responds with a long speech about Queen Mab of the fairies, who visits people's dreams. The speech begins as a flight of fancy, but Mercutio becomes almost entranced by it, and a bitter, fervent strain creeps in. Romeo steps in to stop the speech and calm Mercutio down. Mercutio admits that he has been talking of nothing, noting that dreams are but "the children of an idle brain" . Benvolio refocuses their attention on actually getting to the feast. Romeo voices one last concern: he has a feeling that the night's activities will set in motion the action of fate, resulting in untimely death. But, putting himself in the hands of "he who hath the steerage of my course," Romeo's spirits rise, and he continues with his friends toward the feast .

Analysis This scene might seem unnecessary. As an audience, we already know that Romeo and his friends are headed to the feast. We already know that Romeo is melancholy and Benvolio more pragmatic. The inclusion of this scene does not directly offer plot exposition or plot progression. However, the scene does augment the general sense of fate through Romeo's statement of belief that the night's events will lead to untimely death. The audience, of course, knows that he will suffer an untimely death. When Romeo gives himself up to "he that hath the steerage of my course," the audience feels fate take a tighter grasp on him . This scene also serves as introduction to the clever, whirling, entrancing Mercutio. Spinning wild puns left and right, seeming to speak them as freely as others breathe, Mercutio is established as a friend who can, gently or not, mock Romeo as no one else can. Though thoughtful, Benvolio does not have the quick wit for such behavior. With his wild speech and laughter, Mercutio is a man of excess. But his passions are of another sort than those that move Romeo to love and Tybalt to hate. Romeo's and Tybalt's passions are founded upon the acceptance of two different ideals trumpeted by society: the poetic tradition of love and the importance of honor. Mercutio believes in neither. In fact, Mercutio stands in contrast to all of the other characters in Romeo and Juliet because he is able to see through the blindness caused by wholehearted acceptance of the ideals sanctioned by society: he pokes holes in Romeo's rapturous adoption of the rhetoric of love just as he mocks Tybalt's fastidious adherence to the fashions of the day. It is no accident that Mercutio is the master punner in this play. A pun represents slippage, or twist, in the meaning of a word. That word, which previously meant one thing, now suddenly is revealed to have additional interpretations, and therefore becomes ambiguous. Just as Mercutio can see through words to other, usually debased meanings, he can also understand that the ideals held by those around him originate from less high-minded desires than anyone would care to admit. Mercutio's Queen Mab speech is one of the most famous in the play. Queen Mab, who brings dreams to sleeping people, seems to be loosely based on figures in the pagan Celtic mythology that predated Christianity's arrival in England. Yet the name holds a deeper meaning. The words "quean" and "mab" were references to whores in Elizabethan England. In Queen Mab, then, Mercutio creates a sort of conceptual pun: he alludes to a mythological tradition peopled with fairies and attaches it to a reference to prostitutes. He yokes the childish fun of fairies to a much darker vision of humanity. The speech itself reveals this dichotomy. A child would love Mercutio's description of a world of fairies replete with walnut carriages and insect steeds, its stories of a fairy bringing dreams to sleeping people. But take a closer look at those dreams. Queen Mab brings dreams suited to each individual, and each dream she brings seems to descend into deeper depravity and brutality: lovers dream of love; lawyers dream of law cases and making money; soldiers dream of "cutting foreign throats" . By the end of the speech, Queen Mab is the "hag" who teaches maidens to have sex. The child's fairy tale has spun into something much, much darker, though this dark vision is an accurate portrayal of society. Mercutio, as entertaining as he is, can be seen as offering an alternative vision of the grand tragedy that is Romeo and Juliet." Thou talk'st of nothing," Romeo says to Mercutio in order to force Mercutio to end the Queen Mab speech . Mercutio agrees, saying that dreams "are the children of an idle brain" . But don't Romeo's visions of love qualify as dreams? Don't Tybalt's fantasies of perfect proprietary and social standing count as dreams? And what about Friar Lawrence's dreams of bringing peace to Verona? In Mercutio's assessment, all of these desires "are the children of an idle brain. " All are delusions. Mercutio's comment can be seen as a single pinprick in the grand idealistic passions of love and family loyalty that animate the play. The Queen Mab speech by no means deflates the great tragedy and romantic ideals of Romeo and Juliet, but it adds to them the subtext of a pun, that dark flipside which offers an alternative view of reality.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_7_part_1.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 2.scene 2

act 2, scene 2

{"name": "act 2, scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section8/", "summary": "In the early morning, Friar Lawrence enters, holding a basket. He fills the basket with various weeds, herbs, and flowers. While musing on the beneficence of the Earth, he demonstrates a deep knowledge of the properties of the plants he collects. Romeo enters and Friar Lawrence intuits that Romeo has not slept the night before. The friar fears that Romeo may have slept in sin with Rosaline. Romeo assures him that did not happen, and describes his new love for Juliet, his intent to marry her, and his desire that the friar consent to marry them that very day. Friar Lawrence is shocked at this sudden shift from Rosaline to Juliet. He comments on the fickleness of young love, Romeo's in particular. Romeo defends himself, noting that Juliet returns his love while Rosaline did not. In response, the friar comments that Rosaline could see that Romeo's love for her \"did read by rote, that could not spell. Remaining skeptical at Romeo's sudden change of heart, Friar Lawrence nonetheless agrees to marry the couple. He expresses the hope that the marriage of Romeo and Juliet might end the feud ravaging the Montagues and Capulets", "analysis": "Act 2, scenes 2-3 In this scene we are introduced to Friar Lawrence as he meditates on the duality of good and evil that exists in all things. Speaking of medicinal plants, the friar claims that, though everything in nature has a useful purpose, it can also lead to misfortune if used improperly: \"For naught so vile that on the earth doth live / But to the earth some special good doth give, / Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use / Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: / Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; / And vice sometime's by action dignified\" . At the end of this passage, the friar's rumination turns toward a broader application; he speaks of how good may be perverted to evil and evil may be purified by good. The friar tries to put his theories to use when he agrees to marry Romeo and Juliet; he hopes that the good of their love will reverse the evil of the hatred between the feuding families. Unfortunately, he later causes the flipside of his theory to come into play: the plan involving a sleep-inducing potion, which he intends to preserve Romeo and Juliet's marriage and love, results in both of their deaths. The thematic role of the friar in Romeo and Juliet is hard to pin down. Clearly, Friar Lawrence is a kindhearted friend to both Romeo and Juliet. He also seems wise and selfless. But while the friar appears to embody all these good qualities that are often associated with religion, he is also an unknowing servant of fate: all of his plans go awry and create the misunderstandings that lead to the final tragedy. Friar Lawrence also returns the specter of Rosaline to the play. The friar cannot believe that Romeo's love could turn so quickly from one person to another. Romeo's response, that Juliet returns his love while Rosaline did not, hardly provides evidence that Romeo has matured. The question of Rosaline continues on into the next scene when Mercutio begins to ridicule Romeo's lovelorn ways by mockingly comparing Rosaline to all the beauties of antiquity . The events of the play prove Romeo's steadfast love for Juliet, but Romeo's immature love for Rosaline, his love of love, is never quite erased. He remains too quick to follow the classic examples of love, up to and including his suicide. In addition to developing the plot by which Romeo and Juliet will wed, Act 3, scene 3 offers a glimpse of Romeo among his friends. Romeo shows himself to be as proficient and bawdy a punner as Mercutio. This punning Romeo is what Mercutio believes to be the \"true\" Romeo, suddenly freed from the ludicrous melancholy of love: \"Why, is not this better than groaning for love? / Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo\" . In the last scene, Juliet tried to battle the social world through the power of her private love; here Mercutio tries to assert the social language of male bravado and banter over the private introspection of love. Interestingly, both Juliet and Mercutio think they know the \"real\" Romeo. A conflict emerges; even friendship stands in opposition to Romeo's love. Romeo must remain both the private lover and the public Montague and friend, and he must somehow find a way to navigate between the different claims that his two roles demand of him."}

Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo. Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Enter Juliet above at a window. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady; O, it is my love! O that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! Jul. Ay me! Rom. She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air. Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. Rom. [aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumblest on my counsel? Rom. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee. Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight; And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Jul. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell compliment! Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay'; And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries, They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops- Jul. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by? Jul. Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love- Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night. It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet. Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast! Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu! [Nurse] calls within. Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.] Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. I come, anon.- But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee- Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. By-and-by I come.- To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. To-morrow will I send. Rom. So thrive my soul- Jul. A thousand times good night! Exit. Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light! Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. Enter Juliet again, [above]. Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer's voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo's name. Romeo! Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! Jul. Romeo! Rom. My dear? Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee? Rom. By the hour of nine. Jul. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring how I love thy company. Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone- And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [Exit.] Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. Exit

act 2, scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section8/

In the early morning, Friar Lawrence enters, holding a basket. He fills the basket with various weeds, herbs, and flowers. While musing on the beneficence of the Earth, he demonstrates a deep knowledge of the properties of the plants he collects. Romeo enters and Friar Lawrence intuits that Romeo has not slept the night before. The friar fears that Romeo may have slept in sin with Rosaline. Romeo assures him that did not happen, and describes his new love for Juliet, his intent to marry her, and his desire that the friar consent to marry them that very day. Friar Lawrence is shocked at this sudden shift from Rosaline to Juliet. He comments on the fickleness of young love, Romeo's in particular. Romeo defends himself, noting that Juliet returns his love while Rosaline did not. In response, the friar comments that Rosaline could see that Romeo's love for her "did read by rote, that could not spell. Remaining skeptical at Romeo's sudden change of heart, Friar Lawrence nonetheless agrees to marry the couple. He expresses the hope that the marriage of Romeo and Juliet might end the feud ravaging the Montagues and Capulets

Act 2, scenes 2-3 In this scene we are introduced to Friar Lawrence as he meditates on the duality of good and evil that exists in all things. Speaking of medicinal plants, the friar claims that, though everything in nature has a useful purpose, it can also lead to misfortune if used improperly: "For naught so vile that on the earth doth live / But to the earth some special good doth give, / Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use / Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: / Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; / And vice sometime's by action dignified" . At the end of this passage, the friar's rumination turns toward a broader application; he speaks of how good may be perverted to evil and evil may be purified by good. The friar tries to put his theories to use when he agrees to marry Romeo and Juliet; he hopes that the good of their love will reverse the evil of the hatred between the feuding families. Unfortunately, he later causes the flipside of his theory to come into play: the plan involving a sleep-inducing potion, which he intends to preserve Romeo and Juliet's marriage and love, results in both of their deaths. The thematic role of the friar in Romeo and Juliet is hard to pin down. Clearly, Friar Lawrence is a kindhearted friend to both Romeo and Juliet. He also seems wise and selfless. But while the friar appears to embody all these good qualities that are often associated with religion, he is also an unknowing servant of fate: all of his plans go awry and create the misunderstandings that lead to the final tragedy. Friar Lawrence also returns the specter of Rosaline to the play. The friar cannot believe that Romeo's love could turn so quickly from one person to another. Romeo's response, that Juliet returns his love while Rosaline did not, hardly provides evidence that Romeo has matured. The question of Rosaline continues on into the next scene when Mercutio begins to ridicule Romeo's lovelorn ways by mockingly comparing Rosaline to all the beauties of antiquity . The events of the play prove Romeo's steadfast love for Juliet, but Romeo's immature love for Rosaline, his love of love, is never quite erased. He remains too quick to follow the classic examples of love, up to and including his suicide. In addition to developing the plot by which Romeo and Juliet will wed, Act 3, scene 3 offers a glimpse of Romeo among his friends. Romeo shows himself to be as proficient and bawdy a punner as Mercutio. This punning Romeo is what Mercutio believes to be the "true" Romeo, suddenly freed from the ludicrous melancholy of love: "Why, is not this better than groaning for love? / Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo" . In the last scene, Juliet tried to battle the social world through the power of her private love; here Mercutio tries to assert the social language of male bravado and banter over the private introspection of love. Interestingly, both Juliet and Mercutio think they know the "real" Romeo. A conflict emerges; even friendship stands in opposition to Romeo's love. Romeo must remain both the private lover and the public Montague and friend, and he must somehow find a way to navigate between the different claims that his two roles demand of him.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_8_part_1.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 2.scene 4

act 2, scene 4

{"name": "act 2, scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section9/", "summary": "In the Capulet orchard, Juliet impatiently waits for her nurse, whom she sent to meet Romeo three hours earlier. At last the Nurse returns, and Juliet anxiously presses her for news. The Nurse claims to be too tired, sore, and out of breath to tell Juliet what has happened. Juliet grows frantic, and eventually the Nurse gives in and tells her that Romeo is waiting at Friar Lawrence's cell to marry her. The Nurse departs to wait in the ally for Romeo's servant, who is to bring a ladder for Romeo to use to climb up to Juliet's chamber that night to consummate their marriage", "analysis": "Act 2, scenes 4-5 Throughout these scenes, Shakespeare emphasizes the thrilling joy of young, romantic love. Romeo and Juliet are electric with anticipation. In a wonderfully comic scene, Juliet can barely contain herself when the Nurse pretends to be too tired to give her the news. Romeo is equally excited, brashly and blasphemously proclaiming his love is the most powerful force in the world. Though the euphoria of love clearly dominates these scenes, some ominous foreshadowing is revealed. The Nurse's joking game in which she delays telling Juliet the news will find its sad mirror in a future scene, when the Nurse's anguish prevents her from relating news to Juliet and thereby causing terrible confusion. A more profound foreshadowing exists in the friar's observation, in reference to Romeo's powerful love, that \"these violent delights have violent ends\" . Every audience member knows that the play is a tragedy, and that Romeo and Juliet will die. The friar's words therefore are more than just a difference of opinion with Romeo; they reinforce the presence and power of fate. Friar Lawrence's devotion to moderation is interesting in that it offers an alternative to the way in which all the other characters in Romeo and Juliet live their lives. From Romeo to Tybalt, and Montague to Capulet, every character follows passion, forsakes moderation. The friar criticizes this way of acting and feeling, noting its destructiveness. Friar Lawrence is most certainly correct, but after expounding his belief, the friar gets himself embroiled in all of the excess and passion he counsels against. The passion of the young lovers might be destructive, but it is also exquisitely beautiful; if Romeo and Juliet were moderate in their affection, their love would not strike such a chord."}

Scene IV. A street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home to-night? Ben. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man. Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so that he will sure run mad. Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father's house. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Romeo will answer it. Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay. Ben. The what? Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes- these new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones! Enter Romeo. Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo! Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive? Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Rom. Meaning, to cursy. Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. Rom. A most courteous exposition. Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Rom. Pink for flower. Mer. Right. Rom. Why, then is my pump well-flower'd. Mer. Well said! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular. Rom. O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness! Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio! My wits faint. Rom. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I'll cry a match. Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? Rom. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not! Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Rom. And is it not, then, well serv'd in to a sweet goose? Mer. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad! Rom. I stretch it out for that word 'broad,' which, added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Ben. Stop there, stop there! Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceiv'd! I would have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. Rom. Here's goodly gear! Enter Nurse and her Man [Peter]. Mer. A sail, a sail! Ben. Two, two! a shirt and a smock. Nurse. Peter! Peter. Anon. Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face of the two. Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good-den? Mer. 'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Nurse. Out upon you! What a man are you! Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. Nurse. By my troth, it is well said. 'For himself to mar,' quoth 'a? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo? Rom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i' faith! wisely, wisely. Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. Ben. She will endite him to some supper. Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! Rom. What hast thou found? Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent He walks by them and sings. An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent; But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score When it hoars ere it be spent. Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither. Rom. I will follow you. Mer. Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell, [sings] lady, lady, lady. Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell! I Pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. Nurse. An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks; and if I cannot, I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and, as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out. What she bid me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee- Nurse. Good heart, and I faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman. Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me. Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Rom. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon; And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains. Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. Rom. Go to! I say you shall. Nurse. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there. Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall. Within this hour my man shall be with thee And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, Which to the high topgallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains. Farewell. Commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir. Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse? Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away? Rom. I warrant thee my man's as true as steel. Nurse. Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing- O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter? Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R. Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the- No; I know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady. Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.] Peter! Peter. Anon. Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace. Exeunt.

act 2, scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section9/

In the Capulet orchard, Juliet impatiently waits for her nurse, whom she sent to meet Romeo three hours earlier. At last the Nurse returns, and Juliet anxiously presses her for news. The Nurse claims to be too tired, sore, and out of breath to tell Juliet what has happened. Juliet grows frantic, and eventually the Nurse gives in and tells her that Romeo is waiting at Friar Lawrence's cell to marry her. The Nurse departs to wait in the ally for Romeo's servant, who is to bring a ladder for Romeo to use to climb up to Juliet's chamber that night to consummate their marriage

Act 2, scenes 4-5 Throughout these scenes, Shakespeare emphasizes the thrilling joy of young, romantic love. Romeo and Juliet are electric with anticipation. In a wonderfully comic scene, Juliet can barely contain herself when the Nurse pretends to be too tired to give her the news. Romeo is equally excited, brashly and blasphemously proclaiming his love is the most powerful force in the world. Though the euphoria of love clearly dominates these scenes, some ominous foreshadowing is revealed. The Nurse's joking game in which she delays telling Juliet the news will find its sad mirror in a future scene, when the Nurse's anguish prevents her from relating news to Juliet and thereby causing terrible confusion. A more profound foreshadowing exists in the friar's observation, in reference to Romeo's powerful love, that "these violent delights have violent ends" . Every audience member knows that the play is a tragedy, and that Romeo and Juliet will die. The friar's words therefore are more than just a difference of opinion with Romeo; they reinforce the presence and power of fate. Friar Lawrence's devotion to moderation is interesting in that it offers an alternative to the way in which all the other characters in Romeo and Juliet live their lives. From Romeo to Tybalt, and Montague to Capulet, every character follows passion, forsakes moderation. The friar criticizes this way of acting and feeling, noting its destructiveness. Friar Lawrence is most certainly correct, but after expounding his belief, the friar gets himself embroiled in all of the excess and passion he counsels against. The passion of the young lovers might be destructive, but it is also exquisitely beautiful; if Romeo and Juliet were moderate in their affection, their love would not strike such a chord.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_8_part_2.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 2.scene 5

act 2, scene 5

{"name": "act 2, scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section9/", "summary": "Romeo and Friar Lawrence wait for Juliet to arrive at the cell. An ecstatic Romeo brashly states that he does not care what misfortune might come, as it will pale in comparison to the joy he feels right now. Friar Lawrence counsels Romeo to love moderately and not with too much intensity, saying, \"these violent delights have violent ends\". Juliet enters and Romeo asks her to speak poetically of her love. Juliet responds that those who can so easily describe their \"worth\" are beggars, her love is far too great to be so easily described. The lovers exit with Friar Lawrence and are wed", "analysis": "Act 2, scenes 4-5 Throughout these scenes, Shakespeare emphasizes the thrilling joy of young, romantic love. Romeo and Juliet are electric with anticipation. In a wonderfully comic scene, Juliet can barely contain herself when the Nurse pretends to be too tired to give her the news. Romeo is equally excited, brashly and blasphemously proclaiming his love is the most powerful force in the world. Though the euphoria of love clearly dominates these scenes, some ominous foreshadowing is revealed. The Nurse's joking game in which she delays telling Juliet the news will find its sad mirror in a future scene, when the Nurse's anguish prevents her from relating news to Juliet and thereby causing terrible confusion. A more profound foreshadowing exists in the friar's observation, in reference to Romeo's powerful love, that \"these violent delights have violent ends\" . Every audience member knows that the play is a tragedy, and that Romeo and Juliet will die. The friar's words therefore are more than just a difference of opinion with Romeo; they reinforce the presence and power of fate. Friar Lawrence's devotion to moderation is interesting in that it offers an alternative to the way in which all the other characters in Romeo and Juliet live their lives. From Romeo to Tybalt, and Montague to Capulet, every character follows passion, forsakes moderation. The friar criticizes this way of acting and feeling, noting its destructiveness. Friar Lawrence is most certainly correct, but after expounding his belief, the friar gets himself embroiled in all of the excess and passion he counsels against. The passion of the young lovers might be destructive, but it is also exquisitely beautiful; if Romeo and Juliet were moderate in their affection, their love would not strike such a chord."}

Scene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she 'promis'd to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so. O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours; yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me, But old folks, many feign as they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Enter Nurse [and Peter]. O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter.] Jul. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had! Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath? Jul. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that. Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad? Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What, have you din'd at home? Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? What of that? Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down! Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where is your mother? Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within. Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest! 'Your love says, like an honest gentleman, "Where is your mother?"' Nurse. O God's Lady dear! Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? Jul. I have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell; There stays a husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks: They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burthen soon at night. Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. Exeunt.

act 2, scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section9/

Romeo and Friar Lawrence wait for Juliet to arrive at the cell. An ecstatic Romeo brashly states that he does not care what misfortune might come, as it will pale in comparison to the joy he feels right now. Friar Lawrence counsels Romeo to love moderately and not with too much intensity, saying, "these violent delights have violent ends". Juliet enters and Romeo asks her to speak poetically of her love. Juliet responds that those who can so easily describe their "worth" are beggars, her love is far too great to be so easily described. The lovers exit with Friar Lawrence and are wed

Act 2, scenes 4-5 Throughout these scenes, Shakespeare emphasizes the thrilling joy of young, romantic love. Romeo and Juliet are electric with anticipation. In a wonderfully comic scene, Juliet can barely contain herself when the Nurse pretends to be too tired to give her the news. Romeo is equally excited, brashly and blasphemously proclaiming his love is the most powerful force in the world. Though the euphoria of love clearly dominates these scenes, some ominous foreshadowing is revealed. The Nurse's joking game in which she delays telling Juliet the news will find its sad mirror in a future scene, when the Nurse's anguish prevents her from relating news to Juliet and thereby causing terrible confusion. A more profound foreshadowing exists in the friar's observation, in reference to Romeo's powerful love, that "these violent delights have violent ends" . Every audience member knows that the play is a tragedy, and that Romeo and Juliet will die. The friar's words therefore are more than just a difference of opinion with Romeo; they reinforce the presence and power of fate. Friar Lawrence's devotion to moderation is interesting in that it offers an alternative to the way in which all the other characters in Romeo and Juliet live their lives. From Romeo to Tybalt, and Montague to Capulet, every character follows passion, forsakes moderation. The friar criticizes this way of acting and feeling, noting its destructiveness. Friar Lawrence is most certainly correct, but after expounding his belief, the friar gets himself embroiled in all of the excess and passion he counsels against. The passion of the young lovers might be destructive, but it is also exquisitely beautiful; if Romeo and Juliet were moderate in their affection, their love would not strike such a chord.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_10_part_1.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 2

act 3, scene 2

{"name": "act 3, scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section11/", "summary": "In Capulet's house, Juliet longs for night to fall so that Romeo will come to her \"untalked of and unseen\". Suddenly the Nurse rushes in with news of the fight between Romeo and Tybalt. But the Nurse is so distraught, she stumbles over the words, making it sound as if Romeo is dead. Juliet assumes Romeo has killed himself, and she resigns to die herself. The Nurse then begins to moan about Tybalt's death, and Juliet briefly fears that both Romeo and Tybalt are dead. When the story is at last straight and Juliet understands that Romeo has killed Tybalt and been sentenced to exile, she curses nature that it should put \"the spirit of a fiend\" in Romeo's \"sweet flesh\". The Nurse echoes Juliet and curses Romeo's name, but Juliet denounces her for criticizing her husband, and adds that she regrets faulting him herself. Juliet claims that Romeo's banishment is worse than ten thousand slain Tybalts. She laments that she will die without a wedding night, a maiden-widow. The Nurse assures her, however, that she knows where Romeo is hiding, and will see to it that Romeo comes to her for their wedding night. Juliet gives the Nurse a ring to give to Romeo as a token of her love", "analysis": "Act 3, scenes 2-4 The love between Romeo and Juliet, blissful in Act 2, is tested under dire circumstances as the conflict between their families takes a turn more disastrous than either could have imagined. The respective manners in which the young lovers respond to their imminent separation helps define the essential qualities of their respective characters. After hearing that he is to be exiled, Romeo acts with customary drama: he is grief-stricken and overcome by his passion. He collapses on the floor. Romeo refuses to listen to reason and threatens to kill himself. Juliet, on the other hand, displays significant progress in her development from the simple, innocent girl of the first act to the brave, mature, and loyal woman of the play's conclusion. After criticizing Romeo for his role in Tybalt's death, and hearing the Nurse malign Romeo's name, Juliet regains control of herself and realizes that her loyalty must be to her husband rather than to Tybalt, her cousin. Shakespeare creates an interesting psychological tension in Romeo and Juliet by consistently linking the intensity of young love with a suicidal impulse. Though love is generally the opposite of hatred, violence, and death, Shakespeare portrays self-annihilation as seemingly the only response to the overwhelming emotional experience that being young and in love constitutes. Romeo and Juliet seem to flirt with the idea of death throughout much of the play, and the possibility of suicide recurs often, foreshadowing the eventual deaths of the lovers in Act 5. When Juliet misunderstands the Nurse and thinks that Romeo is dead, she does not think that he was killed, but that he killed himself. And thinking that Romeo is dead, Juliet quickly decides that she too must die. Her love for Romeo will allow no other course of action. Romeo's actual threat of suicide in Friar Lawrence's cell, in which he desires to \"sack / The hateful mansion\" that is his body so that he may eradicate his name, recalls the balcony scene, in which Romeo scorns his Montague name in front of Juliet by saying, \"Had I it written, I would tear the word\" . In the balcony scene, a name seemed to be a simple thing that he could hold up in front of him and tear. Once torn, he could easily live without it. Now, with a better understanding of how difficult it is to escape the responsibilities and claims of family loyalty, of being a Montague, Romeo modifies his metaphor. No longer does he conceive of himself as able to tear his name. Instead, now he must rip it from his body, and, in the process, die. Capulet's reasons for moving up the date of Juliet's marriage to Paris are not altogether clear. In later scenes, he states that he desires to bring some joy into a sad time, and to want to cure Juliet of her deep mourning . But it is also possible that in this escalating time of strife with the Montagues, Capulet wants all the political help he can get. A marriage between his daughter and Paris, a close kinsman to the Prince, would go a long way in this regard. Regardless of Capulet's motivation, his decision makes obvious the powerlessness of women in Verona. Juliet's impotence in this situation is driven home by the irony of Capulet's determination to push the wedding from Wednesday to Thursday when a few days earlier he wanted to postpone the wedding by two years."}

Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet alone. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it; and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, Enter Nurse, with cords. And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down.] Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! Jul. Can heaven be so envious? Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! Jul. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,' And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if there be such an 'I'; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.' If be be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.' Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, (God save the mark!) here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman That ever I should live to see thee dead! Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living, if those two are gone? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did! alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st- A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! Nurse. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murd'red me. I would forget it fain; But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds! 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banished.' That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there; Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished'- to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. 'Romeo is banished'- There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd. He made you for a highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse. I'll to my wedding bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell. Jul. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight And bid him come to take his last farewell. Exeunt.

act 3, scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section11/

In Capulet's house, Juliet longs for night to fall so that Romeo will come to her "untalked of and unseen". Suddenly the Nurse rushes in with news of the fight between Romeo and Tybalt. But the Nurse is so distraught, she stumbles over the words, making it sound as if Romeo is dead. Juliet assumes Romeo has killed himself, and she resigns to die herself. The Nurse then begins to moan about Tybalt's death, and Juliet briefly fears that both Romeo and Tybalt are dead. When the story is at last straight and Juliet understands that Romeo has killed Tybalt and been sentenced to exile, she curses nature that it should put "the spirit of a fiend" in Romeo's "sweet flesh". The Nurse echoes Juliet and curses Romeo's name, but Juliet denounces her for criticizing her husband, and adds that she regrets faulting him herself. Juliet claims that Romeo's banishment is worse than ten thousand slain Tybalts. She laments that she will die without a wedding night, a maiden-widow. The Nurse assures her, however, that she knows where Romeo is hiding, and will see to it that Romeo comes to her for their wedding night. Juliet gives the Nurse a ring to give to Romeo as a token of her love

Act 3, scenes 2-4 The love between Romeo and Juliet, blissful in Act 2, is tested under dire circumstances as the conflict between their families takes a turn more disastrous than either could have imagined. The respective manners in which the young lovers respond to their imminent separation helps define the essential qualities of their respective characters. After hearing that he is to be exiled, Romeo acts with customary drama: he is grief-stricken and overcome by his passion. He collapses on the floor. Romeo refuses to listen to reason and threatens to kill himself. Juliet, on the other hand, displays significant progress in her development from the simple, innocent girl of the first act to the brave, mature, and loyal woman of the play's conclusion. After criticizing Romeo for his role in Tybalt's death, and hearing the Nurse malign Romeo's name, Juliet regains control of herself and realizes that her loyalty must be to her husband rather than to Tybalt, her cousin. Shakespeare creates an interesting psychological tension in Romeo and Juliet by consistently linking the intensity of young love with a suicidal impulse. Though love is generally the opposite of hatred, violence, and death, Shakespeare portrays self-annihilation as seemingly the only response to the overwhelming emotional experience that being young and in love constitutes. Romeo and Juliet seem to flirt with the idea of death throughout much of the play, and the possibility of suicide recurs often, foreshadowing the eventual deaths of the lovers in Act 5. When Juliet misunderstands the Nurse and thinks that Romeo is dead, she does not think that he was killed, but that he killed himself. And thinking that Romeo is dead, Juliet quickly decides that she too must die. Her love for Romeo will allow no other course of action. Romeo's actual threat of suicide in Friar Lawrence's cell, in which he desires to "sack / The hateful mansion" that is his body so that he may eradicate his name, recalls the balcony scene, in which Romeo scorns his Montague name in front of Juliet by saying, "Had I it written, I would tear the word" . In the balcony scene, a name seemed to be a simple thing that he could hold up in front of him and tear. Once torn, he could easily live without it. Now, with a better understanding of how difficult it is to escape the responsibilities and claims of family loyalty, of being a Montague, Romeo modifies his metaphor. No longer does he conceive of himself as able to tear his name. Instead, now he must rip it from his body, and, in the process, die. Capulet's reasons for moving up the date of Juliet's marriage to Paris are not altogether clear. In later scenes, he states that he desires to bring some joy into a sad time, and to want to cure Juliet of her deep mourning . But it is also possible that in this escalating time of strife with the Montagues, Capulet wants all the political help he can get. A marriage between his daughter and Paris, a close kinsman to the Prince, would go a long way in this regard. Regardless of Capulet's motivation, his decision makes obvious the powerlessness of women in Verona. Juliet's impotence in this situation is driven home by the irony of Capulet's determination to push the wedding from Wednesday to Thursday when a few days earlier he wanted to postpone the wedding by two years.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_10_part_2.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 3

act 3, scene 3

{"name": "act 3, scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section11/", "summary": "In Friar Lawrence's cell, Romeo is overcome with grief, and wonders what sentence the Prince has decreed. Friar Lawrence tells him he is lucky: the Prince has only banished him. Romeo claims that banishment is a penalty far worse than death, since he will have to live, but without Juliet. The friar tries to counsel Romeo but the youth is so unhappy that he will have none of it. Romeo falls to the floor. The Nurse arrives, and Romeo desperately asks her for news of Juliet. He assumes that Juliet now thinks of him as a murderer and threatens to stab himself. Friar Lawrence stops him and scolds him for being unmanly. He explains that Romeo has much to be grateful for: he and Juliet are both alive, and after matters have calmed down, Prince Escalus might change his mind. The friar sets forth a plan: Romeo will visit Juliet that night, but make sure to leave her chamber, and Verona, before the morning. He will then reside in Mantua until news of their marriage can be spread. The Nurse hands Romeo the ring from Juliet, and this physical symbol of their love revives his spirits. The Nurse departs, and Romeo bids Friar Lawrence farewell. He must prepare to visit Juliet and then flee to Mantua", "analysis": "Act 3, scenes 2-4 The love between Romeo and Juliet, blissful in Act 2, is tested under dire circumstances as the conflict between their families takes a turn more disastrous than either could have imagined. The respective manners in which the young lovers respond to their imminent separation helps define the essential qualities of their respective characters. After hearing that he is to be exiled, Romeo acts with customary drama: he is grief-stricken and overcome by his passion. He collapses on the floor. Romeo refuses to listen to reason and threatens to kill himself. Juliet, on the other hand, displays significant progress in her development from the simple, innocent girl of the first act to the brave, mature, and loyal woman of the play's conclusion. After criticizing Romeo for his role in Tybalt's death, and hearing the Nurse malign Romeo's name, Juliet regains control of herself and realizes that her loyalty must be to her husband rather than to Tybalt, her cousin. Shakespeare creates an interesting psychological tension in Romeo and Juliet by consistently linking the intensity of young love with a suicidal impulse. Though love is generally the opposite of hatred, violence, and death, Shakespeare portrays self-annihilation as seemingly the only response to the overwhelming emotional experience that being young and in love constitutes. Romeo and Juliet seem to flirt with the idea of death throughout much of the play, and the possibility of suicide recurs often, foreshadowing the eventual deaths of the lovers in Act 5. When Juliet misunderstands the Nurse and thinks that Romeo is dead, she does not think that he was killed, but that he killed himself. And thinking that Romeo is dead, Juliet quickly decides that she too must die. Her love for Romeo will allow no other course of action. Romeo's actual threat of suicide in Friar Lawrence's cell, in which he desires to \"sack / The hateful mansion\" that is his body so that he may eradicate his name, recalls the balcony scene, in which Romeo scorns his Montague name in front of Juliet by saying, \"Had I it written, I would tear the word\" . In the balcony scene, a name seemed to be a simple thing that he could hold up in front of him and tear. Once torn, he could easily live without it. Now, with a better understanding of how difficult it is to escape the responsibilities and claims of family loyalty, of being a Montague, Romeo modifies his metaphor. No longer does he conceive of himself as able to tear his name. Instead, now he must rip it from his body, and, in the process, die. Capulet's reasons for moving up the date of Juliet's marriage to Paris are not altogether clear. In later scenes, he states that he desires to bring some joy into a sad time, and to want to cure Juliet of her deep mourning . But it is also possible that in this escalating time of strife with the Montagues, Capulet wants all the political help he can get. A marriage between his daughter and Paris, a close kinsman to the Prince, would go a long way in this regard. Regardless of Capulet's motivation, his decision makes obvious the powerlessness of women in Verona. Juliet's impotence in this situation is driven home by the irony of Capulet's determination to push the wedding from Wednesday to Thursday when a few days earlier he wanted to postpone the wedding by two years."}

Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence]. Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not? Friar. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.' Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock [within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; Knock. Run to my study.- By-and-by!- God's will, What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! Knock. Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Draws his dagger.] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exeunt.

act 3, scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section11/

In Friar Lawrence's cell, Romeo is overcome with grief, and wonders what sentence the Prince has decreed. Friar Lawrence tells him he is lucky: the Prince has only banished him. Romeo claims that banishment is a penalty far worse than death, since he will have to live, but without Juliet. The friar tries to counsel Romeo but the youth is so unhappy that he will have none of it. Romeo falls to the floor. The Nurse arrives, and Romeo desperately asks her for news of Juliet. He assumes that Juliet now thinks of him as a murderer and threatens to stab himself. Friar Lawrence stops him and scolds him for being unmanly. He explains that Romeo has much to be grateful for: he and Juliet are both alive, and after matters have calmed down, Prince Escalus might change his mind. The friar sets forth a plan: Romeo will visit Juliet that night, but make sure to leave her chamber, and Verona, before the morning. He will then reside in Mantua until news of their marriage can be spread. The Nurse hands Romeo the ring from Juliet, and this physical symbol of their love revives his spirits. The Nurse departs, and Romeo bids Friar Lawrence farewell. He must prepare to visit Juliet and then flee to Mantua

Act 3, scenes 2-4 The love between Romeo and Juliet, blissful in Act 2, is tested under dire circumstances as the conflict between their families takes a turn more disastrous than either could have imagined. The respective manners in which the young lovers respond to their imminent separation helps define the essential qualities of their respective characters. After hearing that he is to be exiled, Romeo acts with customary drama: he is grief-stricken and overcome by his passion. He collapses on the floor. Romeo refuses to listen to reason and threatens to kill himself. Juliet, on the other hand, displays significant progress in her development from the simple, innocent girl of the first act to the brave, mature, and loyal woman of the play's conclusion. After criticizing Romeo for his role in Tybalt's death, and hearing the Nurse malign Romeo's name, Juliet regains control of herself and realizes that her loyalty must be to her husband rather than to Tybalt, her cousin. Shakespeare creates an interesting psychological tension in Romeo and Juliet by consistently linking the intensity of young love with a suicidal impulse. Though love is generally the opposite of hatred, violence, and death, Shakespeare portrays self-annihilation as seemingly the only response to the overwhelming emotional experience that being young and in love constitutes. Romeo and Juliet seem to flirt with the idea of death throughout much of the play, and the possibility of suicide recurs often, foreshadowing the eventual deaths of the lovers in Act 5. When Juliet misunderstands the Nurse and thinks that Romeo is dead, she does not think that he was killed, but that he killed himself. And thinking that Romeo is dead, Juliet quickly decides that she too must die. Her love for Romeo will allow no other course of action. Romeo's actual threat of suicide in Friar Lawrence's cell, in which he desires to "sack / The hateful mansion" that is his body so that he may eradicate his name, recalls the balcony scene, in which Romeo scorns his Montague name in front of Juliet by saying, "Had I it written, I would tear the word" . In the balcony scene, a name seemed to be a simple thing that he could hold up in front of him and tear. Once torn, he could easily live without it. Now, with a better understanding of how difficult it is to escape the responsibilities and claims of family loyalty, of being a Montague, Romeo modifies his metaphor. No longer does he conceive of himself as able to tear his name. Instead, now he must rip it from his body, and, in the process, die. Capulet's reasons for moving up the date of Juliet's marriage to Paris are not altogether clear. In later scenes, he states that he desires to bring some joy into a sad time, and to want to cure Juliet of her deep mourning . But it is also possible that in this escalating time of strife with the Montagues, Capulet wants all the political help he can get. A marriage between his daughter and Paris, a close kinsman to the Prince, would go a long way in this regard. Regardless of Capulet's motivation, his decision makes obvious the powerlessness of women in Verona. Juliet's impotence in this situation is driven home by the irony of Capulet's determination to push the wedding from Wednesday to Thursday when a few days earlier he wanted to postpone the wedding by two years.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_10_part_3.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 3.scene 4

act 3, scene 4

{"name": "act 3, scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section11/", "summary": "Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris walk together. Capulet says that because of the terrible recent events, he has had no time to ask his daughter about her feelings for Paris. Lady Capulet states that she will know her daughter's thoughts by the morning. Paris is about to leave when Capulet calls him back and makes what he calls \"a desperate tender of my child's love\". Capulet says he thinks his daughter will listen to him, then corrects himself and states that he is sure Juliet will abide by his decision. He promises Paris that the wedding will be held on Wednesday, then stops suddenly and asks what day it is. Paris responds that it is Monday; Capulet decides that Wednesday is too soon, and that the wedding should instead be held on Thursday", "analysis": "Act 3, scenes 2-4 The love between Romeo and Juliet, blissful in Act 2, is tested under dire circumstances as the conflict between their families takes a turn more disastrous than either could have imagined. The respective manners in which the young lovers respond to their imminent separation helps define the essential qualities of their respective characters. After hearing that he is to be exiled, Romeo acts with customary drama: he is grief-stricken and overcome by his passion. He collapses on the floor. Romeo refuses to listen to reason and threatens to kill himself. Juliet, on the other hand, displays significant progress in her development from the simple, innocent girl of the first act to the brave, mature, and loyal woman of the play's conclusion. After criticizing Romeo for his role in Tybalt's death, and hearing the Nurse malign Romeo's name, Juliet regains control of herself and realizes that her loyalty must be to her husband rather than to Tybalt, her cousin. Shakespeare creates an interesting psychological tension in Romeo and Juliet by consistently linking the intensity of young love with a suicidal impulse. Though love is generally the opposite of hatred, violence, and death, Shakespeare portrays self-annihilation as seemingly the only response to the overwhelming emotional experience that being young and in love constitutes. Romeo and Juliet seem to flirt with the idea of death throughout much of the play, and the possibility of suicide recurs often, foreshadowing the eventual deaths of the lovers in Act 5. When Juliet misunderstands the Nurse and thinks that Romeo is dead, she does not think that he was killed, but that he killed himself. And thinking that Romeo is dead, Juliet quickly decides that she too must die. Her love for Romeo will allow no other course of action. Romeo's actual threat of suicide in Friar Lawrence's cell, in which he desires to \"sack / The hateful mansion\" that is his body so that he may eradicate his name, recalls the balcony scene, in which Romeo scorns his Montague name in front of Juliet by saying, \"Had I it written, I would tear the word\" . In the balcony scene, a name seemed to be a simple thing that he could hold up in front of him and tear. Once torn, he could easily live without it. Now, with a better understanding of how difficult it is to escape the responsibilities and claims of family loyalty, of being a Montague, Romeo modifies his metaphor. No longer does he conceive of himself as able to tear his name. Instead, now he must rip it from his body, and, in the process, die. Capulet's reasons for moving up the date of Juliet's marriage to Paris are not altogether clear. In later scenes, he states that he desires to bring some joy into a sad time, and to want to cure Juliet of her deep mourning . But it is also possible that in this escalating time of strife with the Montagues, Capulet wants all the political help he can get. A marriage between his daughter and Paris, a close kinsman to the Prince, would go a long way in this regard. Regardless of Capulet's motivation, his decision makes obvious the powerlessness of women in Verona. Juliet's impotence in this situation is driven home by the irony of Capulet's determination to push the wedding from Wednesday to Thursday when a few days earlier he wanted to postpone the wedding by two years."}

Scene IV. Capulet's house Enter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris. Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her (mark you me?) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this? Par. Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it early by-and-by. Good night. Exeunt

act 3, scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section11/

Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris walk together. Capulet says that because of the terrible recent events, he has had no time to ask his daughter about her feelings for Paris. Lady Capulet states that she will know her daughter's thoughts by the morning. Paris is about to leave when Capulet calls him back and makes what he calls "a desperate tender of my child's love". Capulet says he thinks his daughter will listen to him, then corrects himself and states that he is sure Juliet will abide by his decision. He promises Paris that the wedding will be held on Wednesday, then stops suddenly and asks what day it is. Paris responds that it is Monday; Capulet decides that Wednesday is too soon, and that the wedding should instead be held on Thursday

Act 3, scenes 2-4 The love between Romeo and Juliet, blissful in Act 2, is tested under dire circumstances as the conflict between their families takes a turn more disastrous than either could have imagined. The respective manners in which the young lovers respond to their imminent separation helps define the essential qualities of their respective characters. After hearing that he is to be exiled, Romeo acts with customary drama: he is grief-stricken and overcome by his passion. He collapses on the floor. Romeo refuses to listen to reason and threatens to kill himself. Juliet, on the other hand, displays significant progress in her development from the simple, innocent girl of the first act to the brave, mature, and loyal woman of the play's conclusion. After criticizing Romeo for his role in Tybalt's death, and hearing the Nurse malign Romeo's name, Juliet regains control of herself and realizes that her loyalty must be to her husband rather than to Tybalt, her cousin. Shakespeare creates an interesting psychological tension in Romeo and Juliet by consistently linking the intensity of young love with a suicidal impulse. Though love is generally the opposite of hatred, violence, and death, Shakespeare portrays self-annihilation as seemingly the only response to the overwhelming emotional experience that being young and in love constitutes. Romeo and Juliet seem to flirt with the idea of death throughout much of the play, and the possibility of suicide recurs often, foreshadowing the eventual deaths of the lovers in Act 5. When Juliet misunderstands the Nurse and thinks that Romeo is dead, she does not think that he was killed, but that he killed himself. And thinking that Romeo is dead, Juliet quickly decides that she too must die. Her love for Romeo will allow no other course of action. Romeo's actual threat of suicide in Friar Lawrence's cell, in which he desires to "sack / The hateful mansion" that is his body so that he may eradicate his name, recalls the balcony scene, in which Romeo scorns his Montague name in front of Juliet by saying, "Had I it written, I would tear the word" . In the balcony scene, a name seemed to be a simple thing that he could hold up in front of him and tear. Once torn, he could easily live without it. Now, with a better understanding of how difficult it is to escape the responsibilities and claims of family loyalty, of being a Montague, Romeo modifies his metaphor. No longer does he conceive of himself as able to tear his name. Instead, now he must rip it from his body, and, in the process, die. Capulet's reasons for moving up the date of Juliet's marriage to Paris are not altogether clear. In later scenes, he states that he desires to bring some joy into a sad time, and to want to cure Juliet of her deep mourning . But it is also possible that in this escalating time of strife with the Montagues, Capulet wants all the political help he can get. A marriage between his daughter and Paris, a close kinsman to the Prince, would go a long way in this regard. Regardless of Capulet's motivation, his decision makes obvious the powerlessness of women in Verona. Juliet's impotence in this situation is driven home by the irony of Capulet's determination to push the wedding from Wednesday to Thursday when a few days earlier he wanted to postpone the wedding by two years.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_12_part_1.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "act 4, scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section13/", "summary": "In his cell, Friar Lawrence speaks with Paris about the latter's impending marriage to Juliet. Paris says that Juliet's grief about Tybalt's death has made her unbalanced, and that Capulet, in his wisdom, has determined they should marry soon so that Juliet can stop crying and put an end to her period of mourning. The friar remarks to himself that he wishes he were unaware of the reason that Paris's marriage to Juliet should be delayed. Juliet enters, and Paris speaks to her lovingly, if somewhat arrogantly. Juliet responds indifferently, showing neither affection nor dislike. She remarks that she has not married him yet. On the pretense that he must hear Juliet's confession, Friar Lawrence ushers Paris away, though not before Paris kisses Juliet once. After Paris leaves, Juliet asks Friar Lawrence for help, brandishing a knife and saying that she will kill herself rather than marry Paris. The friar proposes a plan: Juliet must consent to marry Paris; then, on the night before the wedding, she must drink a sleeping potion that will make her appear to be dead; she will be laid to rest in the Capulet tomb, and the friar will send word to Romeo in Mantua to help him retrieve her when she wakes up. She will then return to Mantua with Romeo, and be free to live with him away from their parents' hatred. Juliet consents to the plan wholeheartedly. Friar Lawrence gives her the sleeping potion", "analysis": "Act 4, scenes 1-2 Friar Lawrence is the wiliest and most scheming character in Romeo and Juliet: he secretly marries the two lovers, spirits Romeo to Mantua, and stages Juliet's death. The friar's machinations seem also to be tools of fate. Yet despite the role Friar Lawrence plays in bringing about the lovers' deaths, Shakespeare never presents him in a negative, or even ambiguous, light. He is always treated as a benign, wise presence. The tragic failure of his plans is treated as a disastrous accident for which Friar Lawrence bears no responsibility. In contrast, it is a challenge to situate Paris along the play's moral continuum. He is not exactly an adversary to Romeo and Juliet, since he never acts consciously to harm them or go against their wishes. Like almost everyone else, he knows nothing of their relationship. Paris's feelings for Juliet are also a subject of some ambiguity, since the audience is never allowed access to his thoughts. Later textual evidence does indicate that Paris harbors a legitimate love for Juliet, and though he arrogantly assumes Juliet will want to marry him, Paris never treats her unkindly. Nevertheless, because she does not love him, he represents a real and frightening potentiality for Juliet."}

ACT IV. Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris. Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. You say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.- Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be. Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That cop'st with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, Or shut me nightly in a charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud- Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt.

act 4, scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section13/

In his cell, Friar Lawrence speaks with Paris about the latter's impending marriage to Juliet. Paris says that Juliet's grief about Tybalt's death has made her unbalanced, and that Capulet, in his wisdom, has determined they should marry soon so that Juliet can stop crying and put an end to her period of mourning. The friar remarks to himself that he wishes he were unaware of the reason that Paris's marriage to Juliet should be delayed. Juliet enters, and Paris speaks to her lovingly, if somewhat arrogantly. Juliet responds indifferently, showing neither affection nor dislike. She remarks that she has not married him yet. On the pretense that he must hear Juliet's confession, Friar Lawrence ushers Paris away, though not before Paris kisses Juliet once. After Paris leaves, Juliet asks Friar Lawrence for help, brandishing a knife and saying that she will kill herself rather than marry Paris. The friar proposes a plan: Juliet must consent to marry Paris; then, on the night before the wedding, she must drink a sleeping potion that will make her appear to be dead; she will be laid to rest in the Capulet tomb, and the friar will send word to Romeo in Mantua to help him retrieve her when she wakes up. She will then return to Mantua with Romeo, and be free to live with him away from their parents' hatred. Juliet consents to the plan wholeheartedly. Friar Lawrence gives her the sleeping potion

Act 4, scenes 1-2 Friar Lawrence is the wiliest and most scheming character in Romeo and Juliet: he secretly marries the two lovers, spirits Romeo to Mantua, and stages Juliet's death. The friar's machinations seem also to be tools of fate. Yet despite the role Friar Lawrence plays in bringing about the lovers' deaths, Shakespeare never presents him in a negative, or even ambiguous, light. He is always treated as a benign, wise presence. The tragic failure of his plans is treated as a disastrous accident for which Friar Lawrence bears no responsibility. In contrast, it is a challenge to situate Paris along the play's moral continuum. He is not exactly an adversary to Romeo and Juliet, since he never acts consciously to harm them or go against their wishes. Like almost everyone else, he knows nothing of their relationship. Paris's feelings for Juliet are also a subject of some ambiguity, since the audience is never allowed access to his thoughts. Later textual evidence does indicate that Paris harbors a legitimate love for Juliet, and though he arrogantly assumes Juliet will want to marry him, Paris never treats her unkindly. Nevertheless, because she does not love him, he represents a real and frightening potentiality for Juliet.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_12_part_2.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scene 2

act 4, scene 2

{"name": "act 4, scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section13/", "summary": "Juliet returns home, where she finds Capulet and Lady Capulet preparing for the wedding. She surprises her parents by repenting her disobedience and cheerfully agreeing to marry Paris. Capulet is so pleased that he insists on moving the marriage up a day, to Wednesday--tomorrow. Juliet heads to her chambers to, ostensibly, prepare for her wedding. Capulet heads off to tell Paris the news", "analysis": "Act 4, scenes 1-2 Friar Lawrence is the wiliest and most scheming character in Romeo and Juliet: he secretly marries the two lovers, spirits Romeo to Mantua, and stages Juliet's death. The friar's machinations seem also to be tools of fate. Yet despite the role Friar Lawrence plays in bringing about the lovers' deaths, Shakespeare never presents him in a negative, or even ambiguous, light. He is always treated as a benign, wise presence. The tragic failure of his plans is treated as a disastrous accident for which Friar Lawrence bears no responsibility. In contrast, it is a challenge to situate Paris along the play's moral continuum. He is not exactly an adversary to Romeo and Juliet, since he never acts consciously to harm them or go against their wishes. Like almost everyone else, he knows nothing of their relationship. Paris's feelings for Juliet are also a subject of some ambiguity, since the audience is never allowed access to his thoughts. Later textual evidence does indicate that Paris harbors a legitimate love for Juliet, and though he arrogantly assumes Juliet will want to marry him, Paris never treats her unkindly. Nevertheless, because she does not love him, he represents a real and frightening potentiality for Juliet."}

Scene II. Capulet's house. Enter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen, two or three. Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. [Exit a Servingman.] Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so? Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Cap. Go, begone. Exit Servingman. We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding? Jul. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this. I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is as't should be. Let me see the County. Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Mother. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow. Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. Mother. We shall be short in our provision. 'Tis now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho! They are all forth; well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. Exeunt.

act 4, scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section13/

Juliet returns home, where she finds Capulet and Lady Capulet preparing for the wedding. She surprises her parents by repenting her disobedience and cheerfully agreeing to marry Paris. Capulet is so pleased that he insists on moving the marriage up a day, to Wednesday--tomorrow. Juliet heads to her chambers to, ostensibly, prepare for her wedding. Capulet heads off to tell Paris the news

Act 4, scenes 1-2 Friar Lawrence is the wiliest and most scheming character in Romeo and Juliet: he secretly marries the two lovers, spirits Romeo to Mantua, and stages Juliet's death. The friar's machinations seem also to be tools of fate. Yet despite the role Friar Lawrence plays in bringing about the lovers' deaths, Shakespeare never presents him in a negative, or even ambiguous, light. He is always treated as a benign, wise presence. The tragic failure of his plans is treated as a disastrous accident for which Friar Lawrence bears no responsibility. In contrast, it is a challenge to situate Paris along the play's moral continuum. He is not exactly an adversary to Romeo and Juliet, since he never acts consciously to harm them or go against their wishes. Like almost everyone else, he knows nothing of their relationship. Paris's feelings for Juliet are also a subject of some ambiguity, since the audience is never allowed access to his thoughts. Later textual evidence does indicate that Paris harbors a legitimate love for Juliet, and though he arrogantly assumes Juliet will want to marry him, Paris never treats her unkindly. Nevertheless, because she does not love him, he represents a real and frightening potentiality for Juliet.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/act_4_chapters_3_to_5.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_13_part_0.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 4.scenes 3-5

act 4, scenes 3-5

{"name": "Act 4, scenes 3-5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section14/", "summary": "In her bedchamber, Juliet asks the Nurse to let her spend the night by herself, and repeats the request to Lady Capulet when she arrives. Alone, clutching the vial given to her by Friar Lawrence, she wonders what will happen when she drinks it. If the friar is untrustworthy and seeks merely to hide his role in her marriage to Romeo, she might die; or, if Romeo is late for some reason, she might awaken in the tomb and go mad with fear. She has a vision in which she sees Tybalt's ghost searching for Romeo. She begs Tybalt's ghost to quit its search for Romeo, and toasting to Romeo, drinks the contents of the vial. Act 4, scenes 4-5 Early the next morning, the Capulet house is aflutter with preparations for the wedding. Capulet sends the Nurse to go wake Juliet. She finds Juliet dead and begins to wail, soon joined by both Lady Capulet and Capulet. Paris arrives with Friar Lawrence and a group of musicians for the wedding. When he learns what has happened, Paris joins in the lamentations. The friar reminds them all that Juliet has gone to a better place, and urges them to make ready for her funeral. Sorrowfully, they comply, and exit. Left behind, the musicians begin to pack up, their task cut short. Peter, the Capulet servant, enters and asks the musicians to play a happy tune to ease his sorrowful heart. The musicians refuse, arguing that to play such music would be inappropriate. Angered, Peter insults the musicians, who respond in kind. After singing a final insult at the musicians, Peter leaves. The musicians decide to wait for the mourners to return so that they might get to eat the lunch that will be served. 5 -", "analysis": "Once again Juliet demonstrates her strength. She comes up with reason after reason why drinking the sleeping potion might cause her harm, physical or psychological, but chooses to drink it anyway. In this action she not only attempts to circumvent the forces that obstruct her relationship with Romeo, she takes full responsibility for herself. She recognizes that drinking the potion might lead her to madness or to death. Drinking the potion therefore constitutes an action in which she takes her life into her own hands, and determines its worth to her. In addition to the obvious foreshadow in Juliet's vision of Tybalt's vengeful ghost, her drinking of the potion also hints at future events. She drinks the potion just as Romeo will later drink the apothecary's poison. In drinking the potion she not only demonstrates a willingness to take her life into her own hands, she goes against what is expected of women and takes action. In their mourning for Juliet, the Capulets appear less as a hostile force arrayed against the lovers and more as individuals. The audience gains an understanding of the immense hopes that the Capulets had placed in Juliet, as well as a sense of their love for her. Similarly, Paris's love for Juliet seems wholly legitimate. His wailing cannot simply be taken as grief over the loss of a wife who might have brought him fortune. It seems more personal than that, more like grief over the loss of a loved one. Many productions of Romeo and Juliet cut the scene depicting Peter and the musicians. Productions do this for good reason: the scene's humor and traded insults seem ill placed at such a tragic moment in the play. If one looks at the scene as merely comic relief, it is possible to argue that it acts as a sort of caesura, a moment for the audience to catch its breath from the tragedy of Act 4 before heading into the even greater tragedy of Act 5. If one looks at the scene in context with the earlier scenes that include servants a second argument can be made for why Shakespeare included it. From each scene including servants, we gain a unique perspective of the events going on in the play. Here, in the figure of the musicians, we get a profoundly different view of the reaction of the lower classes to the tragedy of Juliet's death. Initially the musicians are wary about playing a happy song because it will be considered improper, no matter their explanations. It is not, after all, for a mere musician to give explanations to mourning noblemen. As the scene progresses it becomes clear that the musicians do not really care much about Juliet or the tragedy in which she is involved. They care more about the fact that they are out of a job, and perhaps, that they will miss out on a free lunch. In other words, this great tragedy, which is, undoubtedly, a tragedy of epic proportions, is still not a tragedy to everyone."}

Scene III. Juliet's chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. Enter Mother. Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behooffull for our state to-morrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.] Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!- What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lays down a dagger. What if it be a poison which the friar Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place- As in a vault, an ancient receptacle Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud., And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains. Scene IV. Capulet's house. Enter Lady of the House and Nurse. Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Old Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd, The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica; Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed! Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. Exeunt Lady and Nurse. Cap. A jealous hood, a jealous hood! Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. What is there? Now, fellow, Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter; he will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. Play music. I hear him near. Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already: Make haste, I say. [Exeunt.] Scene V. Juliet's chamber. [Enter Nurse.] Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb! why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now! Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry, and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed! He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be? [Draws aside the curtains.] What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead! O weraday that ever I was born! Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady! Enter Mother. Mother. What noise is here? Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. What is the matter? Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life! Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help. Enter Father. Father. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd; she's dead! Alack the day! Mother. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. O woful time! Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians. Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight! Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day That ever ever I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woful day! O woful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd, By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now To murther, murther our solemnity? O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried! Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that lives married long, But she's best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, In all her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Nurse]. 1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up! For well you know this is a pitiful case. [Exit.] 1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.' 1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'', Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me. 1. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then? 1. Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1. Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. 1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 2. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound'- Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What say you, Simon Catling? 1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck? 2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? 3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer. I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no gold for sounding. 'Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit. 1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exeunt.

Act 4, scenes 3-5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section14/

In her bedchamber, Juliet asks the Nurse to let her spend the night by herself, and repeats the request to Lady Capulet when she arrives. Alone, clutching the vial given to her by Friar Lawrence, she wonders what will happen when she drinks it. If the friar is untrustworthy and seeks merely to hide his role in her marriage to Romeo, she might die; or, if Romeo is late for some reason, she might awaken in the tomb and go mad with fear. She has a vision in which she sees Tybalt's ghost searching for Romeo. She begs Tybalt's ghost to quit its search for Romeo, and toasting to Romeo, drinks the contents of the vial. Act 4, scenes 4-5 Early the next morning, the Capulet house is aflutter with preparations for the wedding. Capulet sends the Nurse to go wake Juliet. She finds Juliet dead and begins to wail, soon joined by both Lady Capulet and Capulet. Paris arrives with Friar Lawrence and a group of musicians for the wedding. When he learns what has happened, Paris joins in the lamentations. The friar reminds them all that Juliet has gone to a better place, and urges them to make ready for her funeral. Sorrowfully, they comply, and exit. Left behind, the musicians begin to pack up, their task cut short. Peter, the Capulet servant, enters and asks the musicians to play a happy tune to ease his sorrowful heart. The musicians refuse, arguing that to play such music would be inappropriate. Angered, Peter insults the musicians, who respond in kind. After singing a final insult at the musicians, Peter leaves. The musicians decide to wait for the mourners to return so that they might get to eat the lunch that will be served. 5 -

Once again Juliet demonstrates her strength. She comes up with reason after reason why drinking the sleeping potion might cause her harm, physical or psychological, but chooses to drink it anyway. In this action she not only attempts to circumvent the forces that obstruct her relationship with Romeo, she takes full responsibility for herself. She recognizes that drinking the potion might lead her to madness or to death. Drinking the potion therefore constitutes an action in which she takes her life into her own hands, and determines its worth to her. In addition to the obvious foreshadow in Juliet's vision of Tybalt's vengeful ghost, her drinking of the potion also hints at future events. She drinks the potion just as Romeo will later drink the apothecary's poison. In drinking the potion she not only demonstrates a willingness to take her life into her own hands, she goes against what is expected of women and takes action. In their mourning for Juliet, the Capulets appear less as a hostile force arrayed against the lovers and more as individuals. The audience gains an understanding of the immense hopes that the Capulets had placed in Juliet, as well as a sense of their love for her. Similarly, Paris's love for Juliet seems wholly legitimate. His wailing cannot simply be taken as grief over the loss of a wife who might have brought him fortune. It seems more personal than that, more like grief over the loss of a loved one. Many productions of Romeo and Juliet cut the scene depicting Peter and the musicians. Productions do this for good reason: the scene's humor and traded insults seem ill placed at such a tragic moment in the play. If one looks at the scene as merely comic relief, it is possible to argue that it acts as a sort of caesura, a moment for the audience to catch its breath from the tragedy of Act 4 before heading into the even greater tragedy of Act 5. If one looks at the scene in context with the earlier scenes that include servants a second argument can be made for why Shakespeare included it. From each scene including servants, we gain a unique perspective of the events going on in the play. Here, in the figure of the musicians, we get a profoundly different view of the reaction of the lower classes to the tragedy of Juliet's death. Initially the musicians are wary about playing a happy song because it will be considered improper, no matter their explanations. It is not, after all, for a mere musician to give explanations to mourning noblemen. As the scene progresses it becomes clear that the musicians do not really care much about Juliet or the tragedy in which she is involved. They care more about the fact that they are out of a job, and perhaps, that they will miss out on a free lunch. In other words, this great tragedy, which is, undoubtedly, a tragedy of epic proportions, is still not a tragedy to everyone.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_14_part_1.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "act 5, scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section15/", "summary": "Then I defy you, stars. On Wednesday morning, on a street in Mantua, a cheerful Romeo describes a wonderful dream he had the night before: Juliet found him lying dead, but she kissed him, and breathed new life into his body. Just then, Balthasar enters, and Romeo greets him happily, saying that Balthasar must have come from Verona with news of Juliet and his father. Romeo comments that nothing can be ill in the world if Juliet is well. Balthasar replies that nothing can be ill, then, for Juliet is well: she is in heaven, found dead that morning at her home. Thunderstruck, Romeo cries out \"Then I defy you, stars\". He tells Balthasar to get him pen and paper and to hire horses, and says that he will return to Verona that night. Balthasar says that Romeo seems so distraught that he is afraid to leave him, but Romeo insists. Romeo suddenly stops and asks if Balthasar is carrying a letter from Friar Lawrence. Balthasar says he is not, and Romeo sends his servant on his way. Once Balthasar is gone, Romeo says that he will lie with Juliet that night. He goes to find an apothecary, a seller of drugs. After telling the man in the shop that he looks poor, Romeo offers to pay him well for a vial of poison. The Apothecary says that he has just such a thing, but that selling poison in Mantua carries the death sentence. Romeo replies that the Apothecary is too poor to refuse the sale. The Apothecary finally relents and sells Romeo the poison. Once alone, Romeo speaks to the vial, declaring that he will go to Juliet's tomb and kill himself", "analysis": "Act 5, scenes 1-2 The sequence of near misses in this section reveals the inescapable work of fate. There is no reason for the friar's plan to go wrong. But an outbreak of plague forces Friar John into quarantine and prevents him from delivering Friar Lawrence's letter to Romeo, while Balthasar seeks out Romeo with news of Juliet's death. Just as the audience senses an inviolable fate descending on Romeo, so too does Romeo feel himself trapped by fate. But the fate the audience recognizes and the fate Romeo sees as surrounding him are very different. The audience knows that both Romeo and Juliet are bound to die; Romeo knows only that fate has somehow tried to separate him from Juliet. When Romeo screams \"Then I defy you, stars\" he is screaming against the fate that he believes is thwarting his desires . He attempts to defy that fate by killing himself and spending eternity with Juliet: \"Well, Juliet,\" he says, \"I will lie with thee tonight\" . Tragically, it is Romeo's very decision to avoid his destiny that actually brings fate about. In killing himself over the sleeping Juliet he ensures their ultimate double suicide. Through the irony of Romeo's defiance rebounding upon himself, Shakespeare demonstrates the extreme power of fate: nothing can stand in its way. All factors swing in its favor: the outbreak of the plague, Balthasar's transmission of the message of Juliet's death, and Capulet's decision to move Juliet's wedding date. But fate is also something attached to the social institutions of the world in which Romeo and Juliet live. This destiny, brought about by the interplay of societal norms from which Romeo and Juliet cannot escape, seems equally powerful, though less divine. It is a fate created by man, and man's inability to see through the absurdity of the world he has created. Now, in this scene, we see Romeo as agent of his own fate. The fortune that befalls Romeo and Juliet is internal rather than external. It is determined by the natures and choices of its two protagonists. Were Romeo not so rash and emotional, so quick to fall into melancholy, the double suicide would not have occurred. Had Juliet felt it possible to explain the truth to her parents, the double suicide might not have occurred. But to wish someone were not as they were is to wish for the impossible. The love between Romeo and Juliet exists precisely because they are who they are. The destructive, suicidal nature of their love is just as much an aspect of their natures, as individuals and couple. In the character of the Apothecary, once again, Shakespeare provides a secondary example of the paradoxical and pressing social forces at work in the play. The Apothecary does not wish to sell poison because it is illegal, banned by society. But it is the same society that makes him poor, and which insists on validity of the differences between rich and poor. The Apothecary is pushed to sell the poison by external forces that he, like Romeo, feels completely unable to control."}

ACT V. Scene I. Mantua. A street. Enter Romeo. Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips That I reviv'd and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted. News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again, For nothing can be ill if she be well. Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault And presently took post to tell it you. O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night. Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild and do import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd. Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man. No, my good lord. Rom. No matter. Get thee gone And hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight. Exit [Balthasar]. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, 'An if a man did need a poison now Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.' O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary! Enter Apothecary. Apoth. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker mall fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty and not thy will. Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off, and if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murther in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. Exeunt.

act 5, scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section15/

Then I defy you, stars. On Wednesday morning, on a street in Mantua, a cheerful Romeo describes a wonderful dream he had the night before: Juliet found him lying dead, but she kissed him, and breathed new life into his body. Just then, Balthasar enters, and Romeo greets him happily, saying that Balthasar must have come from Verona with news of Juliet and his father. Romeo comments that nothing can be ill in the world if Juliet is well. Balthasar replies that nothing can be ill, then, for Juliet is well: she is in heaven, found dead that morning at her home. Thunderstruck, Romeo cries out "Then I defy you, stars". He tells Balthasar to get him pen and paper and to hire horses, and says that he will return to Verona that night. Balthasar says that Romeo seems so distraught that he is afraid to leave him, but Romeo insists. Romeo suddenly stops and asks if Balthasar is carrying a letter from Friar Lawrence. Balthasar says he is not, and Romeo sends his servant on his way. Once Balthasar is gone, Romeo says that he will lie with Juliet that night. He goes to find an apothecary, a seller of drugs. After telling the man in the shop that he looks poor, Romeo offers to pay him well for a vial of poison. The Apothecary says that he has just such a thing, but that selling poison in Mantua carries the death sentence. Romeo replies that the Apothecary is too poor to refuse the sale. The Apothecary finally relents and sells Romeo the poison. Once alone, Romeo speaks to the vial, declaring that he will go to Juliet's tomb and kill himself

Act 5, scenes 1-2 The sequence of near misses in this section reveals the inescapable work of fate. There is no reason for the friar's plan to go wrong. But an outbreak of plague forces Friar John into quarantine and prevents him from delivering Friar Lawrence's letter to Romeo, while Balthasar seeks out Romeo with news of Juliet's death. Just as the audience senses an inviolable fate descending on Romeo, so too does Romeo feel himself trapped by fate. But the fate the audience recognizes and the fate Romeo sees as surrounding him are very different. The audience knows that both Romeo and Juliet are bound to die; Romeo knows only that fate has somehow tried to separate him from Juliet. When Romeo screams "Then I defy you, stars" he is screaming against the fate that he believes is thwarting his desires . He attempts to defy that fate by killing himself and spending eternity with Juliet: "Well, Juliet," he says, "I will lie with thee tonight" . Tragically, it is Romeo's very decision to avoid his destiny that actually brings fate about. In killing himself over the sleeping Juliet he ensures their ultimate double suicide. Through the irony of Romeo's defiance rebounding upon himself, Shakespeare demonstrates the extreme power of fate: nothing can stand in its way. All factors swing in its favor: the outbreak of the plague, Balthasar's transmission of the message of Juliet's death, and Capulet's decision to move Juliet's wedding date. But fate is also something attached to the social institutions of the world in which Romeo and Juliet live. This destiny, brought about by the interplay of societal norms from which Romeo and Juliet cannot escape, seems equally powerful, though less divine. It is a fate created by man, and man's inability to see through the absurdity of the world he has created. Now, in this scene, we see Romeo as agent of his own fate. The fortune that befalls Romeo and Juliet is internal rather than external. It is determined by the natures and choices of its two protagonists. Were Romeo not so rash and emotional, so quick to fall into melancholy, the double suicide would not have occurred. Had Juliet felt it possible to explain the truth to her parents, the double suicide might not have occurred. But to wish someone were not as they were is to wish for the impossible. The love between Romeo and Juliet exists precisely because they are who they are. The destructive, suicidal nature of their love is just as much an aspect of their natures, as individuals and couple. In the character of the Apothecary, once again, Shakespeare provides a secondary example of the paradoxical and pressing social forces at work in the play. The Apothecary does not wish to sell poison because it is illegal, banned by society. But it is the same society that makes him poor, and which insists on validity of the differences between rich and poor. The Apothecary is pushed to sell the poison by external forces that he, like Romeo, feels completely unable to control.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1112-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Romeo and Juliet/section_14_part_2.txt

Romeo and Juliet.act 5.scene 2

act 5, scene 2

{"name": "act 5, scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section15/", "summary": "At his cell, Friar Lawrence speaks with Friar John, whom he had earlier sent to Mantua with a letter for Romeo. He asks John how Romeo responded to his letter. Friar John replies that he was unable to deliver the letter because he was shut up in a quarantined house due to an outbreak of plague. Friar Lawrence becomes upset, realizing that if Romeo does not know about Juliet's false death, there will be no one to retrieve her from the tomb when she awakes. Sending for a crowbar, Friar Lawrence declares that he will have to rescue Juliet from the tomb on his own. He sends another letter to Romeo to warn him about what has happened, and plans to keep Juliet in his cell until Romeo arrives", "analysis": "Act 5, scenes 1-2 The sequence of near misses in this section reveals the inescapable work of fate. There is no reason for the friar's plan to go wrong. But an outbreak of plague forces Friar John into quarantine and prevents him from delivering Friar Lawrence's letter to Romeo, while Balthasar seeks out Romeo with news of Juliet's death. Just as the audience senses an inviolable fate descending on Romeo, so too does Romeo feel himself trapped by fate. But the fate the audience recognizes and the fate Romeo sees as surrounding him are very different. The audience knows that both Romeo and Juliet are bound to die; Romeo knows only that fate has somehow tried to separate him from Juliet. When Romeo screams \"Then I defy you, stars\" he is screaming against the fate that he believes is thwarting his desires . He attempts to defy that fate by killing himself and spending eternity with Juliet: \"Well, Juliet,\" he says, \"I will lie with thee tonight\" . Tragically, it is Romeo's very decision to avoid his destiny that actually brings fate about. In killing himself over the sleeping Juliet he ensures their ultimate double suicide. Through the irony of Romeo's defiance rebounding upon himself, Shakespeare demonstrates the extreme power of fate: nothing can stand in its way. All factors swing in its favor: the outbreak of the plague, Balthasar's transmission of the message of Juliet's death, and Capulet's decision to move Juliet's wedding date. But fate is also something attached to the social institutions of the world in which Romeo and Juliet live. This destiny, brought about by the interplay of societal norms from which Romeo and Juliet cannot escape, seems equally powerful, though less divine. It is a fate created by man, and man's inability to see through the absurdity of the world he has created. Now, in this scene, we see Romeo as agent of his own fate. The fortune that befalls Romeo and Juliet is internal rather than external. It is determined by the natures and choices of its two protagonists. Were Romeo not so rash and emotional, so quick to fall into melancholy, the double suicide would not have occurred. Had Juliet felt it possible to explain the truth to her parents, the double suicide might not have occurred. But to wish someone were not as they were is to wish for the impossible. The love between Romeo and Juliet exists precisely because they are who they are. The destructive, suicidal nature of their love is just as much an aspect of their natures, as individuals and couple. In the character of the Apothecary, once again, Shakespeare provides a secondary example of the paradoxical and pressing social forces at work in the play. The Apothecary does not wish to sell poison because it is illegal, banned by society. But it is the same society that makes him poor, and which insists on validity of the differences between rich and poor. The Apothecary is pushed to sell the poison by external forces that he, like Romeo, feels completely unable to control."}

Scene II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence. John. Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho! Enter Friar Laurence. Laur. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. John. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Laur. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? John. I could not send it- here it is again- Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Laur. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge, Of dear import; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Laur. Now, must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come- Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb! Exit.

act 5, scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000626/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/romeojuliet/section15/

At his cell, Friar Lawrence speaks with Friar John, whom he had earlier sent to Mantua with a letter for Romeo. He asks John how Romeo responded to his letter. Friar John replies that he was unable to deliver the letter because he was shut up in a quarantined house due to an outbreak of plague. Friar Lawrence becomes upset, realizing that if Romeo does not know about Juliet's false death, there will be no one to retrieve her from the tomb when she awakes. Sending for a crowbar, Friar Lawrence declares that he will have to rescue Juliet from the tomb on his own. He sends another letter to Romeo to warn him about what has happened, and plans to keep Juliet in his cell until Romeo arrives

Act 5, scenes 1-2 The sequence of near misses in this section reveals the inescapable work of fate. There is no reason for the friar's plan to go wrong. But an outbreak of plague forces Friar John into quarantine and prevents him from delivering Friar Lawrence's letter to Romeo, while Balthasar seeks out Romeo with news of Juliet's death. Just as the audience senses an inviolable fate descending on Romeo, so too does Romeo feel himself trapped by fate. But the fate the audience recognizes and the fate Romeo sees as surrounding him are very different. The audience knows that both Romeo and Juliet are bound to die; Romeo knows only that fate has somehow tried to separate him from Juliet. When Romeo screams "Then I defy you, stars" he is screaming against the fate that he believes is thwarting his desires . He attempts to defy that fate by killing himself and spending eternity with Juliet: "Well, Juliet," he says, "I will lie with thee tonight" . Tragically, it is Romeo's very decision to avoid his destiny that actually brings fate about. In killing himself over the sleeping Juliet he ensures their ultimate double suicide. Through the irony of Romeo's defiance rebounding upon himself, Shakespeare demonstrates the extreme power of fate: nothing can stand in its way. All factors swing in its favor: the outbreak of the plague, Balthasar's transmission of the message of Juliet's death, and Capulet's decision to move Juliet's wedding date. But fate is also something attached to the social institutions of the world in which Romeo and Juliet live. This destiny, brought about by the interplay of societal norms from which Romeo and Juliet cannot escape, seems equally powerful, though less divine. It is a fate created by man, and man's inability to see through the absurdity of the world he has created. Now, in this scene, we see Romeo as agent of his own fate. The fortune that befalls Romeo and Juliet is internal rather than external. It is determined by the natures and choices of its two protagonists. Were Romeo not so rash and emotional, so quick to fall into melancholy, the double suicide would not have occurred. Had Juliet felt it possible to explain the truth to her parents, the double suicide might not have occurred. But to wish someone were not as they were is to wish for the impossible. The love between Romeo and Juliet exists precisely because they are who they are. The destructive, suicidal nature of their love is just as much an aspect of their natures, as individuals and couple. In the character of the Apothecary, once again, Shakespeare provides a secondary example of the paradoxical and pressing social forces at work in the play. The Apothecary does not wish to sell poison because it is illegal, banned by society. But it is the same society that makes him poor, and which insists on validity of the differences between rich and poor. The Apothecary is pushed to sell the poison by external forces that he, like Romeo, feels completely unable to control.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1977-chapters/act_1_chapters_4_to_5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Phaedra/section_2_part_0.txt

Phaedra.act 1.scenes 4-5

scenes 4-5

{"name": "Scenes 4-5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scenes-45", "summary": "A servant arrives with startling news: Theseus is dead. Hippolytus has learned of his father's death from a ship just arrived in port, and Athens is in an uproar. A new ruler must be chosen: Some support the legitimate claim of Phaedra's oldest son, others favor Hippolytus, some even want to put Aricia on the throne. In the face of this new development, Oenone's view of Phaedra's problem changes. Almost ready to agree that Phaedra must die, she now points out that her queen must live to protect her son. Moreover, Theseus' death puts her in a new position in relation to Hippolytus. Her love for him may be indiscreet, but it is no longer incestuous. Hippolytus has a right to inherit Troezen, but Athens properly belongs to Phaedra's son. Phaedra must see her stepson and persuade him to support her just claim; indeed, it may be desirable for the two to unite to combat Aricia. Reluctantly, Phaedra consents.", "analysis": "The announcement of Theseus' death is one of the rare occasions when Racine uses an external event, rather than a psychological development, to further his plot But this event alone does not create the reversal in Phaedra's attitude; it only adds fuel to the fire. Oenone is the one who really fans the flame. She insidiously reawakens Phaedra's hopes by appealing to her sense of maternal duty, by pointing out that her love is now not entirely illegitimate. The play thus remains essentially a psychological conflict. Furthermore, the reversal is more apparent than real. The audience is aware of the futility of Oenone's suggestion. It knows the impossibility of a pact between Phaedra and Hippolytus against Aricia, since Hippolytus is in love with the young girl. The news, therefore, adds only a note of dramatic irony and opens the way to an overt manifestation of Phaedra's passion."}

SCENE IV PHAEDRA, OENONE, PANOPE PANOPE Fain would I hide from you tidings so sad, But 'tis my duty, Madam, to reveal them. The hand of death has seized your peerless husband, And you are last to hear of this disaster. OENONE What say you, Panope? PANOPE The queen, deceived By a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe return For Theseus, while Hippolytus his son Learns of his death from vessels that are now In port. PHAEDRA Ye gods! PANOPE Divided counsels sway The choice of Athens; some would have the prince, Your child, for master; others, disregarding The laws, dare to support the stranger's son. 'Tis even said that a presumptuous faction Would crown Aricia and the house of Pallas. I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger. Hippolytus already is prepared To start, and should he show himself at Athens, 'Tis to be fear'd the fickle crowd will all Follow his lead. OENONE Enough. The queen, who hears you, By no means will neglect this timely warning. SCENE V PHAEDRA, OENONE OENONE Dear lady, I had almost ceased to urge The wish that you should live, thinking to follow My mistress to the tomb, from which my voice Had fail'd to turn you; but this new misfortune Alters the aspect of affairs, and prompts Fresh measures. Madam, Theseus is no more, You must supply his place. He leaves a son, A slave, if you should die, but, if you live, A King. On whom has he to lean but you? No hand but yours will dry his tears. Then live For him, or else the tears of innocence Will move the gods, his ancestors, to wrath Against his mother. Live, your guilt is gone, No blame attaches to your passion now. The King's decease has freed you from the bonds That made the crime and horror of your love. Hippolytus no longer need be dreaded, Him you may see henceforth without reproach. It may be, that, convinced of your aversion, He means to head the rebels. Undeceive him, Soften his callous heart, and bend his pride. King of this fertile land, in Troezen here His portion lies; but as he knows, the laws Give to your son the ramparts that Minerva Built and protects. A common enemy Threatens you both, unite them to oppose Aricia. PHAEDRA To your counsel I consent. Yes, I will live, if life can be restored, If my affection for a son has pow'r To rouse my sinking heart at such a dangerous hour.

Scenes 4-5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scenes-45

A servant arrives with startling news: Theseus is dead. Hippolytus has learned of his father's death from a ship just arrived in port, and Athens is in an uproar. A new ruler must be chosen: Some support the legitimate claim of Phaedra's oldest son, others favor Hippolytus, some even want to put Aricia on the throne. In the face of this new development, Oenone's view of Phaedra's problem changes. Almost ready to agree that Phaedra must die, she now points out that her queen must live to protect her son. Moreover, Theseus' death puts her in a new position in relation to Hippolytus. Her love for him may be indiscreet, but it is no longer incestuous. Hippolytus has a right to inherit Troezen, but Athens properly belongs to Phaedra's son. Phaedra must see her stepson and persuade him to support her just claim; indeed, it may be desirable for the two to unite to combat Aricia. Reluctantly, Phaedra consents.

The announcement of Theseus' death is one of the rare occasions when Racine uses an external event, rather than a psychological development, to further his plot But this event alone does not create the reversal in Phaedra's attitude; it only adds fuel to the fire. Oenone is the one who really fans the flame. She insidiously reawakens Phaedra's hopes by appealing to her sense of maternal duty, by pointing out that her love is now not entirely illegitimate. The play thus remains essentially a psychological conflict. Furthermore, the reversal is more apparent than real. The audience is aware of the futility of Oenone's suggestion. It knows the impossibility of a pact between Phaedra and Hippolytus against Aricia, since Hippolytus is in love with the young girl. The news, therefore, adds only a note of dramatic irony and opens the way to an overt manifestation of Phaedra's passion.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1977-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Phaedra/section_3_part_0.txt

Phaedra.act 2.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1", "summary": "Aricia has just been told by her companion, Ismene, that Hippolytus wishes to see her, that Theseus is dead, and that she is no longer a prisoner. Aricia finds it hard to credit so much good news at once. She is disinclined to believe the story of Theseus' death -- that he descended alive into hell and was unable to return -- and she does not see why Theseus' son should be kinder to her than his father. Ismene, however, does. Curious about Hippolytus and his renowned chastity, she has studied him closely and believes he is in love with Aricia. For Aricia, this is the best of all possible news. Her life has not been a happy one. When her six brothers were killed fighting Theseus, she was left alone in the world surrounded by political enemies, forbidden even to marry and make herself a home. This last prohibition, however, troubled her little; She had no interest in love -- until she met Hippolytus. She admired him not only for his grace and beauty, but for his qualities of character: To her, he was Theseus without Theseus' flaws. More important still, perhaps, she was piqued and challenged by his lack of interest in love. But perhaps Ismene is mistaken about his feelings for her, and she is rejoicing too soon.", "analysis": "The portrait of Aricia refutes the common misconception that Racine painted only the voluptuous love of sensual women. Aricia is a virginal princess who, while not insensitive to Hippolytus' good looks, prizes above all his qualities of character. Her love, unlike that of Phaedra, is reasonable, founded on good sense rather than visual stimulus and physical desire. At the same time, Racine, aware of the complexity of human emotions, adds to Aricia's love a note of natural vanity. She enjoys the idea of being Hippolytus' first romantic interest, of making a difficult conquest. Racine is an honest playwright. He does not stoop to a cheap coup de theatre. He does not announce Theseus' death only to have him appear dramatically later on. The attentive spectator will note the fact that the announcement of Theseus' death is only a rumor, sufficiently vague to warrant Aricia's skepticism."}

ACT II SCENE I ARICIA, ISMENE ARICIA Hippolytus request to see me here! Hippolytus desire to bid farewell! Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived? ISMENE This is the first result of Theseus' death. Prepare yourself to see from every side. Hearts turn towards you that were kept away By Theseus. Mistress of her lot at last, Aricia soon shall find all Greece fall low, To do her homage. ARICIA 'Tis not then, Ismene, An idle tale? Am I no more a slave? Have I no enemies? ISMENE The gods oppose Your peace no longer, and the soul of Theseus Is with your brothers. ARICIA Does the voice of fame Tell how he died? ISMENE Rumours incredible Are spread. Some say that, seizing a new bride, The faithless husband by the waves was swallow'd. Others affirm, and this report prevails, That with Pirithous to the world below He went, and saw the shores of dark Cocytus, Showing himself alive to the pale ghosts; But that he could not leave those gloomy realms, Which whoso enters there abides for ever. ARICIA Shall I believe that ere his destined hour A mortal may descend into the gulf Of Hades? What attraction could o'ercome Its terrors? ISMENE He is dead, and you alone Doubt it. The men of Athens mourn his loss. Troezen already hails Hippolytus As King. And Phaedra, fearing for her son, Asks counsel of the friends who share her trouble, Here in this palace. ARICIA Will Hippolytus, Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make light My chains, and pity my misfortunes? ISMENE Yes, I think so, Madam. ARICIA Ah, you know him not Or you would never deem so hard a heart Can pity feel, or me alone except From the contempt in which he holds our sex. Has he not long avoided every spot Where we resort? ISMENE I know what tales are told Of proud Hippolytus, but I have seen Him near you, and have watch'd with curious eye How one esteem'd so cold would bear himself. Little did his behavior correspond With what I look'd for; in his face confusion Appear'd at your first glance, he could not turn His languid eyes away, but gazed on you. Love is a word that may offend his pride, But what the tongue disowns, looks can betray. ARICIA How eagerly my heart hears what you say, Tho' it may be delusion, dear Ismene! Did it seem possible to you, who know me, That I, sad sport of a relentless Fate, Fed upon bitter tears by night and day, Could ever taste the maddening draught of love? The last frail offspring of a royal race, Children of Earth, I only have survived War's fury. Cut off in the flow'r of youth, Mown by the sword, six brothers have I lost, The hope of an illustrious house, whose blood Earth drank with sorrow, near akin to his Whom she herself produced. Since then, you know How thro' all Greece no heart has been allow'd To sigh for me, lest by a sister's flame The brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled. You know, besides, with what disdain I view'd My conqueror's suspicions and precautions, And how, oppos'd as I have ever been To love, I often thank'd the King's injustice Which happily confirm'd my inclination. But then I never had beheld his son. Not that, attracted merely by the eye, I love him for his beauty and his grace, Endowments which he owes to Nature's bounty, Charms which he seems to know not or to scorn. I love and prize in him riches more rare, The virtues of his sire, without his faults. I love, as I must own, that generous pride Which ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amorous yoke. Phaedra reaps little glory from a lover So lavish of his sighs; I am too proud To share devotion with a thousand others, Or enter where the door is always open. But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd before Bend his proud neck, to pierce a heart of stone, To bind a captive whom his chains astonish, Who vainly 'gainst a pleasing yoke rebels,-- That piques my ardour, and I long for that. 'Twas easier to disarm the god of strength Than this Hippolytus, for Hercules Yielded so often to the eyes of beauty, As to make triumph cheap. But, dear Ismene, I take too little heed of opposition Beyond my pow'r to quell, and you may hear me, Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the pride I now admire. What! Can he love? and I Have had the happiness to bend-- ISMENE He comes Yourself shall hear him.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1

Aricia has just been told by her companion, Ismene, that Hippolytus wishes to see her, that Theseus is dead, and that she is no longer a prisoner. Aricia finds it hard to credit so much good news at once. She is disinclined to believe the story of Theseus' death -- that he descended alive into hell and was unable to return -- and she does not see why Theseus' son should be kinder to her than his father. Ismene, however, does. Curious about Hippolytus and his renowned chastity, she has studied him closely and believes he is in love with Aricia. For Aricia, this is the best of all possible news. Her life has not been a happy one. When her six brothers were killed fighting Theseus, she was left alone in the world surrounded by political enemies, forbidden even to marry and make herself a home. This last prohibition, however, troubled her little; She had no interest in love -- until she met Hippolytus. She admired him not only for his grace and beauty, but for his qualities of character: To her, he was Theseus without Theseus' flaws. More important still, perhaps, she was piqued and challenged by his lack of interest in love. But perhaps Ismene is mistaken about his feelings for her, and she is rejoicing too soon.

The portrait of Aricia refutes the common misconception that Racine painted only the voluptuous love of sensual women. Aricia is a virginal princess who, while not insensitive to Hippolytus' good looks, prizes above all his qualities of character. Her love, unlike that of Phaedra, is reasonable, founded on good sense rather than visual stimulus and physical desire. At the same time, Racine, aware of the complexity of human emotions, adds to Aricia's love a note of natural vanity. She enjoys the idea of being Hippolytus' first romantic interest, of making a difficult conquest. Racine is an honest playwright. He does not stoop to a cheap coup de theatre. He does not announce Theseus' death only to have him appear dramatically later on. The attentive spectator will note the fact that the announcement of Theseus' death is only a rumor, sufficiently vague to warrant Aricia's skepticism.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1977-chapters/act_2_chapters_2_to_4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Phaedra/section_4_part_0.txt

Phaedra.act 2.scenes 2-4

scenes 2-4

{"name": "Scenes 2-4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scenes-24", "summary": "Hippolytus enters and confirms Ismene's reports. Theseus is dead: Aricia is henceforth free to go where she pleases, to marry if she wills. But Hippolytus has more to add. Athens is uncertain whom to choose to succeed Theseus as its ruler: Phaedra's older son; Aricia; or himself. He himself is content to be king of Troezen; he feels that Aricia has the best right to Athens, and he is leaving immediately for Athens to declare his views and to unite their partisans to insure her victory. Aricia is overwhelmed. Such generosity, she says, makes her think she must be dreaming. Indeed, for her part, she has been grateful enough to Hippolytus in the past simply because he did not hate her like the rest of the court. Hippolytus exclaims that he could not resist her! Aricia is startled; Hippolytus hesitates, then plunges into a declaration of love. He has said more than he meant to; his common sense has been overwhelmed by the violence of his passion; but he loves her. He has long defied the power of love, but now love has had its revenge: For six months, he has been its slave. He is, he fears, a poor capture of which to boast, and he has expressed his love very awkwardly, but he has never spoken to anyone of love before and has had no practice at it. At this inconvenient moment, Theramenes arrives to tell Hippolytus that Phaedra is seeking an interview with him. Hippolytus is reluctant, but Aricia reminds him that he owes his father's widow this courtesy. Hippolytus consents, but protests that Aricia is departing without having given him an answer to his proposals. She replies, \"Go, prince, and carry out your generous plans; make Athens my tributary: I accept all the gifts you seek to give me. But that great and glorious empire is not, in my eyes, the most cherished present you have offered me.\"", "analysis": "This scene echoes the first scene of Phaedra's confession to Oenone and foreshadows Scene 5, in which she declares her love to Hippolytus. There is the same crescendo from timid hints to complete admission of love. First, Aricia is the slave freed by Hippolytus, then a queen whom he restores to the throne, and finally the object of his love. There is also a tone, if not of remorse, at least of regret in Hippolytus' declarations, in which he describes himself as \"ashamed, desperate.\" On the other hand, Hippolytus' passion lacks Phaedra's tragic intensity. He is the young lover suffering the familiar pangs of unrequited love, listless and unhappy, both afraid of love and captivated by Aricia. Scenes 2 and 3, by consecrating the love of Aricia and Hippolytus and underlining the latter's distaste for his stepmother, prepare for the almost unbearable poignancy of Scene 5. Phaedra's love is now doomed by Hippolytus' interest in Aricia, as well as by his very nature. Incapable of base sentiments such as hatred and resentment, he harbors a sentiment even more painful to a woman as passionate and proud as Phaedra: indifference. Hippolytus feels only polite annoyance at his prospective meeting with the queen."}

SCENE II HIPPOLYTUS, ARICIA, ISMENE HIPPOLYTUS Lady, ere I go My duty bids me tell you of your change Of fortune. My worst fears are realized; My sire is dead. Yes, his protracted absence Was caused as I foreboded. Death alone, Ending his toils, could keep him from the world Conceal'd so long. The gods at last have doom'd Alcides' friend, companion, and successor. I think your hatred, tender to his virtues, Can hear such terms of praise without resentment, Knowing them due. One hope have I that soothes My sorrow: I can free you from restraint. Lo, I revoke the laws whose rigour moved My pity; you are at your own disposal, Both heart and hand; here, in my heritage, In Troezen, where my grandsire Pittheus reign'd Of yore and I am now acknowledged King, I leave you free, free as myself,--and more. ARICIA Your kindness is too great, 'tis overwhelming. Such generosity, that pays disgrace With honour, lends more force than you can think To those harsh laws from which you would release me. HIPPOLYTUS Athens, uncertain how to fill the throne Of Theseus, speaks of you, anon of me, And then of Phaedra's son. ARICIA Of me, my lord? HIPPOLYTUS I know myself excluded by strict law: Greece turns to my reproach a foreign mother. But if my brother were my only rival, My rights prevail o'er his clearly enough To make me careless of the law's caprice. My forwardness is check'd by juster claims: To you I yield my place, or, rather, own That it is yours by right, and yours the sceptre, As handed down from Earth's great son, Erechtheus. Adoption placed it in the hands of Aegeus: Athens, by him protected and increased, Welcomed a king so generous as my sire, And left your hapless brothers in oblivion. Now she invites you back within her walls; Protracted strife has cost her groans enough, Her fields are glutted with your kinsmen's blood Fatt'ning the furrows out of which it sprung At first. I rule this Troezen; while the son Of Phaedra has in Crete a rich domain. Athens is yours. I will do all I can To join for you the votes divided now Between us. ARICIA Stunn'd at all I hear, my lord, I fear, I almost fear a dream deceives me. Am I indeed awake? Can I believe Such generosity? What god has put it Into your heart? Well is the fame deserved That you enjoy! That fame falls short of truth! Would you for me prove traitor to yourself? Was it not boon enough never to hate me, So long to have abstain'd from harbouring The enmity-- HIPPOLYTUS To hate you? I, to hate you? However darkly my fierce pride was painted, Do you suppose a monster gave me birth? What savage temper, what envenom'd hatred Would not be mollified at sight of you? Could I resist the soul-bewitching charm-- ARICIA Why, what is this, Sir? HIPPOLYTUS I have said too much Not to say more. Prudence in vain resists The violence of passion. I have broken Silence at last, and I must tell you now The secret that my heart can hold no longer. You see before you an unhappy instance Of hasty pride, a prince who claims compassion I, who, so long the enemy of Love, Mock'd at his fetters and despised his captives, Who, pitying poor mortals that were shipwreck'd, In seeming safety view'd the storms from land, Now find myself to the same fate exposed, Toss'd to and fro upon a sea of troubles! My boldness has been vanquish'd in a moment, And humbled is the pride wherein I boasted. For nearly six months past, ashamed, despairing, Bearing where'er I go the shaft that rends My heart, I struggle vainly to be free From you and from myself; I shun you, present; Absent, I find you near; I see your form In the dark forest depths; the shades of night, Nor less broad daylight, bring back to my view The charms that I avoid; all things conspire To make Hippolytus your slave. For fruit Of all my bootless sighs, I fail to find My former self. My bow and javelins Please me no more, my chariot is forgotten, With all the Sea God's lessons; and the woods Echo my groans instead of joyous shouts Urging my fiery steeds. Hearing this tale Of passion so uncouth, you blush perchance At your own handiwork. With what wild words I offer you my heart, strange captive held By silken jess! But dearer in your eyes Should be the offering, that this language comes Strange to my lips; reject not vows express'd So ill, which but for you had ne'er been form'd. SCENE III HIPPOLYTUS, ARICIA, THERAMENES, ISMENE THERAMENES Prince, the Queen comes. I herald her approach. 'Tis you she seeks. HIPPOLYTUS Me? THERAMENES What her thought may be I know not. But I speak on her behalf. She would converse with you ere you go hence. HIPPOLYTUS What shall I say to her? Can she expect-- ARICIA You cannot, noble Prince, refuse to hear her, Howe'er convinced she is your enemy, Some shade of pity to her tears is due. HIPPOLYTUS Shall we part thus? and will you let me go, Not knowing if my boldness has offended The goddess I adore? Whether this heart, Left in your hands-- ARICIA Go, Prince, pursue the schemes Your generous soul dictates, make Athens own My sceptre. All the gifts you offer me Will I accept, but this high throne of empire Is not the one most precious in my sight. SCENE IV HIPPOLYTUS, THERAMENES HIPPOLYTUS Friend, is all ready? But the Queen approaches. Go, see the vessel in fit trim to sail. Haste, bid the crew aboard, and hoist the signal: Then soon return, and so deliver me From interview most irksome.

Scenes 2-4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scenes-24

Hippolytus enters and confirms Ismene's reports. Theseus is dead: Aricia is henceforth free to go where she pleases, to marry if she wills. But Hippolytus has more to add. Athens is uncertain whom to choose to succeed Theseus as its ruler: Phaedra's older son; Aricia; or himself. He himself is content to be king of Troezen; he feels that Aricia has the best right to Athens, and he is leaving immediately for Athens to declare his views and to unite their partisans to insure her victory. Aricia is overwhelmed. Such generosity, she says, makes her think she must be dreaming. Indeed, for her part, she has been grateful enough to Hippolytus in the past simply because he did not hate her like the rest of the court. Hippolytus exclaims that he could not resist her! Aricia is startled; Hippolytus hesitates, then plunges into a declaration of love. He has said more than he meant to; his common sense has been overwhelmed by the violence of his passion; but he loves her. He has long defied the power of love, but now love has had its revenge: For six months, he has been its slave. He is, he fears, a poor capture of which to boast, and he has expressed his love very awkwardly, but he has never spoken to anyone of love before and has had no practice at it. At this inconvenient moment, Theramenes arrives to tell Hippolytus that Phaedra is seeking an interview with him. Hippolytus is reluctant, but Aricia reminds him that he owes his father's widow this courtesy. Hippolytus consents, but protests that Aricia is departing without having given him an answer to his proposals. She replies, "Go, prince, and carry out your generous plans; make Athens my tributary: I accept all the gifts you seek to give me. But that great and glorious empire is not, in my eyes, the most cherished present you have offered me."

This scene echoes the first scene of Phaedra's confession to Oenone and foreshadows Scene 5, in which she declares her love to Hippolytus. There is the same crescendo from timid hints to complete admission of love. First, Aricia is the slave freed by Hippolytus, then a queen whom he restores to the throne, and finally the object of his love. There is also a tone, if not of remorse, at least of regret in Hippolytus' declarations, in which he describes himself as "ashamed, desperate." On the other hand, Hippolytus' passion lacks Phaedra's tragic intensity. He is the young lover suffering the familiar pangs of unrequited love, listless and unhappy, both afraid of love and captivated by Aricia. Scenes 2 and 3, by consecrating the love of Aricia and Hippolytus and underlining the latter's distaste for his stepmother, prepare for the almost unbearable poignancy of Scene 5. Phaedra's love is now doomed by Hippolytus' interest in Aricia, as well as by his very nature. Incapable of base sentiments such as hatred and resentment, he harbors a sentiment even more painful to a woman as passionate and proud as Phaedra: indifference. Hippolytus feels only polite annoyance at his prospective meeting with the queen.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1977-chapters/act_5_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Phaedra/section_10_part_0.txt

Phaedra.act 5.scenes 1-3

scenes 1-3

{"name": "Scenes 1-3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-13", "summary": "Hippolytus is indeed saying farewell to Aricia, and she is protesting, but not against the separation. She fears the effect of Theseus' curse and urges her lover to tell his father the truth before he goes. But Hippolytus cannot speak; it is not a son's place to tell his father what sort of woman he has for a wife. He has told Aricia the truth, but under the seal of secrecy, and he depends upon the gods to make his innocence clear and to punish Phaedra. As for Aricia, he wants her to come into exile with him, away from this poisoned air. United, they may find powerful defenders for their cause in Argos and Sparta and be able to prevent Phaedra from taking over Troezen and Athens. Aricia is attracted by the idea; she owes Theseus no loyalty, but, princess as well as woman, she fears the dishonor which would be attached to such a secret flight with her lover. Hippolytus reassures her: Before they go, they will swear their marriage oaths at the temple of Hippolytus' ancestors at the gates of Troezen. Aricia, hearing Theseus approach, promises that if Hippolytus will leave her a guide she will follow him in his departure. He leaves. Theseus is still troubled by his recent decision, and demands of Aricia what Hippolytus was doing in her company. Is he in love with her? She confesses that he is, and Theseus says bitterly that she is not the only one. Aricia, affronted, asks how he can so misjudge his son and adjures him to fear that the heavens will grant his request for his son's death, but to his eternal regret. Theseus refuses to listen to her; he has seen the evidence of Hippolytus' crimes. Again Aricia warns him; Theseus has been a great slayer of monsters, but one is still alive. Hippolytus has forbidden her to speak further, and she will accordingly withdraw.", "analysis": "As we have seen, classical drama insists quite rigorously on unity of action. It allows neither comic relief nor digressions. However, under certain circumstances, a subordinate plot is admitted. The prescription as formulated by the Abbe d'Aubignac requires that the secondary story be of lesser importance than the main plot and that it be closely related to it. Scene 1 conforms to these instructions. It satisfies a natural curiosity to explore Hippolytus' reaction to his condemnation, to get a closer look at Phaedra's rival. At the same time it occupies only a fugitive moment in the play and does not threaten to eclipse the study of Phaedra's torment. Aesthetically, the scene relieves the starkness of an exclusive concentration on Phaedra. The dialogue between Hippolytus and Aricia presents a new concept of love in the play -- tender, self-sacrificing, and pristine -- in sharp contrast with Phaedra's frightening passion. Filial compassion is repeated in Hippolytus' insistence on keeping his secret to spare his father's feelings. Finally, the arrangement for the young couple's wedding vows sustains the poetic tone with its feeling for the supernatural and the curiously romantic image of the tomb. In Scene 3, Racine broadens Aricia's characterization. The maiden suddenly reveals an unsuspected wiliness and fire. Unintimidated by Theseus' brusqueness, she seems to acquire something of Phaedra's passion as she indignantly answers his banter with an attack on his unwarranted suspicions. Unlike Phaedra, however, Aricia is able to control her feelings before they lead her beyond the bounds of dangerous indiscretion."}

ACT V SCENE I HIPPOLYTUS, ARICIA ARICIA Can you keep silent in this mortal peril? Your father loves you. Will you leave him thus Deceived? If in your cruel heart you scorn My tears, content to see me nevermore, Go, part from poor Aricia; but at least, Going, secure the safety of your life. Defend your honor from a shameful stain, And force your father to recall his pray'rs. There yet is time. Why out of mere caprice Leave the field free to Phaedra's calumnies? Let Theseus know the truth. HIPPOLYTUS Could I say more, Without exposing him to dire disgrace? How should I venture, by revealing all, To make a father's brow grow red with shame? The odious mystery to you alone Is known. My heart has been outpour'd to none Save you and Heav'n. I could not hide from you (Judge if I love you), all I fain would hide E'en from myself. But think under what seal I spoke. Forget my words, if that may be; And never let so pure a mouth disclose This dreadful secret. Let us trust to Heav'n My vindication, for the gods are just; For their own honour will they clear the guiltless; Sooner or later punish'd for her crime, Phaedra will not escape the shame she merits. I ask no other favour than your silence; In all besides I give my wrath free scope. Make your escape from this captivity, Be bold to bear me company in flight; Linger not here on this accursed soil, Where virtue breathes a pestilential air. To cover your departure take advantage Of this confusion, caused by my disgrace. The means of flight are ready, be assured; You have as yet no other guards than mine. Pow'rful defenders will maintain our quarrel; Argos spreads open arms, and Sparta calls us. Let us appeal for justice to our friends, Nor suffer Phaedra, in a common ruin Joining us both, to hunt us from the throne, And aggrandise her son by robbing us. Embrace this happy opportunity: What fear restrains? You seem to hesitate. Your interest alone prompts me to urge Boldness. When I am all on fire, how comes it That you are ice? Fear you to follow then A banish'd man? ARICIA Ah, dear to me would be Such exile! With what joy, my fate to yours United, could I live, by all the world Forgotten! but not yet has that sweet tie Bound us together. How then can I steal Away with you? I know the strictest honour Forbids me not out of your father's hands To free myself; this is no parent's home, And flight is lawful when one flies from tyrants. But you, Sir, love me; and my virtue shrinks-- HIPPOLYTUS No, no, your reputation is to me As dear as to yourself. A nobler purpose Brings me to you. Fly from your foes, and follow A husband. Heav'n, that sends us these misfortunes, Sets free from human instruments the pledge Between us. Torches do not always light The face of Hymen. At the gates of Troezen, 'Mid ancient tombs where princes of my race Lie buried, stands a temple, ne'er approach'd By perjurers, where mortals dare not make False oaths, for instant punishment befalls The guilty. Falsehood knows no stronger check Than what is present there--the fear of death That cannot be avoided. Thither then We'll go, if you consent, and swear to love For ever, take the guardian god to witness Our solemn vows, and his paternal care Entreat. I will invoke the name of all The holiest Pow'rs; chaste Dian, and the Queen Of Heav'n, yea all the gods who know my heart Will guarantee my sacred promises. ARICIA The King draws near. Depart,--make no delay. To mask my flight, I linger yet one moment. Go you; and leave with me some trusty guide, To lead my timid footsteps to your side. SCENE II THESEUS, ARICIA, ISMENE THESEUS Ye gods, throw light upon my troubled mind, Show me the truth which I am seeking here. ARICIA (aside to ISMENE) Get ready, dear Ismene, for our flight. SCENE III THESEUS, ARICIA THESEUS Your colour comes and goes, you seem confused, Madame! What business had my son with you? ARICIA Sire, he was bidding me farewell for ever. THESEUS Your eyes, it seems, can tame that stubborn pride; And the first sighs he breathes are paid to you. ARICIA I can't deny the truth; he has not, Sire, Inherited your hatred and injustice; He did not treat me like a criminal. THESEUS That is to say, he swore eternal love. Do not rely on that inconstant heart; To others has he sworn as much before. ARICIA He, Sire? THESEUS You ought to check his roving taste. How could you bear a partnership so vile? ARICIA And how can you endure that vilest slanders Should make a life so pure as black as pitch? Have you so little knowledge of his heart? Do you so ill distinguish between guilt And innocence? What mist before your eyes Blinds them to virtue so conspicuous? Ah! 'tis too much to let false tongues defame him. Repent; call back your murderous wishes, Sire; Fear, fear lest Heav'n in its severity Hate you enough to hear and grant your pray'rs. Oft in their wrath the gods accept our victims, And oftentimes chastise us with their gifts. THESEUS No, vainly would you cover up his guilt. Your love is blind to his depravity. But I have witness irreproachable: Tears have I seen, true tears, that may be trusted. ARICIA Take heed, my lord. Your hands invincible Have rid the world of monsters numberless; But all are not destroy'd, one you have left Alive--Your son forbids me to say more. Knowing with what respect he still regards you, I should too much distress him if I dared Complete my sentence. I will imitate His reverence, and, to keep silence, leave you.

Scenes 1-3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-13

Hippolytus is indeed saying farewell to Aricia, and she is protesting, but not against the separation. She fears the effect of Theseus' curse and urges her lover to tell his father the truth before he goes. But Hippolytus cannot speak; it is not a son's place to tell his father what sort of woman he has for a wife. He has told Aricia the truth, but under the seal of secrecy, and he depends upon the gods to make his innocence clear and to punish Phaedra. As for Aricia, he wants her to come into exile with him, away from this poisoned air. United, they may find powerful defenders for their cause in Argos and Sparta and be able to prevent Phaedra from taking over Troezen and Athens. Aricia is attracted by the idea; she owes Theseus no loyalty, but, princess as well as woman, she fears the dishonor which would be attached to such a secret flight with her lover. Hippolytus reassures her: Before they go, they will swear their marriage oaths at the temple of Hippolytus' ancestors at the gates of Troezen. Aricia, hearing Theseus approach, promises that if Hippolytus will leave her a guide she will follow him in his departure. He leaves. Theseus is still troubled by his recent decision, and demands of Aricia what Hippolytus was doing in her company. Is he in love with her? She confesses that he is, and Theseus says bitterly that she is not the only one. Aricia, affronted, asks how he can so misjudge his son and adjures him to fear that the heavens will grant his request for his son's death, but to his eternal regret. Theseus refuses to listen to her; he has seen the evidence of Hippolytus' crimes. Again Aricia warns him; Theseus has been a great slayer of monsters, but one is still alive. Hippolytus has forbidden her to speak further, and she will accordingly withdraw.

As we have seen, classical drama insists quite rigorously on unity of action. It allows neither comic relief nor digressions. However, under certain circumstances, a subordinate plot is admitted. The prescription as formulated by the Abbe d'Aubignac requires that the secondary story be of lesser importance than the main plot and that it be closely related to it. Scene 1 conforms to these instructions. It satisfies a natural curiosity to explore Hippolytus' reaction to his condemnation, to get a closer look at Phaedra's rival. At the same time it occupies only a fugitive moment in the play and does not threaten to eclipse the study of Phaedra's torment. Aesthetically, the scene relieves the starkness of an exclusive concentration on Phaedra. The dialogue between Hippolytus and Aricia presents a new concept of love in the play -- tender, self-sacrificing, and pristine -- in sharp contrast with Phaedra's frightening passion. Filial compassion is repeated in Hippolytus' insistence on keeping his secret to spare his father's feelings. Finally, the arrangement for the young couple's wedding vows sustains the poetic tone with its feeling for the supernatural and the curiously romantic image of the tomb. In Scene 3, Racine broadens Aricia's characterization. The maiden suddenly reveals an unsuspected wiliness and fire. Unintimidated by Theseus' brusqueness, she seems to acquire something of Phaedra's passion as she indignantly answers his banter with an attack on his unwarranted suspicions. Unlike Phaedra, however, Aricia is able to control her feelings before they lead her beyond the bounds of dangerous indiscretion.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1977-chapters/act_5_chapters_4_to_5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Phaedra/section_11_part_0.txt

Phaedra.act 5.scenes 4-5

scenes 4-5

{"name": "Scenes 4-5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-45", "summary": "Disturbed by Oenone's hints, Theseus realizes that he himself still has doubts and calls the guards to bring Oenone to him so that he may question her further. But Panope, one of Phaedra's waiting women, has shocking news for him. Phaedra has driven Oenone from her presence, and Oenone has thrown herself into the sea. Now Phaedra, alternately kissing her sons and pushing them away in horror, has three times begun a letter and thrice destroyed it. Panope fears she is about to kill herself and begs Theseus to come and calm her. Glimpsing the truth, Theseus calls upon his son to come back and defend himself and begs Neptune not to grant him his boon.", "analysis": "Tantalizingly, Racine holds out the hope that the tragedy may yet be averted. Theseus is assaulted by disturbing questions, torn by doubt. The appearance of Aricia in close conversation with Hippolytus lends credibility to the latter's claim of a romance between them. Aricia's obviously sincere defense of Hippolytus, her ominous hints, strengthen Theseus' doubts. The clinching evidence is provided by Oenone's suicide and the queen's baffling behavior. The king's whole world, including his inner self, seems to plead Hippolytus' cause and Theseus is ready to reverse himself. But, of course, it is too late. A last-minute reprieve would be artistically indefensible. Emotionally, if not logically, Phaedra demands a tragic ending. The personality of the heroine, the doom-laden atmosphere, and the playwright's ethos compel him to end his play on a note of resounding catastrophe. Phaedra's disintegration, incidentally, is illustrative of classicism's technique. The theme, of course, is reminiscent of Lady Macbeth's mad scene. It deals with the same hysterical expression of guilt provoked by a particularly heinous crime. In Shakespeare, the scene is directly portrayed. Phaedra's emotional breakdown, almost as complete, occurs offstage and is reported rather briefly. As we have already pointed out, the classicists did not suppress violent behavior but relegated it to the wings."}

SCENE IV THESEUS (alone) What is there in her mind? What meaning lurks In speech begun but to be broken short? Would both deceive me with a vain pretence? Have they conspired to put me to the torture? And yet, despite my stern severity, What plaintive voice cries deep within my heart? A secret pity troubles and alarms me. Oenone shall be questioned once again, I must have clearer light upon this crime. Guards, bid Oenone come, and come alone. SCENE V THESEUS, PANOPE PANOPE I know not what the Queen intends to do, But from her agitation dread the worst. Fatal despair is painted on her features; Death's pallor is already in her face. Oenone, shamed and driven from her sight, Has cast herself into the ocean depths. None knows what prompted her to deed so rash; And now the waves hide her from us for ever. THESEUS What say you? PANOPE Her sad fate seems to have added Fresh trouble to the Queen's tempestuous soul. Sometimes, to soothe her secret pain, she clasps Her children close, and bathes them with her tears; Then suddenly, the mother's love forgotten, She thrusts them from her with a look of horror, She wanders to and fro with doubtful steps; Her vacant eye no longer knows us. Thrice She wrote, and thrice did she, changing her mind, Destroy the letter ere 'twas well begun. Vouchsafe to see her, Sire: vouchsafe to help her. THESEUS Heav'ns! Is Oenone dead, and Phaedra bent On dying too? Oh, call me back my son! Let him defend himself, and I am ready To hear him. Be not hasty to bestow Thy fatal bounty, Neptune; let my pray'rs Rather remain ever unheard. Too soon I lifted cruel hands, believing lips That may have lied! Ah! What despair may follow!

Scenes 4-5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204233712/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/phaedra/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-45

Disturbed by Oenone's hints, Theseus realizes that he himself still has doubts and calls the guards to bring Oenone to him so that he may question her further. But Panope, one of Phaedra's waiting women, has shocking news for him. Phaedra has driven Oenone from her presence, and Oenone has thrown herself into the sea. Now Phaedra, alternately kissing her sons and pushing them away in horror, has three times begun a letter and thrice destroyed it. Panope fears she is about to kill herself and begs Theseus to come and calm her. Glimpsing the truth, Theseus calls upon his son to come back and defend himself and begs Neptune not to grant him his boon.

Tantalizingly, Racine holds out the hope that the tragedy may yet be averted. Theseus is assaulted by disturbing questions, torn by doubt. The appearance of Aricia in close conversation with Hippolytus lends credibility to the latter's claim of a romance between them. Aricia's obviously sincere defense of Hippolytus, her ominous hints, strengthen Theseus' doubts. The clinching evidence is provided by Oenone's suicide and the queen's baffling behavior. The king's whole world, including his inner self, seems to plead Hippolytus' cause and Theseus is ready to reverse himself. But, of course, it is too late. A last-minute reprieve would be artistically indefensible. Emotionally, if not logically, Phaedra demands a tragic ending. The personality of the heroine, the doom-laden atmosphere, and the playwright's ethos compel him to end his play on a note of resounding catastrophe. Phaedra's disintegration, incidentally, is illustrative of classicism's technique. The theme, of course, is reminiscent of Lady Macbeth's mad scene. It deals with the same hysterical expression of guilt provoked by a particularly heinous crime. In Shakespeare, the scene is directly portrayed. Phaedra's emotional breakdown, almost as complete, occurs offstage and is reported rather briefly. As we have already pointed out, the classicists did not suppress violent behavior but relegated it to the wings.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 1

act 2, scene 1

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-1", "summary": "Portia is still at Belmont having a chat with the Prince of Morocco. He says that though his skin is darker, his blood is as red and his love as true as any pale northern guy. Still, the Prince says he wouldn't change his skin color except to change Portia's thoughts about him. Portia, feeling magnanimous, says it isn't up to her, but if it were, the Prince would stand in her affections just like any of the other suitors . The Prince says he's very fierce, and lists off all the things he's killed. Though the Prince says he's willing to steal a baby bear from its mama bear , all of his bravado doesn't matter. Rules are rules, and he can only win Portia through chance. The Prince comments that in a game of dice, even Hercules could be beaten by his servant. Luck doesn't favor anybody, no matter how worthy he is. Still, he wants to take the chance to win Portia. Finally Portia reveals that in addition to setting up this crazy lottery, her father has also placed a condition on anyone who chooses to try their luck. If a suitor decides to play the lottery of chests and chooses the wrong one, not only does he lose a chance at Portia, he must never talk of marriage to another woman again. Hearing this, the Prince insists on playing the lottery anyway, and Portia insists on having dinner.", "analysis": ""}

ACT 2. SCENE I. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, and his Followers; PORTIA, NERISSA, and Others of her train.] PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing; But, if my father had not scanted me And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you: Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar,-- That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,-- I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his page; And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong, Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance. PORTIA. First, forward to the temple: after dinner Your hazard shall be made. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men! [Cornets, and exeunt.]

Act 2, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-1

Portia is still at Belmont having a chat with the Prince of Morocco. He says that though his skin is darker, his blood is as red and his love as true as any pale northern guy. Still, the Prince says he wouldn't change his skin color except to change Portia's thoughts about him. Portia, feeling magnanimous, says it isn't up to her, but if it were, the Prince would stand in her affections just like any of the other suitors . The Prince says he's very fierce, and lists off all the things he's killed. Though the Prince says he's willing to steal a baby bear from its mama bear , all of his bravado doesn't matter. Rules are rules, and he can only win Portia through chance. The Prince comments that in a game of dice, even Hercules could be beaten by his servant. Luck doesn't favor anybody, no matter how worthy he is. Still, he wants to take the chance to win Portia. Finally Portia reveals that in addition to setting up this crazy lottery, her father has also placed a condition on anyone who chooses to try their luck. If a suitor decides to play the lottery of chests and chooses the wrong one, not only does he lose a chance at Portia, he must never talk of marriage to another woman again. Hearing this, the Prince insists on playing the lottery anyway, and Portia insists on having dinner.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_5_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 3

act 2, scene 3

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-3", "summary": "At Shylock's house, Jessica, who is his rebellious daughter, laments Lancelot's impending departure. Living in Shylock's house is apparently miserable, and Lancelot was always a good distraction from the surrounding misery. Giving him a gold coin, she instructs Lancelot to take a letter to Lorenzo, who should be at Bassanio's house for dinner. Lancelot, all tears, calls Jessica a \"sweet Jew\" and says goodbye. Despite being a rebellious daughter, Jessica at least feels guilty about the fact that she is ashamed of being Shylock's daughter. Still, Jessica declares that, even though she shares her father's blood, she's nothing like him. Jessica hopes to put an end to all her troubles by becoming Lorenzo's wife and converting to Christianity.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 3. The same. A room in SHYLOCK's house. [Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT.] JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so: Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee; And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest: Give him this letter; do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. LAUNCELOT. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu! JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelot. [Exit LAUNCELOT] Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be asham'd to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo! If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. [Exit]

Act 2, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-3

At Shylock's house, Jessica, who is his rebellious daughter, laments Lancelot's impending departure. Living in Shylock's house is apparently miserable, and Lancelot was always a good distraction from the surrounding misery. Giving him a gold coin, she instructs Lancelot to take a letter to Lorenzo, who should be at Bassanio's house for dinner. Lancelot, all tears, calls Jessica a "sweet Jew" and says goodbye. Despite being a rebellious daughter, Jessica at least feels guilty about the fact that she is ashamed of being Shylock's daughter. Still, Jessica declares that, even though she shares her father's blood, she's nothing like him. Jessica hopes to put an end to all her troubles by becoming Lorenzo's wife and converting to Christianity.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_6_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 4

act 2, scene 4

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-4", "summary": "Lorenzo, Graziano, Solanio, and Salerio all meet at a street in Venice to discuss a plot they've concocted that is not quite ready to be carried out. Lorenzo suggests that they slip away during dinnertime and disguise themselves, but Salerio points out that they don't have torchbearers , and Solanio thinks the whole thing is a waste of time unless it's really carefully organized. Just then, Lancelot enters with Jessica's letter, which Lorenzo is excited to receive. Hearing that Lancelot is planning to invite Shylock to dine with Bassanio, Lorenzo tells Lancelot to secretly deliver a letter to Jessica. After Lancelot is gone, Lorenzo cryptically announces that he's found a torchbearer after all. So Lorenzo instructs everyone to meet up at Graziano's house later that evening. He is then left alone with Graziano to unfold the secret contents of Jessica's letter, which says the following: \"Dear Sweetie, Please steal me away from my father's house, sooner rather than later. Oh, and I've got some gold and manservants packed and ready to go.\" Lorenzo declares that any harm the girl comes to will be because she is the child of a \"faithless Jew\" and for no other reason...especially not her being a thief. Lorenzo hands the letter to Graziano to read and announces that Jessica will be his torchbearer.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 4. The same. A street [Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.] LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SALANIO. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd, And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. 'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours To furnish us. [Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter.] Friend Launcelot, what's the news? LAUNCELOT. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. LORENZO. I know the hand; in faith, 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. GRATIANO. Love news, in faith. LAUNCELOT. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELOT. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the Christian. LORENZO. Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, [Exit LAUNCELOT] Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALARINO. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. SALANIO. And so will I. LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. SALARINO. 'Tis good we do so. [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.] GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house; What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with; What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt]

Act 2, Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-4

Lorenzo, Graziano, Solanio, and Salerio all meet at a street in Venice to discuss a plot they've concocted that is not quite ready to be carried out. Lorenzo suggests that they slip away during dinnertime and disguise themselves, but Salerio points out that they don't have torchbearers , and Solanio thinks the whole thing is a waste of time unless it's really carefully organized. Just then, Lancelot enters with Jessica's letter, which Lorenzo is excited to receive. Hearing that Lancelot is planning to invite Shylock to dine with Bassanio, Lorenzo tells Lancelot to secretly deliver a letter to Jessica. After Lancelot is gone, Lorenzo cryptically announces that he's found a torchbearer after all. So Lorenzo instructs everyone to meet up at Graziano's house later that evening. He is then left alone with Graziano to unfold the secret contents of Jessica's letter, which says the following: "Dear Sweetie, Please steal me away from my father's house, sooner rather than later. Oh, and I've got some gold and manservants packed and ready to go." Lorenzo declares that any harm the girl comes to will be because she is the child of a "faithless Jew" and for no other reason...especially not her being a thief. Lorenzo hands the letter to Graziano to read and announces that Jessica will be his torchbearer.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_7_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 5

act 2, scene 5

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-5", "summary": "In front of Shylock's house, Shylock chats with Lancelot, who's just brought him the dinner invitation from Bassanio. Lancelot is a clown and a servant. Like all Shakespearean clown figures, Lancelot's job is to fool around, make smart-alecky comments, and bag on all the other characters in the play. Shylock says Lancelot will soon see the difference between being in his service and being in Bassanio's. He then roughly calls in Jessica and tells her he's been invited to dinner. He says this isn't a friendly dinner invite but mere flattery. He's committed to feed upon his hatred of the Christians. Shylock tells Jessica that she'll have to look after the house. He says he fears something bad is about to happen, since he dreamed about money bags, supposedly a bad omen. Lancelot teases Shylock about his superstition, making up some silly omens of his own, but Shylock ignores him and warns Jessica of some revels that will fill the street that night. She's not to put her head outside the window or otherwise let any foolish merriment seep into his house. Shylock especially doesn't want any sounds of music coming through the windows, which you can read more about in the \"Symbolism, Imagery, Allegory\" section. Shylock then heads off to dinner, though he says he'd rather not. As he leaves with Lancelot, the clown delivers a seemingly harmless little rhyme to Jessica, telling her that a Christian will be worth looking out her window for later tonight. Shylock wonders what he said, but Jessica quickly deflects his inquiry, leaving her father to wax on about how Lancelot's departure is no great loss, as he was lazy and slept too much anyway. If anything, Shylock is grateful that Lancelot will assist Bassanio in wasting his borrowed cash. Again reminding Jessica to lock up the doors and stay inside, Shylock exits. Alone at Shylock's house, Jessica declares she will soon have a new father and hers will be rid of a daughter.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 5. The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house [Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT.] SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see; thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:-- What, Jessica!--Thou shalt not gormandize, As thou hast done with me;--What, Jessica!-- And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out-- Why, Jessica, I say! LAUNCELOT. Why, Jessica! SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. LAUNCELOT. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding. [Enter JESSICA.] JESSICA. Call you? What is your will? SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica: There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love; they flatter me; But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. LAUNCELOT. I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach. SHYLOCK. So do I his. LAUNCELOT. And they have conspired together; I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon. SHYLOCK. What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum, And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces; But stop my house's ears- I mean my casements; Let not the sound of shallow fopp'ry enter My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear I have no mind of feasting forth to-night; But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah; Say I will come. LAUNCELOT. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this; There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit LAUNCELOT.] SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha? JESSICA. His words were 'Farewell, mistress'; nothing else. SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder; Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him; and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in; Perhaps I will return immediately: Do as I bid you, shut doors after you: 'Fast bind, fast find,' A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit.] JESSICA. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [Exit.]

Act 2, Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-5

In front of Shylock's house, Shylock chats with Lancelot, who's just brought him the dinner invitation from Bassanio. Lancelot is a clown and a servant. Like all Shakespearean clown figures, Lancelot's job is to fool around, make smart-alecky comments, and bag on all the other characters in the play. Shylock says Lancelot will soon see the difference between being in his service and being in Bassanio's. He then roughly calls in Jessica and tells her he's been invited to dinner. He says this isn't a friendly dinner invite but mere flattery. He's committed to feed upon his hatred of the Christians. Shylock tells Jessica that she'll have to look after the house. He says he fears something bad is about to happen, since he dreamed about money bags, supposedly a bad omen. Lancelot teases Shylock about his superstition, making up some silly omens of his own, but Shylock ignores him and warns Jessica of some revels that will fill the street that night. She's not to put her head outside the window or otherwise let any foolish merriment seep into his house. Shylock especially doesn't want any sounds of music coming through the windows, which you can read more about in the "Symbolism, Imagery, Allegory" section. Shylock then heads off to dinner, though he says he'd rather not. As he leaves with Lancelot, the clown delivers a seemingly harmless little rhyme to Jessica, telling her that a Christian will be worth looking out her window for later tonight. Shylock wonders what he said, but Jessica quickly deflects his inquiry, leaving her father to wax on about how Lancelot's departure is no great loss, as he was lazy and slept too much anyway. If anything, Shylock is grateful that Lancelot will assist Bassanio in wasting his borrowed cash. Again reminding Jessica to lock up the doors and stay inside, Shylock exits. Alone at Shylock's house, Jessica declares she will soon have a new father and hers will be rid of a daughter.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_8_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 6

act 2, scene 6

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-6", "summary": "Graziano and Salerio wait outside Shylock's house for Lorenzo to show up. Graziano notes that he should be early, since he is moved by love, which makes time run fast. Graziano, ever a cynic, compares love to a banquet: you're famished when you first sit down at the table, but you're never hungry when you get up. In other words, once lovers have had their \"fill\" of each other, their desire isn't as strong as it once was. Graziano then quips that young men newly in love are like rich ships embarking on a new and exciting sea journey, but whose sails soon become ragged when they're tossed around the ocean by violent winds. Lorenzo shows up just then, claiming it was his business that made him late. Then Lorenzo channels Romeo and calls up to his girl. Lorenzo and Jessica exchange a few sweet words. Jessica passes down a chest of money and says she's ashamed of being dressed like a boy. Lorenzo says she looks hot in her disguise and tells her to come down and hold the lamp since she's supposed to pretend she's a hired torchbearer. Jessica says, \"Hang on. Let me lock the door real quick and stuff some more of my dad's gold in my shirt.\" Lorenzo takes her stalling as an opportunity to detail what he loves about her, namely her wisdom, beauty, and honesty. Jessica finally comes downstairs and leaves with Lorenzo and Salerio. Graziano is left behind, ever convenient for Antonio to stumble upon as he wanders in himself at that very moment, wondering where all of his buddies have gone. Antonio says everyone's waiting for Gratiano. There's been a change of plans. There will be no masque tonight. Instead, they're all headed for Belmont so Bassanio can land himself a rich wife.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 6. The same. [Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued.] GRATIANO. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desir'd us to make stand. SALARINO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALARINO. O! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind! SALARINO. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter. [Enter LORENZO.] LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode; Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait: When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I'll watch as long for you then. Approach; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within? [Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes.] JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue. LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love. JESSICA. Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange; But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur'd. LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once; For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight. [Exit above.] GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew. LORENZO. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily; For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. [Enter JESSICA.] What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.] [Enter ANTONIO] ANTONIO. Who's there? GRATIANO. Signior Antonio! ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you. No masque to-night: the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard: I have sent twenty out to seek for you. GRATIANO. I am glad on't: I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Exeunt.]

Act 2, Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-6

Graziano and Salerio wait outside Shylock's house for Lorenzo to show up. Graziano notes that he should be early, since he is moved by love, which makes time run fast. Graziano, ever a cynic, compares love to a banquet: you're famished when you first sit down at the table, but you're never hungry when you get up. In other words, once lovers have had their "fill" of each other, their desire isn't as strong as it once was. Graziano then quips that young men newly in love are like rich ships embarking on a new and exciting sea journey, but whose sails soon become ragged when they're tossed around the ocean by violent winds. Lorenzo shows up just then, claiming it was his business that made him late. Then Lorenzo channels Romeo and calls up to his girl. Lorenzo and Jessica exchange a few sweet words. Jessica passes down a chest of money and says she's ashamed of being dressed like a boy. Lorenzo says she looks hot in her disguise and tells her to come down and hold the lamp since she's supposed to pretend she's a hired torchbearer. Jessica says, "Hang on. Let me lock the door real quick and stuff some more of my dad's gold in my shirt." Lorenzo takes her stalling as an opportunity to detail what he loves about her, namely her wisdom, beauty, and honesty. Jessica finally comes downstairs and leaves with Lorenzo and Salerio. Graziano is left behind, ever convenient for Antonio to stumble upon as he wanders in himself at that very moment, wondering where all of his buddies have gone. Antonio says everyone's waiting for Gratiano. There's been a change of plans. There will be no masque tonight. Instead, they're all headed for Belmont so Bassanio can land himself a rich wife.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_10_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 8

act 2, scene 8

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-8", "summary": "Salerio and Solanio are, yet again, hanging about the streets of Venice. They gossip about the latest news: Bassanio's ship has sailed with Graziano but not Lorenzo. Shylock found his daughter had disappeared and raised the Duke of Venice from his sleep to find her. They didn't locate Jessica, but the Duke did find out that she was last seen with Lorenzo in a gondola filled with love . Solanio reports that Shylock's reaction was strange--he lamented his lost ducats intermittently with his lost daughter, both stolen by a Christian: \"My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!\" and so on. He was mocked by all the boys in Venice, who trailed behind him crying of ducats and daughters. Solanio says Antonio better repay Shylock on time or he'll definitely have to pay. Shylock is going to want to find someone to take his anger out on. Speaking of Antonio, Salerio announces that he recently got some bad news from a Frenchman, who told of an Italian ship that was wrecked between France and England. Salerio sure hopes it wasn't one of Antonio's ships. The men reason back and forth over whether they should tell Antonio the potentially disastrous news. Salerio credits Antonio with being one of the nicest guys on the block, and he tells of how he watched Antonio and Bassanio part as the latter was on his way to Belmont. Antonio told Bassanio not to rush but to stay as long as he needed to win Portia. Aw. In the meantime, Antonio counseled Bassanio not to worry about his debt with Shylock. Instead, he should be happy and think of love and courtship. And he had a tear in his eye as they shook hands. Aw. They set off to try to cheer Antonio up.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 8. Venice. A street [Enter SALARINO and SALANIO.] SALARINO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SALANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. SALARINO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SALANIO. I never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. 'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter! And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl! She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.' SALARINO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SALANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. SALARINO. Marry, well remember'd. I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me,--in the narrow seas that part The French and English,--there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish'd in silence that it were not his. SALANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answer'd 'Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted. SALANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALARINO. Do we so. [Exeunt.]

Act 2, Scene 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-2-scene-8

Salerio and Solanio are, yet again, hanging about the streets of Venice. They gossip about the latest news: Bassanio's ship has sailed with Graziano but not Lorenzo. Shylock found his daughter had disappeared and raised the Duke of Venice from his sleep to find her. They didn't locate Jessica, but the Duke did find out that she was last seen with Lorenzo in a gondola filled with love . Solanio reports that Shylock's reaction was strange--he lamented his lost ducats intermittently with his lost daughter, both stolen by a Christian: "My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!" and so on. He was mocked by all the boys in Venice, who trailed behind him crying of ducats and daughters. Solanio says Antonio better repay Shylock on time or he'll definitely have to pay. Shylock is going to want to find someone to take his anger out on. Speaking of Antonio, Salerio announces that he recently got some bad news from a Frenchman, who told of an Italian ship that was wrecked between France and England. Salerio sure hopes it wasn't one of Antonio's ships. The men reason back and forth over whether they should tell Antonio the potentially disastrous news. Salerio credits Antonio with being one of the nicest guys on the block, and he tells of how he watched Antonio and Bassanio part as the latter was on his way to Belmont. Antonio told Bassanio not to rush but to stay as long as he needed to win Portia. Aw. In the meantime, Antonio counseled Bassanio not to worry about his debt with Shylock. Instead, he should be happy and think of love and courtship. And he had a tear in his eye as they shook hands. Aw. They set off to try to cheer Antonio up.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_14_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 3.scene 3

act 3, scene 3

{"name": "Act 3, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-3-scene-3", "summary": "On a street in Venice, Shylock presses the jailer to go after Antonio, calling Antonio a fool who lent out money for free. Antonio keeps trying to plead his case, but to no avail. Shylock is hell-bent on having Antonio seized. He says they've sworn an oath, and he insists on getting the bond that was sworn for. Shylock notes that Antonio called him a dog before he had any reason to--but now he's determined to live up to his reputation. Continuing on his rant, Shylock demands justice from the Duke and the jailer, despite how hesitant everyone is. Shylock leaves in a huff, repeating that he'll have his bond with no interference from the Christians. Solanio is understandably stressed out and declares Shylock to be an impenetrable dog. Antonio understands why Shylock has it in for him--often people who had forfeited their debts with Shylock moaned about it to Antonio, who then rescued them. Antonio thinks this undercutting is the reason Shylock hates him. Antonio has concluded that there's nothing the Duke can do about the situation now. Venice allows foreign nationals some commercial privileges, which keeps trade alive. If the Duke were to impose on the rights of aliens for Antonio's sake, it would compromise justice, trade, and profit in the whole diverse city. At this point Antonio has basically given up--he's been so reduced by all this grief and loss that a pound of flesh doesn't matter to him anymore. In fact, he says, he's so wasted away that he doubts Shylock will even be able find a pound on his body to take. Resigned to his fate, he gives himself over to the jailer and hopes out loud that his beloved friend Bassanio will come see him. After that, Antonio doesn't care what happens.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 3. Venice. A street [Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler.] SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy; This is the fool that lent out money gratis: Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak; I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not; I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond. [Exit.] SALARINO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. ANTONIO. Let him alone; I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life; his reason well I know: I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me. SALARINO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, 'Twill much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go; These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not. [Exeunt.]

Act 3, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-3-scene-3

On a street in Venice, Shylock presses the jailer to go after Antonio, calling Antonio a fool who lent out money for free. Antonio keeps trying to plead his case, but to no avail. Shylock is hell-bent on having Antonio seized. He says they've sworn an oath, and he insists on getting the bond that was sworn for. Shylock notes that Antonio called him a dog before he had any reason to--but now he's determined to live up to his reputation. Continuing on his rant, Shylock demands justice from the Duke and the jailer, despite how hesitant everyone is. Shylock leaves in a huff, repeating that he'll have his bond with no interference from the Christians. Solanio is understandably stressed out and declares Shylock to be an impenetrable dog. Antonio understands why Shylock has it in for him--often people who had forfeited their debts with Shylock moaned about it to Antonio, who then rescued them. Antonio thinks this undercutting is the reason Shylock hates him. Antonio has concluded that there's nothing the Duke can do about the situation now. Venice allows foreign nationals some commercial privileges, which keeps trade alive. If the Duke were to impose on the rights of aliens for Antonio's sake, it would compromise justice, trade, and profit in the whole diverse city. At this point Antonio has basically given up--he's been so reduced by all this grief and loss that a pound of flesh doesn't matter to him anymore. In fact, he says, he's so wasted away that he doubts Shylock will even be able find a pound on his body to take. Resigned to his fate, he gives himself over to the jailer and hopes out loud that his beloved friend Bassanio will come see him. After that, Antonio doesn't care what happens.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_16_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 3.scene 5

act 3, scene 5

{"name": "Act 3, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-3-scene-5", "summary": "At Portia's garden in Belmont, Lancelot talks with Jessica . Always a riot, Lancelot says that Jessica is damned to hell because she's the daughter of a Jew. There's hope for her in the possibility that she's not actually her father's daughter, but Jessica points out that if that's true, she'd be punished for her mother's sins instead. Lancelot agrees that Jessica is damned either way. But she points out that she'll be saved by her husband, who will make her Christian when he marries her. The trouble with this, says Lancelot, is that there are enough Christians already, and more Christians will mean more pork-eaters, which will raise the price of pork, regardless of who has come around to a different view of God. Lorenzo then enters and fakes concern over Lancelot getting cozy with Jessica, his wife. He jokes that Lancelot has already gotten too comfortable with a Moorish woman, who now carries the clown's child. Lancelot, unfazed, says the girl is so promiscuous that anybody could be the father. Then we get lots of quipping about Lancelot calling the house to prepare dinner, and some talk about how the clown never speaks straight. Lancelot leaves and Lorenzo asks Jessica what she thinks of Portia. Jessica is full of praise for the girl, whom she claims has no equal on earth. Lorenzo is a little taken aback by Jessica's warm words and teases that Jessica has in him a husband as worthy as Portia is a wife. They have a crude back-and-forth about Jessica's willingness to praise Lorenzo before dinner, as she won't be able to stomach praising him after. Finally they exit together to go eat dinner.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE 5. The same. A garden. [Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.] LAUNCELOT. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn'd. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELOT. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter. JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. LAUNCELOT. Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways. JESSICA. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian. LAUNCELOT. Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow before, e'en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. JESSICA. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes. [Enter LORENZO.] LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners. JESSICA. Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork. LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. LAUNCELOT. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELOT. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. LAUNCELOT. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. [Exit.] LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words; and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For, having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon; first let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I'll set you forth. [Exeunt.]

Act 3, Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-3-scene-5

At Portia's garden in Belmont, Lancelot talks with Jessica . Always a riot, Lancelot says that Jessica is damned to hell because she's the daughter of a Jew. There's hope for her in the possibility that she's not actually her father's daughter, but Jessica points out that if that's true, she'd be punished for her mother's sins instead. Lancelot agrees that Jessica is damned either way. But she points out that she'll be saved by her husband, who will make her Christian when he marries her. The trouble with this, says Lancelot, is that there are enough Christians already, and more Christians will mean more pork-eaters, which will raise the price of pork, regardless of who has come around to a different view of God. Lorenzo then enters and fakes concern over Lancelot getting cozy with Jessica, his wife. He jokes that Lancelot has already gotten too comfortable with a Moorish woman, who now carries the clown's child. Lancelot, unfazed, says the girl is so promiscuous that anybody could be the father. Then we get lots of quipping about Lancelot calling the house to prepare dinner, and some talk about how the clown never speaks straight. Lancelot leaves and Lorenzo asks Jessica what she thinks of Portia. Jessica is full of praise for the girl, whom she claims has no equal on earth. Lorenzo is a little taken aback by Jessica's warm words and teases that Jessica has in him a husband as worthy as Portia is a wife. They have a crude back-and-forth about Jessica's willingness to praise Lorenzo before dinner, as she won't be able to stomach praising him after. Finally they exit together to go eat dinner.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Merchant of Venice/section_18_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 4.scene 2

act 4, scene 2

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-4-scene-2", "summary": "On the street in Venice, Portia and Nerissa, still disguised as Balthazar and his attendant, continue to do their legal stuff. Portia tells Nerissa to find Shylock's house and give him the deed of gift they drafted for Lorenzo and Jessica's inheritance. Portia announces that their plan is to go away tonight and be home before their husbands return tomorrow. Portia notes that Lorenzo will be stoked about Shylock's deed of gift . Just then, Graziano shows up and gives Portia Bassanio's ring, saying he changed his mind. Furthermore, he wants them to come to dinner. Portia accepts the ring, refuses the dinner invite, and plots with Nerissa to raise hell for their men once they get home. Nerissa, quite the little copycat, had also given Graziano a ring, and had, just like Portia, also made him promise never to give it away. Nerissa decides that, in her disguise and with her originality, she'll ask Graziano for this very ring and see if he gives it up. Portia jokes that they'll really give it to their husbands when they come home without their rings. The men will of course swear that they gave the rings to other men, not to random women, but the women, knowing the truth, will swear otherwise. Portia then asks Graziano to show her to Shylock's house.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. The same. A street [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.] PORTIA. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it; we'll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. [Enter GRATIANO.] GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en. My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be: His ring I do accept most thankfully; And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock's house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to PORTIA.] I'll see if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA.[To NERISSA] Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? [Exeunt.]

Act 4, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510033633/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/merchant-of-venice/summary/act-4-scene-2

On the street in Venice, Portia and Nerissa, still disguised as Balthazar and his attendant, continue to do their legal stuff. Portia tells Nerissa to find Shylock's house and give him the deed of gift they drafted for Lorenzo and Jessica's inheritance. Portia announces that their plan is to go away tonight and be home before their husbands return tomorrow. Portia notes that Lorenzo will be stoked about Shylock's deed of gift . Just then, Graziano shows up and gives Portia Bassanio's ring, saying he changed his mind. Furthermore, he wants them to come to dinner. Portia accepts the ring, refuses the dinner invite, and plots with Nerissa to raise hell for their men once they get home. Nerissa, quite the little copycat, had also given Graziano a ring, and had, just like Portia, also made him promise never to give it away. Nerissa decides that, in her disguise and with her originality, she'll ask Graziano for this very ring and see if he gives it up. Portia jokes that they'll really give it to their husbands when they come home without their rings. The men will of course swear that they gave the rings to other men, not to random women, but the women, knowing the truth, will swear otherwise. Portia then asks Graziano to show her to Shylock's house.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_1_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 1.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-2", "summary": "At Belmont, Portia discusses the terms of her father's will with her confidante, Nerissa. According to the will of her late father, Portia cannot marry a man of her own choosing. Instead, she must make herself available to all suitors and accept the one who chooses \"rightly\" from among \"three chests of gold, silver and lead.\" Nerissa tries to comfort Portia and tells her that surely her father knew what he was doing; whoever the man might be who finally chooses \"rightly,\" surely he will be \"one who shall rightly love.\" Portia is not so certain. None of her current suitors is the kind of man whom she would choose for herself if she could choose. She cannot, however, for she gave her word that she would be obedient to her father's last wishes. Nerissa asks her to reconsider the gentlemen who have courted her, and she names the suitors who have come to Belmont -- a Neapolitan prince; the County Palatine; a French lord, Monsieur Le Bon; a young English baron, Falconbridge; a Scottish lord; and a young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew. Portia caustically comments on their individual faults, finding each one of them undesirable as a husband. Fortunately, all of them have decided to return home, unwilling to risk the penalty for choosing the wrong casket -- which is, remaining a bachelor for the rest of their lives. Nerissa then reminds her mistress of a gentleman who came to Belmont while Portia's father was living -- his name was Bassanio, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier. Portia recalls him and praises him highly: \"He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving of a fair lady.\" A servant interrupts the conversation and announces that a new suitor, the Prince of Morocco, will arrive that evening.", "analysis": "First off, the opening of this scene is deliberately reminiscent of the opening of Scene 1. Like Antonio, Portia announces her sadness, but unlike Antonio's, Portia's sadness is clearly due to the conditions imposed on her by her dead father's will: in the matter of her marriage, she must abide by the test of the choice of the three caskets; she can \"neither choose who I would nor refuse who dislike .\" We had been led to expect that Portia would be a woman who was very beautiful and very rich, but what we have now before us is a woman who is not only fair but quite impressive for her wit, for her agility of mind and for her sharp, satiric intelligence. It is, in fact, Portia's satiric flair that provides this comedy with most of its sparkle; here, it is displayed brilliantly when Nerissa urges Portia to reconsider her various suitors thus far, and Portia offers her wry and droll comments on each one. It is at this point that Shakespeare is giving his audience the conventional Elizabethan satiric view of the other European nations. Portia's dismissal of each of her suitors corresponds to her age's caricatures of the typical Italian, Frenchman, German, and so on. The Neapolitan prince \"does nothing but talk of his horse,\" a characteristic of only the southern Italian; the \"County Palatine\" is a pure, unadulterated dullard; he is unable to laugh at anything; \"Monsieur Le Bon\" is \"every man in no man\" -- that is to say, he has many superficial and changeable characters but no single, substantial one. The English suitor, on the other hand, affects European fashions in clothing but gets all of the various national fads -- in clothes, music, literature, etc. -- completely confused, and refuses to speak any language except his own. And then there is the Scot -- defined by his anger at the English; and finally, there is the German who does nothing but drink. Portia sensibly refuses to be married to a \"sponge.\" Basically, we can say that this scene has three major purposes. First, it outlines the device of the caskets for us, which will provide the dramatic basis for the scenes in which the various suitors \"hazard\" their choice of the proper casket for Portia's hand in marriage. Second, it introduces us to Portia -- not simply as the \"fair\" object of Bassanio's love, but as a woman of powerful character and wit, perceptive about the people around her and quite able to hold her own in verbal combat with anyone in the play. This is a very important quality, given Portia's subsequent importance in the development of the plot. Her brilliance much later in the play, as a result, will not come as a surprise to the audience, especially when she superbly outwits the crafty Shylock. Finally, there is a minor but significant touch toward the end of the scene, when Nerissa asks Portia whether or not she remembers a certain \"Venetian, a scholar and a soldier\" who had earlier visited Belmont. First, we hear Portia's immediate recall of Bassanio, indicating her vivid memory of him and implying an interest in him. This scene reminds us that, despite the obstructions to come, this is a comedy, and that because of Bassanio's attempt to win Portia and her affection for him, both of them will be finally rewarded."}

SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.] PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounced. NERISSA. They would be better, if well followed. PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose'! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come? PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection. NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith. NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'An you will not have me, choose.' He hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two! NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-capering; he will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. NERISSA. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England? PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able; I think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew? PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets. PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure. NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called. NERISSA. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. [Enter a SERVANT.] How now! what news? SERVANT. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here to-night. PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. [Exeunt]

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-2

At Belmont, Portia discusses the terms of her father's will with her confidante, Nerissa. According to the will of her late father, Portia cannot marry a man of her own choosing. Instead, she must make herself available to all suitors and accept the one who chooses "rightly" from among "three chests of gold, silver and lead." Nerissa tries to comfort Portia and tells her that surely her father knew what he was doing; whoever the man might be who finally chooses "rightly," surely he will be "one who shall rightly love." Portia is not so certain. None of her current suitors is the kind of man whom she would choose for herself if she could choose. She cannot, however, for she gave her word that she would be obedient to her father's last wishes. Nerissa asks her to reconsider the gentlemen who have courted her, and she names the suitors who have come to Belmont -- a Neapolitan prince; the County Palatine; a French lord, Monsieur Le Bon; a young English baron, Falconbridge; a Scottish lord; and a young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew. Portia caustically comments on their individual faults, finding each one of them undesirable as a husband. Fortunately, all of them have decided to return home, unwilling to risk the penalty for choosing the wrong casket -- which is, remaining a bachelor for the rest of their lives. Nerissa then reminds her mistress of a gentleman who came to Belmont while Portia's father was living -- his name was Bassanio, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier. Portia recalls him and praises him highly: "He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving of a fair lady." A servant interrupts the conversation and announces that a new suitor, the Prince of Morocco, will arrive that evening.

First off, the opening of this scene is deliberately reminiscent of the opening of Scene 1. Like Antonio, Portia announces her sadness, but unlike Antonio's, Portia's sadness is clearly due to the conditions imposed on her by her dead father's will: in the matter of her marriage, she must abide by the test of the choice of the three caskets; she can "neither choose who I would nor refuse who dislike ." We had been led to expect that Portia would be a woman who was very beautiful and very rich, but what we have now before us is a woman who is not only fair but quite impressive for her wit, for her agility of mind and for her sharp, satiric intelligence. It is, in fact, Portia's satiric flair that provides this comedy with most of its sparkle; here, it is displayed brilliantly when Nerissa urges Portia to reconsider her various suitors thus far, and Portia offers her wry and droll comments on each one. It is at this point that Shakespeare is giving his audience the conventional Elizabethan satiric view of the other European nations. Portia's dismissal of each of her suitors corresponds to her age's caricatures of the typical Italian, Frenchman, German, and so on. The Neapolitan prince "does nothing but talk of his horse," a characteristic of only the southern Italian; the "County Palatine" is a pure, unadulterated dullard; he is unable to laugh at anything; "Monsieur Le Bon" is "every man in no man" -- that is to say, he has many superficial and changeable characters but no single, substantial one. The English suitor, on the other hand, affects European fashions in clothing but gets all of the various national fads -- in clothes, music, literature, etc. -- completely confused, and refuses to speak any language except his own. And then there is the Scot -- defined by his anger at the English; and finally, there is the German who does nothing but drink. Portia sensibly refuses to be married to a "sponge." Basically, we can say that this scene has three major purposes. First, it outlines the device of the caskets for us, which will provide the dramatic basis for the scenes in which the various suitors "hazard" their choice of the proper casket for Portia's hand in marriage. Second, it introduces us to Portia -- not simply as the "fair" object of Bassanio's love, but as a woman of powerful character and wit, perceptive about the people around her and quite able to hold her own in verbal combat with anyone in the play. This is a very important quality, given Portia's subsequent importance in the development of the plot. Her brilliance much later in the play, as a result, will not come as a surprise to the audience, especially when she superbly outwits the crafty Shylock. Finally, there is a minor but significant touch toward the end of the scene, when Nerissa asks Portia whether or not she remembers a certain "Venetian, a scholar and a soldier" who had earlier visited Belmont. First, we hear Portia's immediate recall of Bassanio, indicating her vivid memory of him and implying an interest in him. This scene reminds us that, despite the obstructions to come, this is a comedy, and that because of Bassanio's attempt to win Portia and her affection for him, both of them will be finally rewarded.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1", "summary": "There is a flourish of trumpets, and the Prince of Morocco enters. Portia, along with her confidante, Nerissa, and several ladies-in-waiting are present, and the prince, knowing that he is only one of many suitors who seek Portia's hand in marriage, begins his courtship straightforwardly -- that is, he initiates the subject of the color of his skin. Being from Morocco, he comes \"in the shadowed livery of the burnished sun.\" He has a very dark complexion, and he begs Portia to \"mislike not for complexion.\" Despite the color of his skin, however, his blood is as red as any of Portia's other suitors, and he is as brave as any of them. Portia tells him that he is \"as fair\" as any of the men who have come to seek her \"affection.\" Furthermore, were she not bound by the terms of her father's will, he would stand as good a chance as any other suitor. According to her father's will, however, if the prince wishes to try for her hand, he must take his chances like all the others. If he chooses wrongly, he must remain a bachelor forever; he is \"never to speak to lady afterward / In way of marriage.\" The prince is not easily deterred; he is ready for the test. All in good time, says Portia; first, they shall have dinner together. Then his \"hazard shall be made.\" There is a flourish of trumpets, and the two exit.", "analysis": "In contrast to the businesslike mood of Act I, this act begins with much visual and verbal pomp. Visually, the Prince of Morocco and Portia enter from opposite sides of the stage to a \"flourish of cornets,\" each followed by a train of attendants. Morocco then opens the dialogue with a proud reference to his dark skin, and the rich, regular, sonorous poetry which Shakespeare gives him to speak suggests that the prince possesses a large, imposing physical presence. Because we have already listened to Portia blithely dismiss the other suitors who have already appeared at Belmont so far, here, her greeting has both courtesy and respect -- \"Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair / As any comer I have looked on yet / For my affection.\" Since there are three caskets for Portia's suitors to choose from, there will therefore be three occasions in which suitors will attempt the test of the caskets to win Portia in marriage. Thus the three contestants are subtly contrasted. The first, Morocco, is intensely physical; he is a warrior. He speaks of his red blood, the power of his scimitar, and of the courage that can \"mock the lion when 'a roars for prey.\" Morocco is a straightforward soldier-prince; he is rightly self-assured and is contrasted to the Prince of Arragon , whose excessive pride is concerned with lineage and position. Both of these suitors will fail, and although the audience knows, or suspects this , this knowledge does not interfere with the thrill of dramatic anticipation as Morocco, first, and, later, Arragon make their choices. Rationally, we may know how a story ends, but this does not prevent our imaginative excitement in watching the unfolding of events."}

ACT 2. SCENE I. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, and his Followers; PORTIA, NERISSA, and Others of her train.] PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing; But, if my father had not scanted me And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you: Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar,-- That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,-- I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his page; And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong, Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance. PORTIA. First, forward to the temple: after dinner Your hazard shall be made. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men! [Cornets, and exeunt.]

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1

There is a flourish of trumpets, and the Prince of Morocco enters. Portia, along with her confidante, Nerissa, and several ladies-in-waiting are present, and the prince, knowing that he is only one of many suitors who seek Portia's hand in marriage, begins his courtship straightforwardly -- that is, he initiates the subject of the color of his skin. Being from Morocco, he comes "in the shadowed livery of the burnished sun." He has a very dark complexion, and he begs Portia to "mislike not for complexion." Despite the color of his skin, however, his blood is as red as any of Portia's other suitors, and he is as brave as any of them. Portia tells him that he is "as fair" as any of the men who have come to seek her "affection." Furthermore, were she not bound by the terms of her father's will, he would stand as good a chance as any other suitor. According to her father's will, however, if the prince wishes to try for her hand, he must take his chances like all the others. If he chooses wrongly, he must remain a bachelor forever; he is "never to speak to lady afterward / In way of marriage." The prince is not easily deterred; he is ready for the test. All in good time, says Portia; first, they shall have dinner together. Then his "hazard shall be made." There is a flourish of trumpets, and the two exit.

In contrast to the businesslike mood of Act I, this act begins with much visual and verbal pomp. Visually, the Prince of Morocco and Portia enter from opposite sides of the stage to a "flourish of cornets," each followed by a train of attendants. Morocco then opens the dialogue with a proud reference to his dark skin, and the rich, regular, sonorous poetry which Shakespeare gives him to speak suggests that the prince possesses a large, imposing physical presence. Because we have already listened to Portia blithely dismiss the other suitors who have already appeared at Belmont so far, here, her greeting has both courtesy and respect -- "Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair / As any comer I have looked on yet / For my affection." Since there are three caskets for Portia's suitors to choose from, there will therefore be three occasions in which suitors will attempt the test of the caskets to win Portia in marriage. Thus the three contestants are subtly contrasted. The first, Morocco, is intensely physical; he is a warrior. He speaks of his red blood, the power of his scimitar, and of the courage that can "mock the lion when 'a roars for prey." Morocco is a straightforward soldier-prince; he is rightly self-assured and is contrasted to the Prince of Arragon , whose excessive pride is concerned with lineage and position. Both of these suitors will fail, and although the audience knows, or suspects this , this knowledge does not interfere with the thrill of dramatic anticipation as Morocco, first, and, later, Arragon make their choices. Rationally, we may know how a story ends, but this does not prevent our imaginative excitement in watching the unfolding of events.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_4_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-2", "summary": "After the last, rather serious scene in Belmont, we return to Venice, and the initial emphasis here is on Launcelot Gobbo, Shylock's servant, an \"unthrifty knight.\" Launcelot is debating with himself as to whether or not he should remain in Shylock's service; he is tempted to leave and find employment elsewhere, but he is unable to make up his mind. The decision is difficult, he says, for he feels the weight of his \"conscience hanging about the neck of his heart.\" The comedy builds when Launcelot's father, Old Gobbo, comes onstage. Old Gobbo is \"more than sandblind\" and does not recognize his son. He sees before him only the dim image of a man who he hopes can direct him to Shylock's house. Launcelot is delighted to encounter his father, whom he has not seen for a long time, and so he conceals his true identity and playfully confuses the old man with much clowning and double-talk, before revealing who he really is and kneeling to receive his father's blessing. Bassanio now enters, along with Leonardo and other followers, and he is enthusiastically talking of preparations for a dinner tonight, complete with a masque, to which he has invited his friends to celebrate his departure for Belmont, where he will begin his courtship of Portia. Launcelot is quick to note Bassanio's good mood, and he immediately speaks to him about Bassanio's hiring him as a servant. Bassanio agrees and orders a new set of livery for his new servant. Gratiano enters, looking for Bassanio, and tells him, \"I must go with you to Belmont.\" Bassanio is hesitant, but he finally consents, urging Gratiano to modify his \"wild behaviour,\" which Gratiano agrees to do. But he will do that tomorrow. Tonight, he says, shall be a night of merriment, a gala inaugurating his setting out for Belmont.", "analysis": "This scene, like Scene 1 and most of the rest of the nine scenes in Act II, deals with minor diversions and developments in the plot -- the elopement of Lorenzo and Jessica, and Launcelot Gobbo's transfer of his services from Shylock to Bassanio. Almost all of this scene is taken up with the antics of Launcelot Gobbo, and it may be useful here to consider for a moment the clowns and comedy of the Elizabethan stage. Two of the most important members of any Elizabethan theatrical company were the actor who played the tragic hero and the actor who played the clown. It is obvious why the actor who played the great tragic roles was important, but it is perhaps not so easy for us to see, from the standpoint of the modern theater, why the role of a clown took on so much importance. The clowns, though, were great favorites with the Elizabethan audiences. Their parts involved a great deal of comic stage business -- improvised actions, gestures, and expressions -- and they had their own special routines. Launcelot, for example, would be given a great deal of leeway in using his own special comic devices. Much here depends on the actor's \"business\" -- mime, expressions of horror or stupid self-satisfaction, burlesque or parody movements around the stage, and so forth. This sort of scene is not written for verbal comedy ; rather, Shakespeare wrote them to give his actors as much scope as was necessary for visual antics. Today we call these gimmicks \"sight gags\" or \"slapstick.\" The dialogue itself is not particularly witty because the comedy was meant to be mostly physical. Launcelot's opening speech takes the form of a debate between \"the fiend\" and his own \"conscience.\" The comedy here lies in the fact that the jester-clown Launcelot should regard himself as the hero of a religious drama, but this gives him the opportunity to mimic two separate parts, jumping back and forth on the stage and addressing himself: \"Well, my conscience says, 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience\" . Visually, this makes for good comedy; while reading this play aloud, one can enhance this brief scene by imagining that the voice of the conscience is delivered in high, falsetto, flute-like tones; the voice of the fiend, in contrast, is delivered in low, evil-sounding growls. In addition to this clowning business, verbal confusion was also a favorite device in this sort of scene, and it occurs throughout the play. Notice, for example, the directions for finding Shylock's house which Launcelot gives to his father: \"Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning of no hand, but turn down indirectly.\" Small wonder that Old Gobbo exclaims, \"'twill be a hard way to hit!\" There is more visual comedy when the two Gobbos confront Bassanio at line 120. Here, it is suggested by the lines that Launcelot bends down behind his father, popping up to interrupt him at every other line and finishing his sentences for him. This kind of comedy depends on visual and verbal confusion, especially mistaking obvious words and phrases. Particularly characteristic of this clowning is the confusion of word meanings. Here, Launcelot speaks of his \"true-begotten father,\" and he uses \"infection\" for affection, \"frutify\" for certify, \"defect\" for effect, and so on. Toward the close of the scene, two more details of the central plot are developed. First, Launcelot leaves Shylock's household for that of Bassanio; this prepares us for a similar, if a much greater defection from Shylock by his daughter, Jessica, in the following scene. It also makes it possible for Launcelot to appear at Belmont in the final act, where a little of his clowning adds to the general good humor. Second, Gratiano announces his intention of going to Belmont with Bassanio; he must be there to marry Nerissa and take part in the comedy of the \"ring story,\" which ends the play with lighthearted teasing wit."}

SCENE 2. Venice. A street [Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.] LAUNCELOT. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot' or 'good Gobbo' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, honest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the fiend. 'For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son'--or rather 'an honest woman's son';--for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;--well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' say I, (you counsel well.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well.' To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark! is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence! is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run. [Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket] GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him. GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. GOBBO. Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELOT. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. LAUNCELOT. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. GOBBO. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. LAUNCELOT. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,--according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning,--is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray you tell me, is my boy--God rest his soul!--alive or dead? LAUNCELOT. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but in the end truth will out. GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. LAUNCELOT. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELOT. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail. LAUNCELOT. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him. GOBBO. Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now? LAUNCELOT. Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come; give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! Here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. [Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with and other Followers.] BASSANIO. You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging. [Exit a SERVANT] LAUNCELOT. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy-- LAUNCELOT. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir,--as my father shall specify-- GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve-- LAUNCELOT. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify-- GOBBO. His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins-- LAUNCELOT. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me,--as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you-- GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship; and my suit is-- LAUNCELOT. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you? LAUNCELOT. Serve you, sir. GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. LAUNCELOT. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. BASSANIO. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows'; see it done. LAUNCELOT. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to; here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing; a'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. [Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO.] BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this: These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go. LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein. [Enter GRATIANO.] GRATIANO. Where's your master? LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks. [Exit.] GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio!-- BASSANIO. Gratiano! GRATIANO. I have suit to you. BASSANIO. You have obtain'd it. GRATIANO. You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont. BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano; Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice; Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconstrued in the place I go to, And lose my hopes. GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me: If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say 'amen'; Use all the observance of civility, Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing. GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night. BASSANIO. No, that were pity; I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well; I have some business. GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt.]

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-2

After the last, rather serious scene in Belmont, we return to Venice, and the initial emphasis here is on Launcelot Gobbo, Shylock's servant, an "unthrifty knight." Launcelot is debating with himself as to whether or not he should remain in Shylock's service; he is tempted to leave and find employment elsewhere, but he is unable to make up his mind. The decision is difficult, he says, for he feels the weight of his "conscience hanging about the neck of his heart." The comedy builds when Launcelot's father, Old Gobbo, comes onstage. Old Gobbo is "more than sandblind" and does not recognize his son. He sees before him only the dim image of a man who he hopes can direct him to Shylock's house. Launcelot is delighted to encounter his father, whom he has not seen for a long time, and so he conceals his true identity and playfully confuses the old man with much clowning and double-talk, before revealing who he really is and kneeling to receive his father's blessing. Bassanio now enters, along with Leonardo and other followers, and he is enthusiastically talking of preparations for a dinner tonight, complete with a masque, to which he has invited his friends to celebrate his departure for Belmont, where he will begin his courtship of Portia. Launcelot is quick to note Bassanio's good mood, and he immediately speaks to him about Bassanio's hiring him as a servant. Bassanio agrees and orders a new set of livery for his new servant. Gratiano enters, looking for Bassanio, and tells him, "I must go with you to Belmont." Bassanio is hesitant, but he finally consents, urging Gratiano to modify his "wild behaviour," which Gratiano agrees to do. But he will do that tomorrow. Tonight, he says, shall be a night of merriment, a gala inaugurating his setting out for Belmont.

This scene, like Scene 1 and most of the rest of the nine scenes in Act II, deals with minor diversions and developments in the plot -- the elopement of Lorenzo and Jessica, and Launcelot Gobbo's transfer of his services from Shylock to Bassanio. Almost all of this scene is taken up with the antics of Launcelot Gobbo, and it may be useful here to consider for a moment the clowns and comedy of the Elizabethan stage. Two of the most important members of any Elizabethan theatrical company were the actor who played the tragic hero and the actor who played the clown. It is obvious why the actor who played the great tragic roles was important, but it is perhaps not so easy for us to see, from the standpoint of the modern theater, why the role of a clown took on so much importance. The clowns, though, were great favorites with the Elizabethan audiences. Their parts involved a great deal of comic stage business -- improvised actions, gestures, and expressions -- and they had their own special routines. Launcelot, for example, would be given a great deal of leeway in using his own special comic devices. Much here depends on the actor's "business" -- mime, expressions of horror or stupid self-satisfaction, burlesque or parody movements around the stage, and so forth. This sort of scene is not written for verbal comedy ; rather, Shakespeare wrote them to give his actors as much scope as was necessary for visual antics. Today we call these gimmicks "sight gags" or "slapstick." The dialogue itself is not particularly witty because the comedy was meant to be mostly physical. Launcelot's opening speech takes the form of a debate between "the fiend" and his own "conscience." The comedy here lies in the fact that the jester-clown Launcelot should regard himself as the hero of a religious drama, but this gives him the opportunity to mimic two separate parts, jumping back and forth on the stage and addressing himself: "Well, my conscience says, 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience" . Visually, this makes for good comedy; while reading this play aloud, one can enhance this brief scene by imagining that the voice of the conscience is delivered in high, falsetto, flute-like tones; the voice of the fiend, in contrast, is delivered in low, evil-sounding growls. In addition to this clowning business, verbal confusion was also a favorite device in this sort of scene, and it occurs throughout the play. Notice, for example, the directions for finding Shylock's house which Launcelot gives to his father: "Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning of no hand, but turn down indirectly." Small wonder that Old Gobbo exclaims, "'twill be a hard way to hit!" There is more visual comedy when the two Gobbos confront Bassanio at line 120. Here, it is suggested by the lines that Launcelot bends down behind his father, popping up to interrupt him at every other line and finishing his sentences for him. This kind of comedy depends on visual and verbal confusion, especially mistaking obvious words and phrases. Particularly characteristic of this clowning is the confusion of word meanings. Here, Launcelot speaks of his "true-begotten father," and he uses "infection" for affection, "frutify" for certify, "defect" for effect, and so on. Toward the close of the scene, two more details of the central plot are developed. First, Launcelot leaves Shylock's household for that of Bassanio; this prepares us for a similar, if a much greater defection from Shylock by his daughter, Jessica, in the following scene. It also makes it possible for Launcelot to appear at Belmont in the final act, where a little of his clowning adds to the general good humor. Second, Gratiano announces his intention of going to Belmont with Bassanio; he must be there to marry Nerissa and take part in the comedy of the "ring story," which ends the play with lighthearted teasing wit.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_5_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-3", "summary": "In this scene, set in Shylock's house, we are introduced to Jessica, Shylock's daughter. She is speaking with Launcelot, and she expresses her sorrow that he decided to leave his position as her father's servant. \"Our house is hell,\" she says, \"and thou a merry devil / Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.\" She then gives him a letter to deliver secretly to her lover Lorenzo \"who is thy new master's guest.\" After Launcelot leaves, we discover that Jessica is planning to elope with Lorenzo; in addition, she is planning to renounce her father's faith and become a Christian.", "analysis": "This brief scene in Act II provides the final piece of plot exposition. Here, we are introduced to Shylock's daughter, Jessica, and in her first words, we have a clear idea about her relationship with her father, and we receive some justification for her plan to leave the old moneylender's house; she says, \"Our house is hell.\" Her love letter, to be given to Lorenzo, will figure in the second of the play's love affairs . It is important that the audience in this scene and in the next scene be aware of Jessica's elopement with Lorenzo, since it adds very heavy irony to Shylock's multiple warnings to his daughter in Scene 5 to guard his house well. In this scene, Shylock is cast in the cliched role of the villain, primarily because of Jessica's remarks, but one should remember that in a romantic comedy, one of the fathers would have to be a villain of sorts; here, it is Shylock. Interestingly, even though Jessica's intention to leave her father's household and rush into her lover's arms seems natural enough, Jessica is aware of her \"sin,\" being her father's child. Finally, though, as part of the romantic plot, all will be well with Jessica, and she will be a part of the general happiness at the play's end."}

SCENE 3. The same. A room in SHYLOCK's house. [Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT.] JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so: Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee; And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest: Give him this letter; do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. LAUNCELOT. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu! JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelot. [Exit LAUNCELOT] Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be asham'd to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo! If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. [Exit]

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-3

In this scene, set in Shylock's house, we are introduced to Jessica, Shylock's daughter. She is speaking with Launcelot, and she expresses her sorrow that he decided to leave his position as her father's servant. "Our house is hell," she says, "and thou a merry devil / Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness." She then gives him a letter to deliver secretly to her lover Lorenzo "who is thy new master's guest." After Launcelot leaves, we discover that Jessica is planning to elope with Lorenzo; in addition, she is planning to renounce her father's faith and become a Christian.

This brief scene in Act II provides the final piece of plot exposition. Here, we are introduced to Shylock's daughter, Jessica, and in her first words, we have a clear idea about her relationship with her father, and we receive some justification for her plan to leave the old moneylender's house; she says, "Our house is hell." Her love letter, to be given to Lorenzo, will figure in the second of the play's love affairs . It is important that the audience in this scene and in the next scene be aware of Jessica's elopement with Lorenzo, since it adds very heavy irony to Shylock's multiple warnings to his daughter in Scene 5 to guard his house well. In this scene, Shylock is cast in the cliched role of the villain, primarily because of Jessica's remarks, but one should remember that in a romantic comedy, one of the fathers would have to be a villain of sorts; here, it is Shylock. Interestingly, even though Jessica's intention to leave her father's household and rush into her lover's arms seems natural enough, Jessica is aware of her "sin," being her father's child. Finally, though, as part of the romantic plot, all will be well with Jessica, and she will be a part of the general happiness at the play's end.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_6_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-4", "summary": "Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio discuss their plans for Bassanio's dinner party and masque that night. All of the preparations have not been made; for example, one of the things which they have neglected to do, and which must be done, is to hire young boys to act as torchbearers for the evening so that the gala party will be brightly lighted. This is to be a special evening, and all details must be considered. While they are talking, Launcelot enters, on his way to invite Shylock to the party, and he delivers Jessica's letter to Lorenzo. Lorenzo reads it and sends Jessica a reply: \"Tell gentle Jessica / I will not fail her; speak it privately.\" Lorenzo then tells his friends that he has found a torchbearer, and he confides to Gratiano that Jessica is going to disguise herself as a page tonight and elope with him; furthermore, she will escape with enough gold and jewels for a proper dowry. Lorenzo feels sure that Jessica, in a page's attire, can successfully disguise herself as a torchbearer for Bassanio's party and not be recognized.", "analysis": "The masque, which the characters discuss, never occurs; perhaps the play has been cut, or perhaps Shakespeare felt that there was simply not enough time for a masque. In any event, however, the anticipation of the masque causes the audience to envision it, and thus it suggests a youthful and romantic background to the Jessica-Lorenzo development , a mood which is clearly antithetical to the self-denying and puritanical life of Shylock's household."}

SCENE 4. The same. A street [Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.] LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SALANIO. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd, And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. 'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours To furnish us. [Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter.] Friend Launcelot, what's the news? LAUNCELOT. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. LORENZO. I know the hand; in faith, 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. GRATIANO. Love news, in faith. LAUNCELOT. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELOT. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the Christian. LORENZO. Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, [Exit LAUNCELOT] Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALARINO. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. SALANIO. And so will I. LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. SALARINO. 'Tis good we do so. [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.] GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house; What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with; What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt]

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-4

Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio discuss their plans for Bassanio's dinner party and masque that night. All of the preparations have not been made; for example, one of the things which they have neglected to do, and which must be done, is to hire young boys to act as torchbearers for the evening so that the gala party will be brightly lighted. This is to be a special evening, and all details must be considered. While they are talking, Launcelot enters, on his way to invite Shylock to the party, and he delivers Jessica's letter to Lorenzo. Lorenzo reads it and sends Jessica a reply: "Tell gentle Jessica / I will not fail her; speak it privately." Lorenzo then tells his friends that he has found a torchbearer, and he confides to Gratiano that Jessica is going to disguise herself as a page tonight and elope with him; furthermore, she will escape with enough gold and jewels for a proper dowry. Lorenzo feels sure that Jessica, in a page's attire, can successfully disguise herself as a torchbearer for Bassanio's party and not be recognized.

The masque, which the characters discuss, never occurs; perhaps the play has been cut, or perhaps Shakespeare felt that there was simply not enough time for a masque. In any event, however, the anticipation of the masque causes the audience to envision it, and thus it suggests a youthful and romantic background to the Jessica-Lorenzo development , a mood which is clearly antithetical to the self-denying and puritanical life of Shylock's household.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_8_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 6

scene 6

{"name": "Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-6", "summary": "Gratiano and Salarino, masked and costumed for Bassanio's party, wait for Lorenzo under the overhanging roof of Shylock's house. Gratiano is puzzled that Lorenzo is late for his rendezvous with Jessica; he knows that lovers usually \"run before the dock.\" Lorenzo's delay is certainly uncharacteristic of most young lovers. Suddenly, Lorenzo rushes onstage, apologizes for his lateness, and calls to Jessica. She appears above, dressed as a boy, and tosses down a casket of money and jewels to Lorenzo. Shyly, she says that she is ashamed to be eloping with her beloved while she is so unbecomingly dressed as a boy. \"Cupid himself,\" she tells Lorenzo, \"would blush.\" Lorenzo tells her that she must play her part well; not only must she successfully be convincing as a boy, but she must also be his torchbearer at Bassanio's party -- a fact that unnerves her. The idea of \"hold a candle to shames\" is frightening. She is certain that what Lorenzo is asking of her will lead to discovery, and she feels that she \"should be obscured.\" Lorenzo is finally able to reassure her, however, and Jessica turns back to do two last things before they elope. She wants to \"make fast the doors\" , and she wants to get \"some more ducats.\" Gratiano praises her, and Lorenzo reaffirms that he will love her in his \"constant soul,\" for she is \"wise, fair, and true.\" Jessica then enters below, and the lovers and Salarino exit. Antonio enters and, finding Gratiano, tells him that there will be \"no masque tonight.\" The wind has changed, and Bassanio and his men must sail for Belmont. Gratiano admits that he is relieved that there will be no feasting and no masque. He is anxious to be \"under sail and gone tonight.\"", "analysis": "There is no real break between this scene and the preceding one. As Shylock exits, and Jessica exits only moments later, Gratiano and Salarino enter, costumed for the masque and carrying torches. Gratiano, as we might expect, does most of the talking as the two chaps wait beneath the overhanging roof of Shylock's house. When Lorenzo arrives onstage and Jessica appears above him, a modern audience would almost certainly think of the lovers Romeo and Juliet. Thus the romantic mood is immediately set -- except that this romantic heroine is dressed in \"the lovely garnish of a boy.\" This was a popular and recurrent Elizabethan stage convention, and a very convenient one, since all the girls' roles were played by boys. Shakespeare uses this disguise convention later in this same play with Portia and Nerissa disguised as a lawyer and his clerk. At this point, since Jessica is both deserting her father's house and robbing it, it is almost too easy, in one sense, to disapprove of her; Shylock hasn't really shown us a truly villainous side. One doesn't take the \"pound of flesh\" bond literally -- yet."}

SCENE 6. The same. [Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued.] GRATIANO. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desir'd us to make stand. SALARINO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALARINO. O! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind! SALARINO. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter. [Enter LORENZO.] LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode; Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait: When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I'll watch as long for you then. Approach; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within? [Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes.] JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue. LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love. JESSICA. Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange; But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur'd. LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once; For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight. [Exit above.] GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew. LORENZO. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily; For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. [Enter JESSICA.] What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.] [Enter ANTONIO] ANTONIO. Who's there? GRATIANO. Signior Antonio! ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you. No masque to-night: the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard: I have sent twenty out to seek for you. GRATIANO. I am glad on't: I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Exeunt.]

Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-6

Gratiano and Salarino, masked and costumed for Bassanio's party, wait for Lorenzo under the overhanging roof of Shylock's house. Gratiano is puzzled that Lorenzo is late for his rendezvous with Jessica; he knows that lovers usually "run before the dock." Lorenzo's delay is certainly uncharacteristic of most young lovers. Suddenly, Lorenzo rushes onstage, apologizes for his lateness, and calls to Jessica. She appears above, dressed as a boy, and tosses down a casket of money and jewels to Lorenzo. Shyly, she says that she is ashamed to be eloping with her beloved while she is so unbecomingly dressed as a boy. "Cupid himself," she tells Lorenzo, "would blush." Lorenzo tells her that she must play her part well; not only must she successfully be convincing as a boy, but she must also be his torchbearer at Bassanio's party -- a fact that unnerves her. The idea of "hold a candle to shames" is frightening. She is certain that what Lorenzo is asking of her will lead to discovery, and she feels that she "should be obscured." Lorenzo is finally able to reassure her, however, and Jessica turns back to do two last things before they elope. She wants to "make fast the doors" , and she wants to get "some more ducats." Gratiano praises her, and Lorenzo reaffirms that he will love her in his "constant soul," for she is "wise, fair, and true." Jessica then enters below, and the lovers and Salarino exit. Antonio enters and, finding Gratiano, tells him that there will be "no masque tonight." The wind has changed, and Bassanio and his men must sail for Belmont. Gratiano admits that he is relieved that there will be no feasting and no masque. He is anxious to be "under sail and gone tonight."

There is no real break between this scene and the preceding one. As Shylock exits, and Jessica exits only moments later, Gratiano and Salarino enter, costumed for the masque and carrying torches. Gratiano, as we might expect, does most of the talking as the two chaps wait beneath the overhanging roof of Shylock's house. When Lorenzo arrives onstage and Jessica appears above him, a modern audience would almost certainly think of the lovers Romeo and Juliet. Thus the romantic mood is immediately set -- except that this romantic heroine is dressed in "the lovely garnish of a boy." This was a popular and recurrent Elizabethan stage convention, and a very convenient one, since all the girls' roles were played by boys. Shakespeare uses this disguise convention later in this same play with Portia and Nerissa disguised as a lawyer and his clerk. At this point, since Jessica is both deserting her father's house and robbing it, it is almost too easy, in one sense, to disapprove of her; Shylock hasn't really shown us a truly villainous side. One doesn't take the "pound of flesh" bond literally -- yet.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_10_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 2.scene 8

scene 8

{"name": "Scene 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-8", "summary": "Salarino and Salanio discuss developments in Venice. When Shylock discovered that Jessica was gone, he demanded that the Duke of Venice have Bassanio's ship searched; this proved to be impossible because Bassanio had already sailed. Antonio, however, assured the duke that Lorenzo and Jessica were not on board Bassanio's ship. Salanio then describes how Shylock raved in the streets, crying, \"My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! / Fled with a Christian,\" while \"all the boys in Venice\" followed him, mocking him, his daughter, and his ducats. Salanio worries about what will happen to Antonio: He knows Shylock's temper. Jessica's elopement and Antonio's swearing that Bassanio had no part in her escape \"bade no good\" for Antonio. He knows that Antonio must \"keep his day\" or else \"he shall pay for this.\" Salanio is likewise worried about Antonio's future. Only yesterday, a Frenchman told him about an Italian ship that had sunk in the English Channel. He immediately thought of Antonio, hoping that the ship was not one of his. The news about the shipwreck must be broken gently to Antonio because Antonio is a sensitive man. Realizing that Antonio may need cheering up, Salanio and Salarino decide to pay him a visit.", "analysis": "Salarino's and Salanio's opening lines are hurried and excited. Here and elsewhere in the play, notably in Act I, Scene 1, these two act more or less like a chorus; that is to say, they discuss developments of the plot not shown on the stage so that the audience will be aware of them and also of their importance. Here, they are concerned about Antonio's fate, since Shylock is in a terrible temper, and the once \"merry bond\" is no longer \"merry.\" Salanio's speech, beginning at line 12, is introduced here for two reasons: First, Shylock's rage must be described before it is shown so that we can anticipate his state of mind at his next entrance. Second, Shylock's loss of both his daughter and much of his money are important for our understanding the extent of Shylock's desire for revenge. At the beginning of the play, he has only two real reasons for hating Antonio -- a commercial hatred and a religious hatred. To these is now added a shattering personal loss -- he has lost his daughter, his only child, to a Christian, a friend of Antonio -- making plausible his implacable desire for revenge against all Venetian Christians in the person of a man whom he has legally cornered: Antonio. In a very real sense, our sympathy goes out to Shylock, yet Shakespeare keeps us from pitying the man by having Salanio enact a sort of exaggerated parody of Shylock's greedy, histrionic behavior as he tells his friend Salarino how Shylock was chased in the streets by young boys, howling after him. Shylock's repetitions of \"O my ducats! O my daughter! . . . my ducats and my daughter\" indicate that Jessica is simply, at this point, another possession, like his coins. Thus we are prevented from being too oversympathetic to an obsession which has blinded the old moneylender to the true difference between monetary and human values."}

SCENE 8. Venice. A street [Enter SALARINO and SALANIO.] SALARINO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SALANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. SALARINO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SALANIO. I never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. 'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter! And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl! She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.' SALARINO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SALANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. SALARINO. Marry, well remember'd. I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me,--in the narrow seas that part The French and English,--there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish'd in silence that it were not his. SALANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answer'd 'Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted. SALANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALARINO. Do we so. [Exeunt.]

Scene 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-8

Salarino and Salanio discuss developments in Venice. When Shylock discovered that Jessica was gone, he demanded that the Duke of Venice have Bassanio's ship searched; this proved to be impossible because Bassanio had already sailed. Antonio, however, assured the duke that Lorenzo and Jessica were not on board Bassanio's ship. Salanio then describes how Shylock raved in the streets, crying, "My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! / Fled with a Christian," while "all the boys in Venice" followed him, mocking him, his daughter, and his ducats. Salanio worries about what will happen to Antonio: He knows Shylock's temper. Jessica's elopement and Antonio's swearing that Bassanio had no part in her escape "bade no good" for Antonio. He knows that Antonio must "keep his day" or else "he shall pay for this." Salanio is likewise worried about Antonio's future. Only yesterday, a Frenchman told him about an Italian ship that had sunk in the English Channel. He immediately thought of Antonio, hoping that the ship was not one of his. The news about the shipwreck must be broken gently to Antonio because Antonio is a sensitive man. Realizing that Antonio may need cheering up, Salanio and Salarino decide to pay him a visit.

Salarino's and Salanio's opening lines are hurried and excited. Here and elsewhere in the play, notably in Act I, Scene 1, these two act more or less like a chorus; that is to say, they discuss developments of the plot not shown on the stage so that the audience will be aware of them and also of their importance. Here, they are concerned about Antonio's fate, since Shylock is in a terrible temper, and the once "merry bond" is no longer "merry." Salanio's speech, beginning at line 12, is introduced here for two reasons: First, Shylock's rage must be described before it is shown so that we can anticipate his state of mind at his next entrance. Second, Shylock's loss of both his daughter and much of his money are important for our understanding the extent of Shylock's desire for revenge. At the beginning of the play, he has only two real reasons for hating Antonio -- a commercial hatred and a religious hatred. To these is now added a shattering personal loss -- he has lost his daughter, his only child, to a Christian, a friend of Antonio -- making plausible his implacable desire for revenge against all Venetian Christians in the person of a man whom he has legally cornered: Antonio. In a very real sense, our sympathy goes out to Shylock, yet Shakespeare keeps us from pitying the man by having Salanio enact a sort of exaggerated parody of Shylock's greedy, histrionic behavior as he tells his friend Salarino how Shylock was chased in the streets by young boys, howling after him. Shylock's repetitions of "O my ducats! O my daughter! . . . my ducats and my daughter" indicate that Jessica is simply, at this point, another possession, like his coins. Thus we are prevented from being too oversympathetic to an obsession which has blinded the old moneylender to the true difference between monetary and human values.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_14_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 3.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-3", "summary": "In Venice, Antonio has been allowed to leave the jail, accompanied by his jailer. He hopes to speak with Shylock and plead for mercy, but Shylock refuses to listen. Five times while Antonio begs Shylock to let him speak, the moneylender repeats emphatically, \"I'll have my bond!\" Antonio has publicly called Shylock a \"dog\"; now Antonio will feel the fangs of that dog. Shylock refuses to be a \"soft and dull-eyed fool\" and \"rent, sigh, and yield.\" He is absolutely certain that the Duke of Venice will see that justice is carried out according to the terms of the bargain. Salarino tries to comfort Antonio but is unsuccessful. Antonio knows that one of the chief reasons why Shylock hates him so much is that Antonio often saved people who were in debt to Shylock by paying their debts for them. Thus he prevented Shylock from foreclosing and claiming their collateral. He also knows that the Duke of Venice must judge according to the letter of the law. Venice is an international trade center; money lending is a major business and cannot be treated lightly. Antonio must pay his debt according to his contract. He knows that Shylock seeks his life, and the law cannot save him. He is prepared to die if only Bassanio will \"come / To see me pay his debt, and then I care not.\"", "analysis": "In this short scene, the action of the bond plot quickens toward its climax at the beginning of Act IV. Here, Shylock's language indicates his obsession with a single idea through the repetition of a single word. The word is \"bond,\" repeated twice at the opening of his speech, recurring again at lines 12 and 13, and a final time as Shylock makes his exit, deaf to any more pleading: \"I will have my bond.\" In stark contrast to Shylock's fiery outbursts is Antonio's quiet, almost fatalistic acceptance of his position. He sees that prayers are useless; later, he conceives of himself as being a \"tainted wether of the flock.\" The phrase \"He seeks my life\" is delivered with the hopeless finality of one already on the way to execution. Such passive acceptance suggests that he is doomed and increases our dramatic anticipation of what is to come. Furthermore, Antonio himself points out that the Venetian state cannot save him; their commercial existence depends upon the rigorous enforcement of the law. Yet, Shakespeare has embedded in our minds how miserly Shylock is; now he teases us and keeps us in suspense: Will Portia's money be enough to satisfy Shylock and make him give up his obsession with the \"bond\" of a pound of flesh?"}

SCENE 3. Venice. A street [Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler.] SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy; This is the fool that lent out money gratis: Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak; I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not; I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond. [Exit.] SALARINO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. ANTONIO. Let him alone; I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life; his reason well I know: I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me. SALARINO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, 'Twill much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go; These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not. [Exeunt.]

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-3

In Venice, Antonio has been allowed to leave the jail, accompanied by his jailer. He hopes to speak with Shylock and plead for mercy, but Shylock refuses to listen. Five times while Antonio begs Shylock to let him speak, the moneylender repeats emphatically, "I'll have my bond!" Antonio has publicly called Shylock a "dog"; now Antonio will feel the fangs of that dog. Shylock refuses to be a "soft and dull-eyed fool" and "rent, sigh, and yield." He is absolutely certain that the Duke of Venice will see that justice is carried out according to the terms of the bargain. Salarino tries to comfort Antonio but is unsuccessful. Antonio knows that one of the chief reasons why Shylock hates him so much is that Antonio often saved people who were in debt to Shylock by paying their debts for them. Thus he prevented Shylock from foreclosing and claiming their collateral. He also knows that the Duke of Venice must judge according to the letter of the law. Venice is an international trade center; money lending is a major business and cannot be treated lightly. Antonio must pay his debt according to his contract. He knows that Shylock seeks his life, and the law cannot save him. He is prepared to die if only Bassanio will "come / To see me pay his debt, and then I care not."

In this short scene, the action of the bond plot quickens toward its climax at the beginning of Act IV. Here, Shylock's language indicates his obsession with a single idea through the repetition of a single word. The word is "bond," repeated twice at the opening of his speech, recurring again at lines 12 and 13, and a final time as Shylock makes his exit, deaf to any more pleading: "I will have my bond." In stark contrast to Shylock's fiery outbursts is Antonio's quiet, almost fatalistic acceptance of his position. He sees that prayers are useless; later, he conceives of himself as being a "tainted wether of the flock." The phrase "He seeks my life" is delivered with the hopeless finality of one already on the way to execution. Such passive acceptance suggests that he is doomed and increases our dramatic anticipation of what is to come. Furthermore, Antonio himself points out that the Venetian state cannot save him; their commercial existence depends upon the rigorous enforcement of the law. Yet, Shakespeare has embedded in our minds how miserly Shylock is; now he teases us and keeps us in suspense: Will Portia's money be enough to satisfy Shylock and make him give up his obsession with the "bond" of a pound of flesh?

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_15_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 3.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-4", "summary": "At Belmont, following the departure of Bassanio, Lorenzo commends Portia for her perfect understanding of the friendship between her husband and Antonio. Portia says that she feels that if Antonio is worthy of Bassanio's friendship, he is well worth rescuing from \"hellish cruelty\" at any cost. Leaving the management of her affairs to Lorenzo, she announces that she and Nerissa will go to \"a monastery two miles off\" until their husbands return. She asks Lorenzo not to deny them this \"imposition\" and thanks him for agreeing to manage her household until she and Bassanio return. Lorenzo agrees not to interfere, and he and Jessica wish her \"all heart's content\" and withdraw. Portia then sends her servant Balthasar \"in speed\" with a letter to her cousin, the lawyer Doctor Bellario, in Padua, with instructions to bring her \"what notes and garments he doth give thee.\" She tells Nerissa that they will \"see husbands / Before they think of .\" She then explains her plan for both of them to disguise themselves as young men and follow Bassanio and Gratiano to Venice. Moreover, Portia is so sure that her plan will work that she is willing to bet that she will act the part more convincingly -- with \"manly stride\" and \"bragging\" -- than Nerissa. Her plan must succeed; if Bassanio has weighty troubles, then she shares them. Their \"souls do bear the equal yoke of love.\"", "analysis": "Lorenzo's praise of Portia, of her nobility and \"godlike amity,\" is introduced here so that she can be associated with Antonio, who is termed the \"bosom lover\" of Bassanio. Both people are very alike, and both of them are very dear to Bassanio. Earlier in the play, it had been Antonio who exemplified the principle of selfless generosity in his treatment of Bassanio. Now Portia takes over this role. Her material generosity to Bassanio symbolizes her loving generosity to him. In contrast to this generosity of both Portia and Antonio is, of course, the character of Shylock. His love has turned inward on himself and on his possessions. The concepts of friendship and love provided many of the central themes for many Elizabethan plays. For the Elizabethans, friendship was as precious and important a relationship as love. Shakespeare has Portia make it plain that she understands the depth of friendship between Antonio and her husband, and that she is \"purchasing the semblance of my soul\" in saving Antonio, who is valuable to her because of his friendship with Bassanio. In this scene, Shakespeare also prepares us for Portia's appearance in the court. Under cover of living \"in prayer and contemplation,\" she and Nerissa plan to go to Venice, but this must be kept secret from the other characters of the play. Again we recognize the capable and audacious woman who is combined with the romantic heroine. She and Nerissa will be \"accoutered like young men.\" This \"disguise theme\" adds to the comedy, and throughout the trial scene of the play, when Antonio's life hangs in the balance, Shakespeare needs to remind the audience again that what they are watching is, finally, a comedy. We anticipate seeing how well disguised they will be and how well they pull this bit of mischief off. We have seen Portia as the romantic lover and as the wise and witty well-bred woman; now we see her as a woman of the world."}

SCENE 4. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR.] LORENZO. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. PORTIA. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now; for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit, Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish cruelty! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore, no more of it; hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return; for mine own part, I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord's return. There is a monastery two miles off, And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition, The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. LORENZO. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in an fair commands. PORTIA. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again. LORENZO. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you! JESSICA. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. PORTIA. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica. [Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO.] Now, Balthasar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all th' endeavour of a man In speed to Padua; see thou render this Into my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone; I shall be there before thee. BALTHASAR. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. [Exit.] PORTIA. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand That you yet know not of; we'll see our husbands Before they think of us. NERISSA. Shall they see us? PORTIA. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died; I could not do withal. Then I'll repent, And wish for all that, that I had not kill'd them. And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinu'd school About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. NERISSA. Why, shall we turn to men? PORTIA. Fie, what a question's that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles to-day. [Exeunt.]

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-4

At Belmont, following the departure of Bassanio, Lorenzo commends Portia for her perfect understanding of the friendship between her husband and Antonio. Portia says that she feels that if Antonio is worthy of Bassanio's friendship, he is well worth rescuing from "hellish cruelty" at any cost. Leaving the management of her affairs to Lorenzo, she announces that she and Nerissa will go to "a monastery two miles off" until their husbands return. She asks Lorenzo not to deny them this "imposition" and thanks him for agreeing to manage her household until she and Bassanio return. Lorenzo agrees not to interfere, and he and Jessica wish her "all heart's content" and withdraw. Portia then sends her servant Balthasar "in speed" with a letter to her cousin, the lawyer Doctor Bellario, in Padua, with instructions to bring her "what notes and garments he doth give thee." She tells Nerissa that they will "see husbands / Before they think of ." She then explains her plan for both of them to disguise themselves as young men and follow Bassanio and Gratiano to Venice. Moreover, Portia is so sure that her plan will work that she is willing to bet that she will act the part more convincingly -- with "manly stride" and "bragging" -- than Nerissa. Her plan must succeed; if Bassanio has weighty troubles, then she shares them. Their "souls do bear the equal yoke of love."

Lorenzo's praise of Portia, of her nobility and "godlike amity," is introduced here so that she can be associated with Antonio, who is termed the "bosom lover" of Bassanio. Both people are very alike, and both of them are very dear to Bassanio. Earlier in the play, it had been Antonio who exemplified the principle of selfless generosity in his treatment of Bassanio. Now Portia takes over this role. Her material generosity to Bassanio symbolizes her loving generosity to him. In contrast to this generosity of both Portia and Antonio is, of course, the character of Shylock. His love has turned inward on himself and on his possessions. The concepts of friendship and love provided many of the central themes for many Elizabethan plays. For the Elizabethans, friendship was as precious and important a relationship as love. Shakespeare has Portia make it plain that she understands the depth of friendship between Antonio and her husband, and that she is "purchasing the semblance of my soul" in saving Antonio, who is valuable to her because of his friendship with Bassanio. In this scene, Shakespeare also prepares us for Portia's appearance in the court. Under cover of living "in prayer and contemplation," she and Nerissa plan to go to Venice, but this must be kept secret from the other characters of the play. Again we recognize the capable and audacious woman who is combined with the romantic heroine. She and Nerissa will be "accoutered like young men." This "disguise theme" adds to the comedy, and throughout the trial scene of the play, when Antonio's life hangs in the balance, Shakespeare needs to remind the audience again that what they are watching is, finally, a comedy. We anticipate seeing how well disguised they will be and how well they pull this bit of mischief off. We have seen Portia as the romantic lover and as the wise and witty well-bred woman; now we see her as a woman of the world.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_16_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 3.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-5", "summary": "In a garden at Belmont, the jester Launcelot is teasing Jessica that he fears that she is damned because she is a Jew , but she reminds Launcelot that her husband Lorenzo has made her a Christian by marrying her. \"The more to blame he,\" Launcelot jokes: \"This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs.\" Lorenzo joins them then and pretends jealousy on finding his wife alone with Launcelot. He orders Launcelot to go inside and \"bid them prepare for dinner.\" He suddenly turns to Jessica then and asks her, \"How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?\" Jessica praises Portia as being without equal on earth. Lorenzo jokingly responds, \"Even such a husband / Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.\" Jessica is ready to comment to his teasing when he urges her to save her comments \"for table-talk.\" So with loving jests, they go in to dinner.", "analysis": "As in the previous scene, the light comic and romantic relief in this scene is dramatically in order, since it will be immediately followed by the courtroom scene, which is the longest scene in the play and certainly the most emotional scene in the play. Much of this scene focuses on Launcelot Gobbo's clowning and punning. For example, Launcelot uses \"bastard\" in a sense that can be both figurative and literal; in addition, he plays elaborately on the two senses of the word \"cover\" -- laying a table and putting on one's hat. The tender, affectionate exchange between Lorenzo and Jessica at the end of the scene serves to establish their new happiness. They will reappear in Act V in the same roles. In both scenes, we see a Jessica who has changed and blossomed in the environment of Belmont, and this has its significance. Portia and Nerissa are, for example, \"to the manner born,\" but Jessica is an outsider. She was reared by a miser and a man who keenly felt his alienation in the Venetian community. Jessica's character and personality were molded by these attitudes. Now we see her maturing, and her new happiness suggests that Belmont is not so much a place as a state of mind. Jessica's journey from Shylock's dour household to the sunlight and freedom of Belmont is, in its way, a symbolic journey -- one from hatred to love and, especially in Jessica's case, a journey from sterility to fruition."}

SCENE 5. The same. A garden. [Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.] LAUNCELOT. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn'd. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELOT. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter. JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. LAUNCELOT. Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways. JESSICA. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian. LAUNCELOT. Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow before, e'en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. JESSICA. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes. [Enter LORENZO.] LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners. JESSICA. Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork. LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. LAUNCELOT. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELOT. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. LAUNCELOT. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. [Exit.] LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words; and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For, having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon; first let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I'll set you forth. [Exeunt.]

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scene-5

In a garden at Belmont, the jester Launcelot is teasing Jessica that he fears that she is damned because she is a Jew , but she reminds Launcelot that her husband Lorenzo has made her a Christian by marrying her. "The more to blame he," Launcelot jokes: "This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs." Lorenzo joins them then and pretends jealousy on finding his wife alone with Launcelot. He orders Launcelot to go inside and "bid them prepare for dinner." He suddenly turns to Jessica then and asks her, "How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?" Jessica praises Portia as being without equal on earth. Lorenzo jokingly responds, "Even such a husband / Hast thou of me as she is for a wife." Jessica is ready to comment to his teasing when he urges her to save her comments "for table-talk." So with loving jests, they go in to dinner.

As in the previous scene, the light comic and romantic relief in this scene is dramatically in order, since it will be immediately followed by the courtroom scene, which is the longest scene in the play and certainly the most emotional scene in the play. Much of this scene focuses on Launcelot Gobbo's clowning and punning. For example, Launcelot uses "bastard" in a sense that can be both figurative and literal; in addition, he plays elaborately on the two senses of the word "cover" -- laying a table and putting on one's hat. The tender, affectionate exchange between Lorenzo and Jessica at the end of the scene serves to establish their new happiness. They will reappear in Act V in the same roles. In both scenes, we see a Jessica who has changed and blossomed in the environment of Belmont, and this has its significance. Portia and Nerissa are, for example, "to the manner born," but Jessica is an outsider. She was reared by a miser and a man who keenly felt his alienation in the Venetian community. Jessica's character and personality were molded by these attitudes. Now we see her maturing, and her new happiness suggests that Belmont is not so much a place as a state of mind. Jessica's journey from Shylock's dour household to the sunlight and freedom of Belmont is, in its way, a symbolic journey -- one from hatred to love and, especially in Jessica's case, a journey from sterility to fruition.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_18_part_0.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act 4.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-2", "summary": "Still in Venice after the trial, Portia stops on a street and instructs Nerissa to find Shylock's house and have him sign the deed bequeathing everything he owns to Lorenzo and Jessica; then they will be home by tomorrow. Gratiano catches up with them and presents Portia with the ring from Bassanio, who, he says, also sends an invitation to dinner. Portia accepts the ring but declines the dinner invitation. She asks Gratiano, however, to show Nerissa the way to \"old Shylock's house.\" Nerissa, in an aside, whispers to Portia that on the way she will try to get the ring which she gave to her husband on their wedding day, a ring which she made him \"swear to keep for ever.\" Portia is delighted at her friend's plan. She is certain that Nerissa will succeed, and then both of them will have a merry time hearing their husbands try to explain how and why they gave their wedding rings away to other men.", "analysis": "This act's final, brief scene continues the previous scene's closing mood; it is really its conclusion. By this point in the play, we are absolutely sure that Portia and Nerissa will both \"outface\" and \"out-swear\" the men. It is almost a commonplace that in every one of Shakespeare's romantic comedies, the women emerge as shrewder and wittier than the men. Portia is one of those Shakespearean heroines. She is not only superior to all of the men in the climactic scene in word -- but she also excels them in deed. It is she who plans and executes Antonio's deliverance and sees that merciful justice is carried out."}

SCENE II. The same. A street [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.] PORTIA. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it; we'll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. [Enter GRATIANO.] GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en. My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be: His ring I do accept most thankfully; And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock's house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to PORTIA.] I'll see if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA.[To NERISSA] Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? [Exeunt.]

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201114002542/http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/the-merchant-of-venice/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-2

Still in Venice after the trial, Portia stops on a street and instructs Nerissa to find Shylock's house and have him sign the deed bequeathing everything he owns to Lorenzo and Jessica; then they will be home by tomorrow. Gratiano catches up with them and presents Portia with the ring from Bassanio, who, he says, also sends an invitation to dinner. Portia accepts the ring but declines the dinner invitation. She asks Gratiano, however, to show Nerissa the way to "old Shylock's house." Nerissa, in an aside, whispers to Portia that on the way she will try to get the ring which she gave to her husband on their wedding day, a ring which she made him "swear to keep for ever." Portia is delighted at her friend's plan. She is certain that Nerissa will succeed, and then both of them will have a merry time hearing their husbands try to explain how and why they gave their wedding rings away to other men.

This act's final, brief scene continues the previous scene's closing mood; it is really its conclusion. By this point in the play, we are absolutely sure that Portia and Nerissa will both "outface" and "out-swear" the men. It is almost a commonplace that in every one of Shakespeare's romantic comedies, the women emerge as shrewder and wittier than the men. Portia is one of those Shakespearean heroines. She is not only superior to all of the men in the climactic scene in word -- but she also excels them in deed. It is she who plans and executes Antonio's deliverance and sees that merciful justice is carried out.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_0_part_1.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act i.scene i

act i, scene i

{"name": "act i, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section1/", "summary": "Antonio, a Venetian merchant, complains to his friends, Salarino and Solanio, that a sadness has overtaken him and dulled his faculties, although he is at a loss to explain why. Salarino and Solanio suggest that his sadness must be due to his commercial investments, for Antonio has dispatched several trade ships to various ports. Salarino says it is impossible for Antonio not to feel sad at the thought of the perilous ocean sinking his entire investment, but Antonio assures his friends that his business ventures do not depend on the safe passage of any one ship. Solanio then declares that Antonio must be in love, but Antonio dismisses the suggestion. The three men encounter Bassanio, Antonio's kinsman, walking with two friends named Lorenzo and Gratiano. Salarino and Solanio bid Antonio farewell and depart. When Gratiano notices Antonio's unhappiness and suggests that the merchant worries too much about business, Antonio responds that he is but a player on a stage, destined to play a sad part. Gratiano warns Antonio against becoming the type of man who affects a solemn demeanor in order to gain a wise reputation, then he takes his leave with Lorenzo. Bassanio jokes that Gratiano has terribly little to say, claiming that his friend's wise remarks prove as elusive as \"two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff\". Antonio asks Bassanio to tell him about the clandestine love that Bassanio is harboring. In reply, Bassanio admits that although he already owes Antonio a substantial sum of money from his earlier, more extravagant days, he has fallen in love with Portia, a rich heiress from Belmont, and hopes to win her heart by holding his own with her other wealthy and powerful suitors. In order to woo Portia, however, Bassanio says he needs to borrow more money from Antonio. Antonio replies that he cannot give Bassanio another loan, as all his money is tied up in his present business ventures, but offers to guarantee any loan Bassanio can round up", "analysis": "Act I, scenes i-ii The first scene of the play introduces us to a world of wealthy, upper-class Christian men living in Venice. Their conversation reveals that they are men of business who take great risks with money and are careful to avoid seeming overly concerned about their investments. For example, Antonio calmly denies his associates' suggestion that he is worried about his ships, and Salarino's description of a shipwreck, with silks enrobing the roaring waters and spices scattered upon the stream, is lyrical and poetic rather than practical or business-minded. Significantly, the conversation throughout this opening scene is not really about business, but rather Antonio's emotional state--his friends see it as their duty to cheer him up. We may infer that money is very important to these men, but the code of manners that they share requires them to act as though friendship, camaraderie, and good cheer matter more than money. For example, Salarino excuses himself by asserting that his only concern is to make Antonio merry and that he is leaving because better friends have arrived, but Antonio knows that Salarino is leaving to attend to his own business affairs. The Christian men of the play share a certain set of values, but these values are not always entirely consistent or self-evident. However, if the professions of affection between Antonio and the other merchants simply seem like good manners, Antonio's loyalty toward his friend Bassanio is obviously quite sincere. Where Bassanio is concerned, love and friendship really are more important to Antonio than money. When Bassanio asks for help, Antonio promptly offers all of his money and credit, insisting that they go straightaway to a lender so he can stand as security for Bassanio. Antonio's defining characteristic is his willingness to do anything for his friend Bassanio, even lay down his life. Beyond this willingness to sacrifice himself for Bassanio, Antonio is a relatively passive character. He begins the play in a dreamy melancholy that he does not know how to cure, and throughout the play he never takes decisive action in the way that Bassanio, Portia, and various other characters do. He approaches life with a pensive, resigned, wait-and-see attitude, like a merchant waiting for his ships to return. One possible explanation for Antonio's melancholy is that he is hopelessly in love with Bassanio. Although he never admits it, the evidence suggests that he is in love with somebody. His friends think he is in love, and while he denies the suggestion that he is worried about his ships with a calm, well-reasoned argument, he responds to the suggestion that he is in love with a simple \"ie, fie\" . Moreover, melancholy was traditionally regarded as a symptom of lovesickness in Shakespeare's time, yet no female lover for Antonio is alluded to in the play. Antonio is extravagant in his professions of love for Bassanio, and while extravagant protestations of love between upper-class men were not considered abnormal at the time, we may hear a double entendre in his assurance that \"y purse, my person, my extremest means / Lie all unlocked to your occasions\" . The explicit sense of this statement is that Antonio will make himself and his physical person available to help Bassanio, but it could be construed to mean that his body, or person, is available for Bassanio's pleasure. The idea that Antonio is in love with Bassanio would explain his motivation for risking his life, as well as lend his character a certain poignancy, as Antonio puts his own life and wealth in jeopardy to help Bassanio woo someone else. Act I, scene ii introduces Portia, the heroine of the play, and establishes the casket test through which she will find a husband. After we see more of Portia, her compliance with her dead father's instructions may seem odd, as she proves to be an extremely independent and strong-willed character. However, her adherence to her father's will establishes an important aspect of her character: she plays by the rules. Her strict adherence to laws and other strictures makes her an interesting counterpoint to Shylock, the play's villain, whom we meet in the next scene. Because Portia is such a fabulously wealthy heiress, the only men eligible to court her are from the highest end of the social strata. As a result, the competition between her suitors is international, including noblemen from various parts of Europe and even Africa. Portia's description of her previous suitors serves as a vehicle for Shakespeare to satirize the nobleman of France, Scotland, Germany, and England for the amusement of his English audience. At the end of the scene, the arrival of the prince of Morocco is announced, introducing a suitor who is racially and culturally more distant from Portia than her previous suitors. The casket test seems designed to give an equal chance to all of these different noblemen, so the competition for Portia's hand and wealth in Belmont parallels the financial community of Venice, which is also organized to include men of many nations, Christian and non-Christian alike. Portia's remarks about the prince of Morocco's devilish skin color, however, show that she is rooting for a husband who is culturally and racially similar to her. In fact, she hopes to marry Bassanio, the suitor with the background closest to hers."}

ACT 1. SCENE I. Venice. A street [Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO] ANTONIO. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad; It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me That I have much ado to know myself. SALARINO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There where your argosies, with portly sail-- Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea-- Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings. SALANIO. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad. SALARINO. My wind, cooling my broth Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad? But tell not me; I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise. ANTONIO. Believe me, no; I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year; Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. SALARINO. Why, then you are in love. ANTONIO. Fie, fie! SALARINO. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper; And other of such vinegar aspect That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. [Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.] SALANIO. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well; We leave you now with better company. SALARINO. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me. ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th' occasion to depart. SALARINO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when. You grow exceeding strange; must it be so? SALARINO. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.] LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. BASSANIO. I will not fail you. GRATIANO. You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. GRATIANO. Let me play the fool; With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio-- I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks-- There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.' O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I'll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait, For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile; I'll end my exhortation after dinner. LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak. GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. ANTONIO. Fare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear. GRATIANO. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.] ANTONIO. Is that anything now? BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in, two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search. ANTONIO. Well; tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promis'd to tell me of? BASSANIO. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance; Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd From such a noble rate; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love; And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe. ANTONIO. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur'd My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. BASSANIO. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch, To find the other forth; and by adventuring both I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost; but if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both, Or bring your latter hazard back again And thankfully rest debtor for the first. ANTONIO. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have. Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it; therefore, speak. BASSANIO. In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: Her name is Portia--nothing undervalu'd To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia: Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio! had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate. ANTONIO. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum; therefore go forth, Try what my credit can in Venice do; That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia. Go presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is; and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake. [Exeunt]

act i, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section1/

Antonio, a Venetian merchant, complains to his friends, Salarino and Solanio, that a sadness has overtaken him and dulled his faculties, although he is at a loss to explain why. Salarino and Solanio suggest that his sadness must be due to his commercial investments, for Antonio has dispatched several trade ships to various ports. Salarino says it is impossible for Antonio not to feel sad at the thought of the perilous ocean sinking his entire investment, but Antonio assures his friends that his business ventures do not depend on the safe passage of any one ship. Solanio then declares that Antonio must be in love, but Antonio dismisses the suggestion. The three men encounter Bassanio, Antonio's kinsman, walking with two friends named Lorenzo and Gratiano. Salarino and Solanio bid Antonio farewell and depart. When Gratiano notices Antonio's unhappiness and suggests that the merchant worries too much about business, Antonio responds that he is but a player on a stage, destined to play a sad part. Gratiano warns Antonio against becoming the type of man who affects a solemn demeanor in order to gain a wise reputation, then he takes his leave with Lorenzo. Bassanio jokes that Gratiano has terribly little to say, claiming that his friend's wise remarks prove as elusive as "two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff". Antonio asks Bassanio to tell him about the clandestine love that Bassanio is harboring. In reply, Bassanio admits that although he already owes Antonio a substantial sum of money from his earlier, more extravagant days, he has fallen in love with Portia, a rich heiress from Belmont, and hopes to win her heart by holding his own with her other wealthy and powerful suitors. In order to woo Portia, however, Bassanio says he needs to borrow more money from Antonio. Antonio replies that he cannot give Bassanio another loan, as all his money is tied up in his present business ventures, but offers to guarantee any loan Bassanio can round up

Act I, scenes i-ii The first scene of the play introduces us to a world of wealthy, upper-class Christian men living in Venice. Their conversation reveals that they are men of business who take great risks with money and are careful to avoid seeming overly concerned about their investments. For example, Antonio calmly denies his associates' suggestion that he is worried about his ships, and Salarino's description of a shipwreck, with silks enrobing the roaring waters and spices scattered upon the stream, is lyrical and poetic rather than practical or business-minded. Significantly, the conversation throughout this opening scene is not really about business, but rather Antonio's emotional state--his friends see it as their duty to cheer him up. We may infer that money is very important to these men, but the code of manners that they share requires them to act as though friendship, camaraderie, and good cheer matter more than money. For example, Salarino excuses himself by asserting that his only concern is to make Antonio merry and that he is leaving because better friends have arrived, but Antonio knows that Salarino is leaving to attend to his own business affairs. The Christian men of the play share a certain set of values, but these values are not always entirely consistent or self-evident. However, if the professions of affection between Antonio and the other merchants simply seem like good manners, Antonio's loyalty toward his friend Bassanio is obviously quite sincere. Where Bassanio is concerned, love and friendship really are more important to Antonio than money. When Bassanio asks for help, Antonio promptly offers all of his money and credit, insisting that they go straightaway to a lender so he can stand as security for Bassanio. Antonio's defining characteristic is his willingness to do anything for his friend Bassanio, even lay down his life. Beyond this willingness to sacrifice himself for Bassanio, Antonio is a relatively passive character. He begins the play in a dreamy melancholy that he does not know how to cure, and throughout the play he never takes decisive action in the way that Bassanio, Portia, and various other characters do. He approaches life with a pensive, resigned, wait-and-see attitude, like a merchant waiting for his ships to return. One possible explanation for Antonio's melancholy is that he is hopelessly in love with Bassanio. Although he never admits it, the evidence suggests that he is in love with somebody. His friends think he is in love, and while he denies the suggestion that he is worried about his ships with a calm, well-reasoned argument, he responds to the suggestion that he is in love with a simple "ie, fie" . Moreover, melancholy was traditionally regarded as a symptom of lovesickness in Shakespeare's time, yet no female lover for Antonio is alluded to in the play. Antonio is extravagant in his professions of love for Bassanio, and while extravagant protestations of love between upper-class men were not considered abnormal at the time, we may hear a double entendre in his assurance that "y purse, my person, my extremest means / Lie all unlocked to your occasions" . The explicit sense of this statement is that Antonio will make himself and his physical person available to help Bassanio, but it could be construed to mean that his body, or person, is available for Bassanio's pleasure. The idea that Antonio is in love with Bassanio would explain his motivation for risking his life, as well as lend his character a certain poignancy, as Antonio puts his own life and wealth in jeopardy to help Bassanio woo someone else. Act I, scene ii introduces Portia, the heroine of the play, and establishes the casket test through which she will find a husband. After we see more of Portia, her compliance with her dead father's instructions may seem odd, as she proves to be an extremely independent and strong-willed character. However, her adherence to her father's will establishes an important aspect of her character: she plays by the rules. Her strict adherence to laws and other strictures makes her an interesting counterpoint to Shylock, the play's villain, whom we meet in the next scene. Because Portia is such a fabulously wealthy heiress, the only men eligible to court her are from the highest end of the social strata. As a result, the competition between her suitors is international, including noblemen from various parts of Europe and even Africa. Portia's description of her previous suitors serves as a vehicle for Shakespeare to satirize the nobleman of France, Scotland, Germany, and England for the amusement of his English audience. At the end of the scene, the arrival of the prince of Morocco is announced, introducing a suitor who is racially and culturally more distant from Portia than her previous suitors. The casket test seems designed to give an equal chance to all of these different noblemen, so the competition for Portia's hand and wealth in Belmont parallels the financial community of Venice, which is also organized to include men of many nations, Christian and non-Christian alike. Portia's remarks about the prince of Morocco's devilish skin color, however, show that she is rooting for a husband who is culturally and racially similar to her. In fact, she hopes to marry Bassanio, the suitor with the background closest to hers.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_0_part_2.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act i.scene ii

act i, scene ii

{"name": "act i, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section1/", "summary": "At Belmont, Portia complains to her lady-in-waiting, Nerissa, that she is weary of the world because, as her dead father's will stipulates, she cannot decide for herself whether to take a husband. Instead, Portia's various suitors must choose between three chests, one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead, in the hopes of selecting the one that contains her portrait. The man who guesses correctly will win Portia's hand in marriage, but those who guess incorrectly must swear never to marry anyone. Nerissa lists the suitors who have come to guess--a Neapolitan prince, a Palatine count, a French nobleman, an English baron, a Scottish lord, and the nephew of the duke of Saxony--and Portia criticizes their many hilarious faults. For instance, she describes the Neapolitan prince as being too fond of his horse, the Palatine count as being too serious, the Englishman as lacking any knowledge of Italian or any of the other languages Portia speaks, and the German suitor of drunkenness. Each of these suitors has left without even attempting a guess for fear of the penalty for guessing wrong. This fact relieves Portia, and both she and Nerissa remember Bassanio, who has visited once before, as the suitor most deserving and worthy of praise. A servant enters to tell Portia that the prince of Morocco will arrive soon, news that Portia is not at all happy to hear", "analysis": "Act I, scenes i-ii The first scene of the play introduces us to a world of wealthy, upper-class Christian men living in Venice. Their conversation reveals that they are men of business who take great risks with money and are careful to avoid seeming overly concerned about their investments. For example, Antonio calmly denies his associates' suggestion that he is worried about his ships, and Salarino's description of a shipwreck, with silks enrobing the roaring waters and spices scattered upon the stream, is lyrical and poetic rather than practical or business-minded. Significantly, the conversation throughout this opening scene is not really about business, but rather Antonio's emotional state--his friends see it as their duty to cheer him up. We may infer that money is very important to these men, but the code of manners that they share requires them to act as though friendship, camaraderie, and good cheer matter more than money. For example, Salarino excuses himself by asserting that his only concern is to make Antonio merry and that he is leaving because better friends have arrived, but Antonio knows that Salarino is leaving to attend to his own business affairs. The Christian men of the play share a certain set of values, but these values are not always entirely consistent or self-evident. However, if the professions of affection between Antonio and the other merchants simply seem like good manners, Antonio's loyalty toward his friend Bassanio is obviously quite sincere. Where Bassanio is concerned, love and friendship really are more important to Antonio than money. When Bassanio asks for help, Antonio promptly offers all of his money and credit, insisting that they go straightaway to a lender so he can stand as security for Bassanio. Antonio's defining characteristic is his willingness to do anything for his friend Bassanio, even lay down his life. Beyond this willingness to sacrifice himself for Bassanio, Antonio is a relatively passive character. He begins the play in a dreamy melancholy that he does not know how to cure, and throughout the play he never takes decisive action in the way that Bassanio, Portia, and various other characters do. He approaches life with a pensive, resigned, wait-and-see attitude, like a merchant waiting for his ships to return. One possible explanation for Antonio's melancholy is that he is hopelessly in love with Bassanio. Although he never admits it, the evidence suggests that he is in love with somebody. His friends think he is in love, and while he denies the suggestion that he is worried about his ships with a calm, well-reasoned argument, he responds to the suggestion that he is in love with a simple \"ie, fie\" . Moreover, melancholy was traditionally regarded as a symptom of lovesickness in Shakespeare's time, yet no female lover for Antonio is alluded to in the play. Antonio is extravagant in his professions of love for Bassanio, and while extravagant protestations of love between upper-class men were not considered abnormal at the time, we may hear a double entendre in his assurance that \"y purse, my person, my extremest means / Lie all unlocked to your occasions\" . The explicit sense of this statement is that Antonio will make himself and his physical person available to help Bassanio, but it could be construed to mean that his body, or person, is available for Bassanio's pleasure. The idea that Antonio is in love with Bassanio would explain his motivation for risking his life, as well as lend his character a certain poignancy, as Antonio puts his own life and wealth in jeopardy to help Bassanio woo someone else. Act I, scene ii introduces Portia, the heroine of the play, and establishes the casket test through which she will find a husband. After we see more of Portia, her compliance with her dead father's instructions may seem odd, as she proves to be an extremely independent and strong-willed character. However, her adherence to her father's will establishes an important aspect of her character: she plays by the rules. Her strict adherence to laws and other strictures makes her an interesting counterpoint to Shylock, the play's villain, whom we meet in the next scene. Because Portia is such a fabulously wealthy heiress, the only men eligible to court her are from the highest end of the social strata. As a result, the competition between her suitors is international, including noblemen from various parts of Europe and even Africa. Portia's description of her previous suitors serves as a vehicle for Shakespeare to satirize the nobleman of France, Scotland, Germany, and England for the amusement of his English audience. At the end of the scene, the arrival of the prince of Morocco is announced, introducing a suitor who is racially and culturally more distant from Portia than her previous suitors. The casket test seems designed to give an equal chance to all of these different noblemen, so the competition for Portia's hand and wealth in Belmont parallels the financial community of Venice, which is also organized to include men of many nations, Christian and non-Christian alike. Portia's remarks about the prince of Morocco's devilish skin color, however, show that she is rooting for a husband who is culturally and racially similar to her. In fact, she hopes to marry Bassanio, the suitor with the background closest to hers."}

SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.] PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounced. NERISSA. They would be better, if well followed. PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose'! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come? PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection. NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith. NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'An you will not have me, choose.' He hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two! NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-capering; he will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. NERISSA. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England? PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able; I think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew? PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets. PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure. NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called. NERISSA. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. [Enter a SERVANT.] How now! what news? SERVANT. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here to-night. PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. [Exeunt]

act i, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section1/

At Belmont, Portia complains to her lady-in-waiting, Nerissa, that she is weary of the world because, as her dead father's will stipulates, she cannot decide for herself whether to take a husband. Instead, Portia's various suitors must choose between three chests, one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead, in the hopes of selecting the one that contains her portrait. The man who guesses correctly will win Portia's hand in marriage, but those who guess incorrectly must swear never to marry anyone. Nerissa lists the suitors who have come to guess--a Neapolitan prince, a Palatine count, a French nobleman, an English baron, a Scottish lord, and the nephew of the duke of Saxony--and Portia criticizes their many hilarious faults. For instance, she describes the Neapolitan prince as being too fond of his horse, the Palatine count as being too serious, the Englishman as lacking any knowledge of Italian or any of the other languages Portia speaks, and the German suitor of drunkenness. Each of these suitors has left without even attempting a guess for fear of the penalty for guessing wrong. This fact relieves Portia, and both she and Nerissa remember Bassanio, who has visited once before, as the suitor most deserving and worthy of praise. A servant enters to tell Portia that the prince of Morocco will arrive soon, news that Portia is not at all happy to hear

Act I, scenes i-ii The first scene of the play introduces us to a world of wealthy, upper-class Christian men living in Venice. Their conversation reveals that they are men of business who take great risks with money and are careful to avoid seeming overly concerned about their investments. For example, Antonio calmly denies his associates' suggestion that he is worried about his ships, and Salarino's description of a shipwreck, with silks enrobing the roaring waters and spices scattered upon the stream, is lyrical and poetic rather than practical or business-minded. Significantly, the conversation throughout this opening scene is not really about business, but rather Antonio's emotional state--his friends see it as their duty to cheer him up. We may infer that money is very important to these men, but the code of manners that they share requires them to act as though friendship, camaraderie, and good cheer matter more than money. For example, Salarino excuses himself by asserting that his only concern is to make Antonio merry and that he is leaving because better friends have arrived, but Antonio knows that Salarino is leaving to attend to his own business affairs. The Christian men of the play share a certain set of values, but these values are not always entirely consistent or self-evident. However, if the professions of affection between Antonio and the other merchants simply seem like good manners, Antonio's loyalty toward his friend Bassanio is obviously quite sincere. Where Bassanio is concerned, love and friendship really are more important to Antonio than money. When Bassanio asks for help, Antonio promptly offers all of his money and credit, insisting that they go straightaway to a lender so he can stand as security for Bassanio. Antonio's defining characteristic is his willingness to do anything for his friend Bassanio, even lay down his life. Beyond this willingness to sacrifice himself for Bassanio, Antonio is a relatively passive character. He begins the play in a dreamy melancholy that he does not know how to cure, and throughout the play he never takes decisive action in the way that Bassanio, Portia, and various other characters do. He approaches life with a pensive, resigned, wait-and-see attitude, like a merchant waiting for his ships to return. One possible explanation for Antonio's melancholy is that he is hopelessly in love with Bassanio. Although he never admits it, the evidence suggests that he is in love with somebody. His friends think he is in love, and while he denies the suggestion that he is worried about his ships with a calm, well-reasoned argument, he responds to the suggestion that he is in love with a simple "ie, fie" . Moreover, melancholy was traditionally regarded as a symptom of lovesickness in Shakespeare's time, yet no female lover for Antonio is alluded to in the play. Antonio is extravagant in his professions of love for Bassanio, and while extravagant protestations of love between upper-class men were not considered abnormal at the time, we may hear a double entendre in his assurance that "y purse, my person, my extremest means / Lie all unlocked to your occasions" . The explicit sense of this statement is that Antonio will make himself and his physical person available to help Bassanio, but it could be construed to mean that his body, or person, is available for Bassanio's pleasure. The idea that Antonio is in love with Bassanio would explain his motivation for risking his life, as well as lend his character a certain poignancy, as Antonio puts his own life and wealth in jeopardy to help Bassanio woo someone else. Act I, scene ii introduces Portia, the heroine of the play, and establishes the casket test through which she will find a husband. After we see more of Portia, her compliance with her dead father's instructions may seem odd, as she proves to be an extremely independent and strong-willed character. However, her adherence to her father's will establishes an important aspect of her character: she plays by the rules. Her strict adherence to laws and other strictures makes her an interesting counterpoint to Shylock, the play's villain, whom we meet in the next scene. Because Portia is such a fabulously wealthy heiress, the only men eligible to court her are from the highest end of the social strata. As a result, the competition between her suitors is international, including noblemen from various parts of Europe and even Africa. Portia's description of her previous suitors serves as a vehicle for Shakespeare to satirize the nobleman of France, Scotland, Germany, and England for the amusement of his English audience. At the end of the scene, the arrival of the prince of Morocco is announced, introducing a suitor who is racially and culturally more distant from Portia than her previous suitors. The casket test seems designed to give an equal chance to all of these different noblemen, so the competition for Portia's hand and wealth in Belmont parallels the financial community of Venice, which is also organized to include men of many nations, Christian and non-Christian alike. Portia's remarks about the prince of Morocco's devilish skin color, however, show that she is rooting for a husband who is culturally and racially similar to her. In fact, she hopes to marry Bassanio, the suitor with the background closest to hers.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_2_part_1.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene i

act ii, scene i

{"name": "act ii, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/", "summary": "In Belmont, the prince of Morocco arrives to attempt to win Portia's hand in marriage. The prince asks Portia not to judge him by his dark complexion, assuring her that he is as valorous as any European man. Portia reminds the prince that her own tastes do not matter, since the process of picking chests, stipulated in her father's will, makes the prince as worthy as any other suitor. With a lengthy proclamation of his own bravery and heroism, the prince asks Portia to lead him to the caskets, where he may venture his guess. She reminds him that the penalty for guessing incorrectly is that he must remain unmarried forever. The prince accepts this stipulation, and Portia leads him off to dinner", "analysis": "Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him."}

ACT 2. SCENE I. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, and his Followers; PORTIA, NERISSA, and Others of her train.] PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing; But, if my father had not scanted me And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you: Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar,-- That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,-- I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his page; And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong, Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance. PORTIA. First, forward to the temple: after dinner Your hazard shall be made. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men! [Cornets, and exeunt.]

act ii, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/

In Belmont, the prince of Morocco arrives to attempt to win Portia's hand in marriage. The prince asks Portia not to judge him by his dark complexion, assuring her that he is as valorous as any European man. Portia reminds the prince that her own tastes do not matter, since the process of picking chests, stipulated in her father's will, makes the prince as worthy as any other suitor. With a lengthy proclamation of his own bravery and heroism, the prince asks Portia to lead him to the caskets, where he may venture his guess. She reminds him that the penalty for guessing incorrectly is that he must remain unmarried forever. The prince accepts this stipulation, and Portia leads him off to dinner

Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_2_part_2.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene ii

act ii, scene ii

{"name": "act ii, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/", "summary": "Launcelot Gobbo, a servant of Shylock's, struggles to decide whether or not he should run away from his master. Part of him, which he calls \"he fiend. at mine elbow,\" wants to leave, while his conscience reminds him of his honest nature and urges him to stay. Although Launcelot has no specific complaints, he seems troubled by the fact that his master is Jewish, or, as Launcelot puts it, \"a kind of devil\". Just when Launcelot determines to run away, his father, Old Gobbo, enters. The old man is blind, and he asks how to get to Shylock's house, where he hopes to find young Launcelot. Because his father does not recognize him, Launcelot decides to play a prank on him--he gives the old man confusing directions and reports that Launcelot is dead. When Launcelot reveals the deception, Old Gobbo doubts that the man before him is his son, but Launcelot soon convinces his father of his identity. Launcelot confesses to his father that he is leaving Shylock's employment in the hopes of serving Bassanio. Just then, Bassanio enters and the two plead with him to accept Launcelot as his servant. Bassanio takes several moments to understand their bumbling proposition, but he accepts the offer. Bassanio then meets Gratiano, who asks to accompany him to Belmont, and agrees on the condition that Gratiano tame his characteristically wild behavior. Gratiano promises to be on his best behavior, and the two men plan a night of merriment to celebrate their departure", "analysis": "Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him."}

SCENE 2. Venice. A street [Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.] LAUNCELOT. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot' or 'good Gobbo' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, honest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the fiend. 'For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son'--or rather 'an honest woman's son';--for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;--well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' say I, (you counsel well.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well.' To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark! is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence! is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run. [Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket] GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him. GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. GOBBO. Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELOT. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. LAUNCELOT. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. GOBBO. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. LAUNCELOT. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,--according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning,--is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray you tell me, is my boy--God rest his soul!--alive or dead? LAUNCELOT. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but in the end truth will out. GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. LAUNCELOT. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELOT. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail. LAUNCELOT. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him. GOBBO. Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now? LAUNCELOT. Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come; give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! Here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. [Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with and other Followers.] BASSANIO. You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging. [Exit a SERVANT] LAUNCELOT. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy-- LAUNCELOT. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir,--as my father shall specify-- GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve-- LAUNCELOT. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify-- GOBBO. His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins-- LAUNCELOT. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me,--as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you-- GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship; and my suit is-- LAUNCELOT. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you? LAUNCELOT. Serve you, sir. GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. LAUNCELOT. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. BASSANIO. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows'; see it done. LAUNCELOT. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to; here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing; a'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. [Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO.] BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this: These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go. LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein. [Enter GRATIANO.] GRATIANO. Where's your master? LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks. [Exit.] GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio!-- BASSANIO. Gratiano! GRATIANO. I have suit to you. BASSANIO. You have obtain'd it. GRATIANO. You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont. BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano; Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice; Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconstrued in the place I go to, And lose my hopes. GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me: If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say 'amen'; Use all the observance of civility, Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing. GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night. BASSANIO. No, that were pity; I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well; I have some business. GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt.]

act ii, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/

Launcelot Gobbo, a servant of Shylock's, struggles to decide whether or not he should run away from his master. Part of him, which he calls "he fiend. at mine elbow," wants to leave, while his conscience reminds him of his honest nature and urges him to stay. Although Launcelot has no specific complaints, he seems troubled by the fact that his master is Jewish, or, as Launcelot puts it, "a kind of devil". Just when Launcelot determines to run away, his father, Old Gobbo, enters. The old man is blind, and he asks how to get to Shylock's house, where he hopes to find young Launcelot. Because his father does not recognize him, Launcelot decides to play a prank on him--he gives the old man confusing directions and reports that Launcelot is dead. When Launcelot reveals the deception, Old Gobbo doubts that the man before him is his son, but Launcelot soon convinces his father of his identity. Launcelot confesses to his father that he is leaving Shylock's employment in the hopes of serving Bassanio. Just then, Bassanio enters and the two plead with him to accept Launcelot as his servant. Bassanio takes several moments to understand their bumbling proposition, but he accepts the offer. Bassanio then meets Gratiano, who asks to accompany him to Belmont, and agrees on the condition that Gratiano tame his characteristically wild behavior. Gratiano promises to be on his best behavior, and the two men plan a night of merriment to celebrate their departure

Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_2_part_3.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene iii

act ii, scene iii

{"name": "act ii, scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/", "summary": "Shylock's daughter Jessica bids good-bye to Launcelot. She tells him that his presence made life with her father more bearable. Jessica gives Launcelot a letter to carry to Bassanio's friend Lorenzo, and Launcelot leaves, almost too tearful to say good-bye. Jessica, left alone, confesses that although she feels guilty for being ashamed of her father, she is only his daughter by blood, and not by actions. Still, she hopes to escape her damning relationship to Shylock by marrying Lorenzo and converting to Christianity", "analysis": "Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him."}

SCENE 3. The same. A room in SHYLOCK's house. [Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT.] JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so: Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee; And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest: Give him this letter; do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. LAUNCELOT. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu! JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelot. [Exit LAUNCELOT] Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be asham'd to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo! If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. [Exit]

act ii, scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/

Shylock's daughter Jessica bids good-bye to Launcelot. She tells him that his presence made life with her father more bearable. Jessica gives Launcelot a letter to carry to Bassanio's friend Lorenzo, and Launcelot leaves, almost too tearful to say good-bye. Jessica, left alone, confesses that although she feels guilty for being ashamed of her father, she is only his daughter by blood, and not by actions. Still, she hopes to escape her damning relationship to Shylock by marrying Lorenzo and converting to Christianity

Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_2_part_4.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene iv

act ii, scene iv

{"name": "act ii, scene iv", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/", "summary": "On a street in Venice, Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Solanio discuss the plan to unite Lorenzo with Jessica. Gratiano frets that they are not well prepared, but Lorenzo assures the men that they have enough time to gather the necessary disguises and torchbearers. As they talk, Launcelot enters bearing Jessica's letter. Lorenzo recognizes the writing, lovingly exclaiming that the hand that penned the message is \"whiter than the paper it writ on\". Lorenzo bids Launcelot to return to Shylock's house in order to assure Jessica, secretly, that Lorenzo will not let her down. Launcelot departs, and Lorenzo orders his friends to prepare for the night's festivities. Salarino and Solanio leave, and Lorenzo relates to Gratiano that Jessica will escape from Shylock's house by disguising herself as Lorenzo's torchbearer. Lorenzo gives Gratiano the letter and asks Gratiano to read it, then leaves, excited for the evening's outcome", "analysis": "Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him."}

SCENE 4. The same. A street [Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.] LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SALANIO. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd, And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. 'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours To furnish us. [Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter.] Friend Launcelot, what's the news? LAUNCELOT. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. LORENZO. I know the hand; in faith, 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. GRATIANO. Love news, in faith. LAUNCELOT. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELOT. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the Christian. LORENZO. Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, [Exit LAUNCELOT] Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALARINO. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. SALANIO. And so will I. LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. SALARINO. 'Tis good we do so. [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.] GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house; What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with; What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt]

act ii, scene iv

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section3/

On a street in Venice, Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Solanio discuss the plan to unite Lorenzo with Jessica. Gratiano frets that they are not well prepared, but Lorenzo assures the men that they have enough time to gather the necessary disguises and torchbearers. As they talk, Launcelot enters bearing Jessica's letter. Lorenzo recognizes the writing, lovingly exclaiming that the hand that penned the message is "whiter than the paper it writ on". Lorenzo bids Launcelot to return to Shylock's house in order to assure Jessica, secretly, that Lorenzo will not let her down. Launcelot departs, and Lorenzo orders his friends to prepare for the night's festivities. Salarino and Solanio leave, and Lorenzo relates to Gratiano that Jessica will escape from Shylock's house by disguising herself as Lorenzo's torchbearer. Lorenzo gives Gratiano the letter and asks Gratiano to read it, then leaves, excited for the evening's outcome

Act II, scenes i-iv The elaborate excuse the prince of Morocco makes for his dark coloring serves to call attention to it and to his cultural difference from Portia and from Shakespeare's audience. His extravagant praise of his own valor also makes him seem both less well-mannered and less attractive. Moreover, his assertion that the best virgins of his clime have loved him seems calculated to make him less, rather than more, attractive to Portia. Her response to his protestations is polite, even courtly, showing her good breeding and her virtuous acquiescence to her dead father's wishes. But her words also clearly convey that she does not want to marry him. The scene between the Gobbos is typical of Shakespeare, who frequently employs servants and members of the working class to provide slapstick interludes in both his comedies and tragedies. The Merchant of Venice does not derive all of its comic moments from the malapropisms and double entendres of this odd father-son pair, but the humor here is more crass and vulgar--so simple that it is hard to overlook and mistake. Seen in this light, we forgive things that might otherwise seem cruel to us, like Launcelot's shabby treatment of his blind and doting father. This humor is comedy at its simplest, where laughs are derived not from quick wit but from confusion and foolery. Although Shylock does not appear in these scenes, our view of him is further shaped by the opinions of those closest to him. Even though his servant and daughter do not like him, their descriptions of him inadvertently make him a more sympathetic figure in our eyes. Launcelot, we learn, is not abandoning his post because Shylock has proved to be a cruel or harsh master, but because he seems to fear contamination from being so close to a Jew. Interestingly, although he calls Shylock a devil, Launcelot points out that his desire to leave is a temptation more devilish still, and says his desire to stay is a product of his conscience, which is generally a guide of what is right. Jessica, too, voices no real complaint about her father, other than the tedium of life with him, but she seems eager to escape her Jewish heritage, which she sees as a stain on her honor. Jessica even brings the morality of her own actions into question when she calls her shame at being Shylock's daughter a sin, and she feels enormous guilt at her own sentiments. Her desire to convert would undoubtedly have been applauded by Elizabethan audiences, but here it is expressed as a kind of young recklessness that borders on selfishness. The negative impression that Shylock has given us with his first appearance is somewhat counteracted by the words of those closest to him, who feel guilty even as they speak ill of him.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_1.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene v

act ii, scene v

{"name": "act ii, scene v", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/", "summary": "Shylock warns Launcelot that Bassanio will not be as lenient a master as Shylock himself has been, and that Launcelot will no longer be at liberty to overeat and oversleep. Shylock calls for Jessica and tells her that he has been summoned for dinner. Worried by a premonition that trouble is brewing, Shylock asks Jessica to keep the doors locked and not look out at the revelry taking place in the streets. Launcelot whispers to Jessica that she must disobey her father and look out the window for the Christian who \"will be worth a Jewes eye\". Shylock asks Jessica about her furtive conversation with Launcelot, and says that, though Launcelot is kind, he eats and sleeps too much to be an efficient, worthwhile servant. After Shylock has left to see Bassanio, Jessica bids him farewell, thinking that, if nothing goes wrong, Shylock will soon have lost a daughter, and she, a father", "analysis": "Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have \"shallow fopp'ry\" in his \"sober house\" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of \"My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!\" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio."}

SCENE 5. The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house [Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT.] SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see; thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:-- What, Jessica!--Thou shalt not gormandize, As thou hast done with me;--What, Jessica!-- And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out-- Why, Jessica, I say! LAUNCELOT. Why, Jessica! SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. LAUNCELOT. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding. [Enter JESSICA.] JESSICA. Call you? What is your will? SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica: There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love; they flatter me; But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. LAUNCELOT. I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach. SHYLOCK. So do I his. LAUNCELOT. And they have conspired together; I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon. SHYLOCK. What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum, And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces; But stop my house's ears- I mean my casements; Let not the sound of shallow fopp'ry enter My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear I have no mind of feasting forth to-night; But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah; Say I will come. LAUNCELOT. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this; There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit LAUNCELOT.] SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha? JESSICA. His words were 'Farewell, mistress'; nothing else. SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder; Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him; and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in; Perhaps I will return immediately: Do as I bid you, shut doors after you: 'Fast bind, fast find,' A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit.] JESSICA. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [Exit.]

act ii, scene v

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/

Shylock warns Launcelot that Bassanio will not be as lenient a master as Shylock himself has been, and that Launcelot will no longer be at liberty to overeat and oversleep. Shylock calls for Jessica and tells her that he has been summoned for dinner. Worried by a premonition that trouble is brewing, Shylock asks Jessica to keep the doors locked and not look out at the revelry taking place in the streets. Launcelot whispers to Jessica that she must disobey her father and look out the window for the Christian who "will be worth a Jewes eye". Shylock asks Jessica about her furtive conversation with Launcelot, and says that, though Launcelot is kind, he eats and sleeps too much to be an efficient, worthwhile servant. After Shylock has left to see Bassanio, Jessica bids him farewell, thinking that, if nothing goes wrong, Shylock will soon have lost a daughter, and she, a father

Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have "shallow fopp'ry" in his "sober house" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of "My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_2.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene vi

act ii, scene vi

{"name": "act ii, scene vi", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/", "summary": "As planned, Gratiano and Salarino meet in front of Shylock's house. They are especially anxious because Lorenzo is late, and they think that lovers tend always to be early. The garrulous Gratiano expounds on Salarino's theory that love is at its best when the lover chases the object of his affection, and that once the lover captures his lady and consummates the relationship, he tends to tire and lose interest. Lorenzo joins them, apologizes for his tardiness, and calls up to Jessica, who appears on the balcony dressed as a page. Jessica tosses him a casket of gold and jewels. Jessica descends and exits with Lorenzo and Salarino. Just then, Antonio enters to report that Bassanio is sailing for Belmont immediately. Gratiano is obliged to leave the festivities and join Bassanio at once", "analysis": "Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have \"shallow fopp'ry\" in his \"sober house\" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of \"My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!\" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio."}

SCENE 6. The same. [Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued.] GRATIANO. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desir'd us to make stand. SALARINO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALARINO. O! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind! SALARINO. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter. [Enter LORENZO.] LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode; Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait: When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I'll watch as long for you then. Approach; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within? [Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes.] JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue. LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love. JESSICA. Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange; But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur'd. LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once; For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight. [Exit above.] GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew. LORENZO. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily; For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. [Enter JESSICA.] What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.] [Enter ANTONIO] ANTONIO. Who's there? GRATIANO. Signior Antonio! ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you. No masque to-night: the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard: I have sent twenty out to seek for you. GRATIANO. I am glad on't: I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Exeunt.]

act ii, scene vi

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/

As planned, Gratiano and Salarino meet in front of Shylock's house. They are especially anxious because Lorenzo is late, and they think that lovers tend always to be early. The garrulous Gratiano expounds on Salarino's theory that love is at its best when the lover chases the object of his affection, and that once the lover captures his lady and consummates the relationship, he tends to tire and lose interest. Lorenzo joins them, apologizes for his tardiness, and calls up to Jessica, who appears on the balcony dressed as a page. Jessica tosses him a casket of gold and jewels. Jessica descends and exits with Lorenzo and Salarino. Just then, Antonio enters to report that Bassanio is sailing for Belmont immediately. Gratiano is obliged to leave the festivities and join Bassanio at once

Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have "shallow fopp'ry" in his "sober house" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of "My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_3.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene vii

act ii, scene vii

{"name": "act ii, scene vii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/", "summary": "Back in Belmont, Portia shows the prince of Morocco to the caskets, where he will attempt to win her hand by guessing which chest contains her portrait. The first casket, made of gold, is inscribed with the words, \"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire\". The second, made of silver, reads, \"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves\". The third, a heavy leaden casket, declares, \"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath\". After much pondering, the prince chooses the gold casket, reasoning that only the most precious metal could house the picture of such a beautiful woman. He opens the chest to reveal a skull with a scroll in its eye socket. After reading a short poem chastising him for the folly of his choice, the prince makes a hasty departure. Portia is glad to see him go and hopes that \"ll of his complexion choose me so\"", "analysis": "Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have \"shallow fopp'ry\" in his \"sober house\" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of \"My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!\" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio."}

SCENE 7. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains.] PORTIA. Go draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' The second, silver, which this promise carries: 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt: 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' How shall I know if I do choose the right? PORTIA. The one of them contains my picture, prince; If you choose that, then I am yours withal. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see; I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' Must give: for what? For lead? Hazard for lead! This casket threatens; men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady; And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady: I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray'd no farther, but chose here? Let's see once more this saying grav'd in gold: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' Why, that's the lady: all the world desires her; From the four corners of the earth they come, To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint: The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia: The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come As o'er a brook to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation To think so base a thought; it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she's immur'd, Being ten times undervalu'd to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamped in gold; but that's insculp'd upon; But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key; Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! PORTIA. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket.] PRINCE OF MOROCCO. O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing. 'All that glisters is not gold, Often have you heard that told; Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll'd: Fare you well, your suit is cold.' Cold indeed; and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! Portia, adieu! I have too griev'd a heart To take a tedious leave; thus losers part. [Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets.] PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. [Exeunt.]

act ii, scene vii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/

Back in Belmont, Portia shows the prince of Morocco to the caskets, where he will attempt to win her hand by guessing which chest contains her portrait. The first casket, made of gold, is inscribed with the words, "Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire". The second, made of silver, reads, "Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves". The third, a heavy leaden casket, declares, "Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath". After much pondering, the prince chooses the gold casket, reasoning that only the most precious metal could house the picture of such a beautiful woman. He opens the chest to reveal a skull with a scroll in its eye socket. After reading a short poem chastising him for the folly of his choice, the prince makes a hasty departure. Portia is glad to see him go and hopes that "ll of his complexion choose me so"

Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have "shallow fopp'ry" in his "sober house" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of "My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_4.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene viii

act ii, scene viii

{"name": "act ii, scene viii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/", "summary": "Having witnessed Shylock's rage upon learning of Jessica's elopement, Solanio describes the scene to Salarino. Shylock, he reports, railed against the loss of his daughter and his ducats, and he shouted a loud, urgent appeal for justice and the law to prevail. Solanio hopes that Antonio is able to pay his debt, but Salarino reminds him of rumors that the long-awaited ships have capsized in the English Channel. The two men warmly remember Bassanio's departure from Antonio, wherein the merchant insisted that his young friend not allow thoughts of debt or danger to interfere with his courtship of Portia", "analysis": "Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have \"shallow fopp'ry\" in his \"sober house\" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of \"My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!\" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio."}

SCENE 8. Venice. A street [Enter SALARINO and SALANIO.] SALARINO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SALANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. SALARINO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SALANIO. I never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. 'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter! And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl! She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.' SALARINO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SALANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. SALARINO. Marry, well remember'd. I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me,--in the narrow seas that part The French and English,--there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish'd in silence that it were not his. SALANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answer'd 'Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted. SALANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALARINO. Do we so. [Exeunt.]

act ii, scene viii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/

Having witnessed Shylock's rage upon learning of Jessica's elopement, Solanio describes the scene to Salarino. Shylock, he reports, railed against the loss of his daughter and his ducats, and he shouted a loud, urgent appeal for justice and the law to prevail. Solanio hopes that Antonio is able to pay his debt, but Salarino reminds him of rumors that the long-awaited ships have capsized in the English Channel. The two men warmly remember Bassanio's departure from Antonio, wherein the merchant insisted that his young friend not allow thoughts of debt or danger to interfere with his courtship of Portia

Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have "shallow fopp'ry" in his "sober house" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of "My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_3_part_5.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act ii.scene ix

act ii, scene ix

{"name": "act ii, scene ix", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/", "summary": "The prince of Arragon is in Belmont to try his luck at winning Portia's hand in marriage. When brought to the caskets, he selects the silver one, confident that he \"shall get as much as he deserves\". Inside, he finds a portrait of a blinking idiot, and a poem that condemns him as a fool. Soon after he departs, a messenger arrives to tell Portia that a promising young Venetian, who seems like the perfect suitor, has come to Belmont to try his luck at the casket game. Hoping that it is Bassanio, Portia and Nerissa go out to greet the new suitor", "analysis": "Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have \"shallow fopp'ry\" in his \"sober house\" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of \"My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!\" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio."}

SCENE 9. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Enter NERISSA, with a SERVITOR.] NERISSA. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight; The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, And comes to his election presently. [Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON, PORTIA, and their Trains.] PORTIA. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince: If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd; But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately. ARRAGON. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone. PORTIA. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. ARRAGON. And so have I address'd me. Fortune now To my heart's hope! Gold, silver, and base lead. 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach; Which pries not to th' interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O! that estates, degrees, and offices Were not deriv'd corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare; How many be commanded that command; How much low peasantry would then be glean'd From the true seed of honour; and how much honour Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times To be new varnish'd! Well, but to my choice: 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [He opens the silver casket.] PORTIA. Too long a pause for that which you find there. ARRAGON. What's here? The portrait of a blinking idiot, Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! 'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.' Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better? PORTIA. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices, And of opposed natures. ARRAGON. What is here? 'The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss; There be fools alive, I wis, Silver'd o'er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head: So be gone; you are sped.' Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here; With one fool's head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth. [Exit ARAGON with his train.] PORTIA. Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. NERISSA. The ancient saying is no heresy: 'Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.' PORTIA. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. [Enter a SERVANT.] SERVANT. Where is my lady? PORTIA. Here; what would my lord? SERVANT. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify th' approaching of his lord; From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; To wit,--besides commends and courteous breath,-- Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love. A day in April never came so sweet, To show how costly summer was at hand, As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. PORTIA. No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly. NERISSA. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be! [Exeunt.]

act ii, scene ix

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section4/

The prince of Arragon is in Belmont to try his luck at winning Portia's hand in marriage. When brought to the caskets, he selects the silver one, confident that he "shall get as much as he deserves". Inside, he finds a portrait of a blinking idiot, and a poem that condemns him as a fool. Soon after he departs, a messenger arrives to tell Portia that a promising young Venetian, who seems like the perfect suitor, has come to Belmont to try his luck at the casket game. Hoping that it is Bassanio, Portia and Nerissa go out to greet the new suitor

Act II, scenes v-ix In these scenes, Shylock is again portrayed as a penny-pinching, but not wicked, master. Indeed, he seems to think himself quite lenient, and when he calls Launcelot lazy, this jibe seems likely to be an accurate description of the buffoonish retainer. Shylock's fear for his daughter and his distaste for the Venetian revelry paint him as a puritanical figure who respects order and the rule of law above all else, and who refuses to have "shallow fopp'ry" in his "sober house" . Shylock's rhetoric is distinctive: he tends to repeat himself and avoids the digressions common to other characters. As more than one critic has pointed out, he is characterized by a one-track mind. Happily, Jessica and Lorenzo's romantic love triumphs, but a number of critics have pointed out the ambiguity in the scene of their elopement. The couple's love for one another is not in doubt, but Jessica's determination to bring a hefty store of treasure reminds us that she is still an alien, a Jew among gentiles, who may be insecure about her reception. Indeed, her shame at her boy's costume may reflect a deeper concern for her place in her husband's Christian society. Later, at Belmont, she will be all but ignored by everyone save Lorenzo, suggesting that despite her husband and her conversion, she remains a Jew in others' eyes. The prince of Morocco's choice of the caskets is wrong, but his mistake is understandable, and we sympathize with him. There is something casually cruel about Portia's unwillingness to spare even a moment's pity for the Moor. Portia is a willful character--while her independence is often appealing, at other times she can seem terribly self-centered. She wants Bassanio as a husband and seems to have no regrets in seeing other suitors sentenced to a life of celibacy. Salarino and Solanio are the least interesting characters in the play. They are indistinguishable from one another and serve primarily to fill us in on events that take place offstage--in this case, Shylock's reaction to his daughter's flight and the parting of Antonio and Bassanio. Shylock's cries of "My daughter! O, my ducats! O, my daughter!" are meant to be comic--the moneylender is, after all, a comic villain . He bemoans the loss of his money as much as his loss of Jessica, suggesting that greed is as important to him as familial love. However, we cannot be sure that Shylock really reacted in this way, since we hear the story secondhand. Salarino and Solanio are poking fun at the Jew, and their testimony must be balanced by the concern that Shylock expresses for his daughter in the earlier scenes. Arragon, a Spanish prince, completes the parade of nationalities competing for Portia. He lacks the nobility of the prince of Morocco, and his arrogance almost makes us feel that he deserves his punishment. His quick dismissal from the scene clears the way for Bassanio.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_4_part_1.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act iii.scene i

act iii, scene i

{"name": "act iii, scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section5/", "summary": "Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions. If you prick us do we not bleed. If you tickle us do we not laugh. If you poison us do we not die. And if you wrong us shall we not revenge. Salarino and Solanio discuss the rumors that yet another of Antonio's ships has been wrecked. They are joined by Shylock, who accuses them of having helped Jessica escape. The two Venetians proudly take credit for their role in Jessica's elopement. Shylock curses his daughter's rebellion, to which Salarino responds, \"There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory\". Salarino then asks Shylock whether he can confirm the rumors of Antonio's lost vessels. Shylock replies that Antonio will soon be bankrupt and swears to collect his bond. Salarino doubts Shylock's resolve, wondering what the old man will do with a pound of flesh, to which Shylock chillingly replies that Antonio's flesh will at least feed his revenge. In a short monologue, Shylock says Antonio has mistreated him solely because Shylock is a Jew, but now Shylock is determined to apply the lessons of hatred and revenge that Christian intolerance has taught him so well. Salarino and Solanio head off to meet with Antonio, just as Tubal, a friend of Shylock's and a Jew, enters. Tubal announces that he cannot find Jessica. Shylock rants against his daughter, and he wishes her dead as he bemoans his losses. He is especially embittered when Tubal reports that Jessica has taken a ring--given to Shylock in his bachelor days by a woman named Leah, presumably Jessica's mother--and has traded that ring for a monkey. Shylock's spirits brighten, however, when Tubal reports that Antonio's ships have run into trouble and that Antonio's creditors are certain Antonio is ruined", "analysis": "Act III, scenes i-ii The passage of time in The Merchant of Venice is peculiar. In Venice, the three months that Antonio has to pay the debt go by quickly, while only days seem to pass in Belmont. Shakespeare juggles these differing chronologies by using Salarino and Solanio to fill in the missing Venetian weeks. As Antonio's losses mount, Shylock's villainous plan becomes apparent. \"et him look to his bond,\" he repeats single-mindedly . Despite his mounting obsession with the pound of Antonio's flesh, however, he maintains his dramatic dignity. In his scene with the pair of Venetians, he delivers the celebrated speech in which he cries, \"Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions . . . ? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?\" . We are not meant to sympathize entirely with Shylock: he may have been wronged, but he lacks both mercy and a sense of proportion. His refusal to take pity on Antonio is later contrasted with the mercy shown him by the Christians. But even as we recognize that Shylock's plans are terribly wrong, we can appreciate the angry logic of his speech. By asserting his own humanity, he lays waste to the pretensions of the Christian characters to value mercy, charity, and love above self-interest. Shylock's dignity lapses in his scene with Tubal, who keeps his supposed friend in agony by alternating between good and bad news. Shylock lurches from glee to despair and back, one moment crying, \"I thank God, I thank God!\" , and the next saying, \"Thou stick'st a dagger in me\" . But even here he rouses our sympathy, because we hear that Jessica stole a ring given to him by his late wife and traded it for a monkey. \"It was my turquoise,\" Shylock says. \"I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys\" . Villain though he may be, we can still feel sorrow that Jessica--who is suddenly a much less sympathetic character--would be heartless enough to steal and sell a ring that her dead mother gave her father. Bassanio's successful choice seems inevitable and brings the drama of the caskets to an end. Bassanio's excellence is made clear in his ability to select the correct casket, and his choice brings the separated strands of the plot together. Portia, who is the heroine of the play--she speaks far more lines than either Antonio or Shylock--is free to bring her will and intelligence to bear on the problem of Shylock's pound of flesh. Once Lorenzo and Jessica arrive, the three couples are together in Belmont, but the shadow of Shylock hangs over their happiness. Critics have noticed that Jessica is ignored by Portia and the others at Belmont. Her testimony against her father may be an attempt to prove her loyalty to the Christian cause, but the coldness of Portia, Bassanio, and the others is an understandable reaction--after all, she is a Jew and the daughter of their antagonist. Lorenzo may love her, but she remains an object of suspicion for the others."}

ACT 3. SCENE I. Venice. A street [Enter SALANIO and SALARINO.] SALANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto? SALARINO. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrack'd on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. SALANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true,--without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk,--that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,--O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!-- SALARINO. Come, the full stop. SALANIO. Ha! What sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship. SALARINO. I would it might prove the end of his losses. SALANIO. Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. [Enter SHYLOCK.] How now, Shylock! What news among the merchants? SHYLOCK. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight. SALARINO. That's certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. SALANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. SHYLOCK. She is damned for it. SALARINO. That's certain, if the devil may be her judge. SHYLOCK. My own flesh and blood to rebel! SALANIO. Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years? SHYLOCK. I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood. SALARINO. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no? SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond. SALARINO. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh: what's that good for? SHYLOCK. To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villaiy you teach me I will execute; and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. [Enter a Servant.] SERVANT. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both. SALARINO. We have been up and down to seek him. [Enter TUBAL.] SALANIO. Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be match'd, unless the devil himself turn Jew. [Exeunt SALANIO, SALARINO, and Servant.] SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter? TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know not what's spent in the search. Why, thou--loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears but of my shedding. TUBAL. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa,-- SHYLOCK. What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck? TUBAL. --hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis. SHYLOCK. I thank God! I thank God! Is it true, is it true? TUBAL. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack. SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! ha, ha! Where? in Genoa? TUBAL. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats. SHYLOCK. Thou stick'st a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats! TUBAL. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break. SHYLOCK. I am very glad of it; I'll plague him, I'll torture him; I am glad of it. TUBAL. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. SHYLOCK. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: It was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. TUBAL. But Antonio is certainly undone. SHYLOCK. Nay, that's true; that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal. [Exeunt.]

act iii, scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section5/

Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions. If you prick us do we not bleed. If you tickle us do we not laugh. If you poison us do we not die. And if you wrong us shall we not revenge. Salarino and Solanio discuss the rumors that yet another of Antonio's ships has been wrecked. They are joined by Shylock, who accuses them of having helped Jessica escape. The two Venetians proudly take credit for their role in Jessica's elopement. Shylock curses his daughter's rebellion, to which Salarino responds, "There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory". Salarino then asks Shylock whether he can confirm the rumors of Antonio's lost vessels. Shylock replies that Antonio will soon be bankrupt and swears to collect his bond. Salarino doubts Shylock's resolve, wondering what the old man will do with a pound of flesh, to which Shylock chillingly replies that Antonio's flesh will at least feed his revenge. In a short monologue, Shylock says Antonio has mistreated him solely because Shylock is a Jew, but now Shylock is determined to apply the lessons of hatred and revenge that Christian intolerance has taught him so well. Salarino and Solanio head off to meet with Antonio, just as Tubal, a friend of Shylock's and a Jew, enters. Tubal announces that he cannot find Jessica. Shylock rants against his daughter, and he wishes her dead as he bemoans his losses. He is especially embittered when Tubal reports that Jessica has taken a ring--given to Shylock in his bachelor days by a woman named Leah, presumably Jessica's mother--and has traded that ring for a monkey. Shylock's spirits brighten, however, when Tubal reports that Antonio's ships have run into trouble and that Antonio's creditors are certain Antonio is ruined

Act III, scenes i-ii The passage of time in The Merchant of Venice is peculiar. In Venice, the three months that Antonio has to pay the debt go by quickly, while only days seem to pass in Belmont. Shakespeare juggles these differing chronologies by using Salarino and Solanio to fill in the missing Venetian weeks. As Antonio's losses mount, Shylock's villainous plan becomes apparent. "et him look to his bond," he repeats single-mindedly . Despite his mounting obsession with the pound of Antonio's flesh, however, he maintains his dramatic dignity. In his scene with the pair of Venetians, he delivers the celebrated speech in which he cries, "Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions . . . ? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?" . We are not meant to sympathize entirely with Shylock: he may have been wronged, but he lacks both mercy and a sense of proportion. His refusal to take pity on Antonio is later contrasted with the mercy shown him by the Christians. But even as we recognize that Shylock's plans are terribly wrong, we can appreciate the angry logic of his speech. By asserting his own humanity, he lays waste to the pretensions of the Christian characters to value mercy, charity, and love above self-interest. Shylock's dignity lapses in his scene with Tubal, who keeps his supposed friend in agony by alternating between good and bad news. Shylock lurches from glee to despair and back, one moment crying, "I thank God, I thank God!" , and the next saying, "Thou stick'st a dagger in me" . But even here he rouses our sympathy, because we hear that Jessica stole a ring given to him by his late wife and traded it for a monkey. "It was my turquoise," Shylock says. "I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys" . Villain though he may be, we can still feel sorrow that Jessica--who is suddenly a much less sympathetic character--would be heartless enough to steal and sell a ring that her dead mother gave her father. Bassanio's successful choice seems inevitable and brings the drama of the caskets to an end. Bassanio's excellence is made clear in his ability to select the correct casket, and his choice brings the separated strands of the plot together. Portia, who is the heroine of the play--she speaks far more lines than either Antonio or Shylock--is free to bring her will and intelligence to bear on the problem of Shylock's pound of flesh. Once Lorenzo and Jessica arrive, the three couples are together in Belmont, but the shadow of Shylock hangs over their happiness. Critics have noticed that Jessica is ignored by Portia and the others at Belmont. Her testimony against her father may be an attempt to prove her loyalty to the Christian cause, but the coldness of Portia, Bassanio, and the others is an understandable reaction--after all, she is a Jew and the daughter of their antagonist. Lorenzo may love her, but she remains an object of suspicion for the others.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_4_part_2.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act iii.scene ii

act iii, scene ii

{"name": "act iii, scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section5/", "summary": "In Belmont, Portia begs Bassanio to delay choosing between the caskets for a day or two. If Bassanio chooses incorrectly, Portia reasons, she will lose his company. Bassanio insists that he make his choice now, to avoid prolonging the torment of living without Portia as his wife. Portia orders that music be played while her love makes his choice, and she compares Bassanio to the Greek hero and demigod Hercules. Like the suitors who have come before him, Bassanio carefully examines the three caskets and puzzles over their inscriptions. He rejects the gold casket, saying that \"he world is still deceived with ornament\" , while the silver he deems a \"pale and common drudge / 'Tween man and man\". After much debate, Bassanio picks the lead casket, which he opens to reveal Portia's portrait, along with a poem congratulating him on his choice and confirming that he has won Portia's hand. The happy couple promises one another love and devotion, and Portia gives Bassanio a ring that he must never part with, as his removal of it will signify the end of his love for her. Nerissa and Gratiano congratulate them and confess that they too have fallen in love with one another. They suggest a double wedding. Lorenzo and Jessica arrive in the midst of this rejoicing, along with Salarino, who gives a letter to Bassanio. In the letter, Antonio writes that all of his ships are lost, and that Shylock plans to collect his pound of flesh. The news provokes a fit of guilt in Bassanio, which in turn prompts Portia to offer to pay twenty times the sum. Jessica, however, worries that her father is more interested in revenge than in money. Bassanio reads out loud the letter from Antonio, who asks only for a brief reunion before he dies. Portia urges her husband to rush to his friend's aid, and Bassanio leaves for Venice", "analysis": "Act III, scenes i-ii The passage of time in The Merchant of Venice is peculiar. In Venice, the three months that Antonio has to pay the debt go by quickly, while only days seem to pass in Belmont. Shakespeare juggles these differing chronologies by using Salarino and Solanio to fill in the missing Venetian weeks. As Antonio's losses mount, Shylock's villainous plan becomes apparent. \"et him look to his bond,\" he repeats single-mindedly . Despite his mounting obsession with the pound of Antonio's flesh, however, he maintains his dramatic dignity. In his scene with the pair of Venetians, he delivers the celebrated speech in which he cries, \"Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions . . . ? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?\" . We are not meant to sympathize entirely with Shylock: he may have been wronged, but he lacks both mercy and a sense of proportion. His refusal to take pity on Antonio is later contrasted with the mercy shown him by the Christians. But even as we recognize that Shylock's plans are terribly wrong, we can appreciate the angry logic of his speech. By asserting his own humanity, he lays waste to the pretensions of the Christian characters to value mercy, charity, and love above self-interest. Shylock's dignity lapses in his scene with Tubal, who keeps his supposed friend in agony by alternating between good and bad news. Shylock lurches from glee to despair and back, one moment crying, \"I thank God, I thank God!\" , and the next saying, \"Thou stick'st a dagger in me\" . But even here he rouses our sympathy, because we hear that Jessica stole a ring given to him by his late wife and traded it for a monkey. \"It was my turquoise,\" Shylock says. \"I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys\" . Villain though he may be, we can still feel sorrow that Jessica--who is suddenly a much less sympathetic character--would be heartless enough to steal and sell a ring that her dead mother gave her father. Bassanio's successful choice seems inevitable and brings the drama of the caskets to an end. Bassanio's excellence is made clear in his ability to select the correct casket, and his choice brings the separated strands of the plot together. Portia, who is the heroine of the play--she speaks far more lines than either Antonio or Shylock--is free to bring her will and intelligence to bear on the problem of Shylock's pound of flesh. Once Lorenzo and Jessica arrive, the three couples are together in Belmont, but the shadow of Shylock hangs over their happiness. Critics have noticed that Jessica is ignored by Portia and the others at Belmont. Her testimony against her father may be an attempt to prove her loyalty to the Christian cause, but the coldness of Portia, Bassanio, and the others is an understandable reaction--after all, she is a Jew and the daughter of their antagonist. Lorenzo may love her, but she remains an object of suspicion for the others."}

SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and Attendants.] PORTIA. I pray you tarry; pause a day or two Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company; therefore forbear a while. There's something tells me, but it is not love, I would not lose you; and you know yourself Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well,-- And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,-- I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; So will I never be; so may you miss me; But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o'erlook'd me and divided me: One half of me is yours, the other half yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O! these naughty times Puts bars between the owners and their rights; And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long, but 'tis to peise the time, To eke it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election. BASSANIO. Let me choose; For as I am, I live upon the rack. PORTIA. Upon the rack, Bassanio! Then confess What treason there is mingled with your love. BASSANIO. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, Which makes me fear th' enjoying of my love: There may as well be amity and life 'Tween snow and fire as treason and my love. PORTIA. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, Where men enforced do speak anything. BASSANIO. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth. PORTIA. Well then, confess and live. BASSANIO. 'Confess' and 'love' Had been the very sum of my confession: O happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance! But let me to my fortune and the caskets. PORTIA. Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them: If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof; Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music: that the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery death-bed for him. He may win; And what is music then? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch; such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages come forth to view The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray. [A Song, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself.] Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head, How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell: I'll begin it.--Ding, dong, bell. [ALL.] Ding, dong, bell. BASSANIO. So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk; And these assume but valour's excrement To render them redoubted! Look on beauty And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight: Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them, in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I: joy be the consequence! PORTIA. [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy! O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy; In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess; I feel too much thy blessing; make it less, For fear I surfeit! BASSANIO. What find I here? [Opening the leaden casket.] Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips, Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes!-- How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnish'd: yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. 'You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleas'd with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn to where your lady is And claim her with a loving kiss.' A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; {Kissing her.] I come by note, to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize, That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no; So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so, As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. PORTIA. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am: though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich; That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account. But the full sum of me Is sum of something which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself and what is mine to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours- my lord's. I give them with this ring, Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; And there is such confusion in my powers As, after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude; Where every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: O! then be bold to say Bassanio's dead. NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time, That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady! GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish; For I am sure you can wish none from me; And when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls; For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev'd her mistress. PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa? NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal. BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord. BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage. GRATIANO. We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. NERISSA. What! and stake down? GRATIANO. No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Salanio! [Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALANIO.] BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salanio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new interest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome. PORTIA. So do I, my lord; They are entirely welcome. LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here; But meeting with Salanio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. SALANIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you. [Gives BASSANIO a letter] BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth. SALANIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor well, unless in mind; his letter there Will show you his estate. GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome. Your hand, Salanio. What's the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success: We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. SALANIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper. That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. BASSANIO. O sweet Portia! Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman; And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for indeed I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salanio? Hath all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India? And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks? SALANIO. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear that, if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature that did bear the shape of man, So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state, If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, The duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. JESSICA. When I was with him, I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him; and I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power, deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio. PORTIA. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? BASSANIO. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies; and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. PORTIA. What sum owes he the Jew? BASSANIO. For me, three thousand ducats. PORTIA. What! no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over: When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime, Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! For you shall hence upon your wedding day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend. BASSANIO. 'Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are clear'd between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.' PORTIA. O love, dispatch all business and be gone! BASSANIO. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste; but, till I come again, No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. [Exeunt.]

act iii, scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section5/

In Belmont, Portia begs Bassanio to delay choosing between the caskets for a day or two. If Bassanio chooses incorrectly, Portia reasons, she will lose his company. Bassanio insists that he make his choice now, to avoid prolonging the torment of living without Portia as his wife. Portia orders that music be played while her love makes his choice, and she compares Bassanio to the Greek hero and demigod Hercules. Like the suitors who have come before him, Bassanio carefully examines the three caskets and puzzles over their inscriptions. He rejects the gold casket, saying that "he world is still deceived with ornament" , while the silver he deems a "pale and common drudge / 'Tween man and man". After much debate, Bassanio picks the lead casket, which he opens to reveal Portia's portrait, along with a poem congratulating him on his choice and confirming that he has won Portia's hand. The happy couple promises one another love and devotion, and Portia gives Bassanio a ring that he must never part with, as his removal of it will signify the end of his love for her. Nerissa and Gratiano congratulate them and confess that they too have fallen in love with one another. They suggest a double wedding. Lorenzo and Jessica arrive in the midst of this rejoicing, along with Salarino, who gives a letter to Bassanio. In the letter, Antonio writes that all of his ships are lost, and that Shylock plans to collect his pound of flesh. The news provokes a fit of guilt in Bassanio, which in turn prompts Portia to offer to pay twenty times the sum. Jessica, however, worries that her father is more interested in revenge than in money. Bassanio reads out loud the letter from Antonio, who asks only for a brief reunion before he dies. Portia urges her husband to rush to his friend's aid, and Bassanio leaves for Venice

Act III, scenes i-ii The passage of time in The Merchant of Venice is peculiar. In Venice, the three months that Antonio has to pay the debt go by quickly, while only days seem to pass in Belmont. Shakespeare juggles these differing chronologies by using Salarino and Solanio to fill in the missing Venetian weeks. As Antonio's losses mount, Shylock's villainous plan becomes apparent. "et him look to his bond," he repeats single-mindedly . Despite his mounting obsession with the pound of Antonio's flesh, however, he maintains his dramatic dignity. In his scene with the pair of Venetians, he delivers the celebrated speech in which he cries, "Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions . . . ? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?" . We are not meant to sympathize entirely with Shylock: he may have been wronged, but he lacks both mercy and a sense of proportion. His refusal to take pity on Antonio is later contrasted with the mercy shown him by the Christians. But even as we recognize that Shylock's plans are terribly wrong, we can appreciate the angry logic of his speech. By asserting his own humanity, he lays waste to the pretensions of the Christian characters to value mercy, charity, and love above self-interest. Shylock's dignity lapses in his scene with Tubal, who keeps his supposed friend in agony by alternating between good and bad news. Shylock lurches from glee to despair and back, one moment crying, "I thank God, I thank God!" , and the next saying, "Thou stick'st a dagger in me" . But even here he rouses our sympathy, because we hear that Jessica stole a ring given to him by his late wife and traded it for a monkey. "It was my turquoise," Shylock says. "I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys" . Villain though he may be, we can still feel sorrow that Jessica--who is suddenly a much less sympathetic character--would be heartless enough to steal and sell a ring that her dead mother gave her father. Bassanio's successful choice seems inevitable and brings the drama of the caskets to an end. Bassanio's excellence is made clear in his ability to select the correct casket, and his choice brings the separated strands of the plot together. Portia, who is the heroine of the play--she speaks far more lines than either Antonio or Shylock--is free to bring her will and intelligence to bear on the problem of Shylock's pound of flesh. Once Lorenzo and Jessica arrive, the three couples are together in Belmont, but the shadow of Shylock hangs over their happiness. Critics have noticed that Jessica is ignored by Portia and the others at Belmont. Her testimony against her father may be an attempt to prove her loyalty to the Christian cause, but the coldness of Portia, Bassanio, and the others is an understandable reaction--after all, she is a Jew and the daughter of their antagonist. Lorenzo may love her, but she remains an object of suspicion for the others.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_5_part_1.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act iii.scene iii

act iii, scene iii

{"name": "act iii, scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section6/", "summary": "Shylock escorts the bankrupt Antonio to prison. Antonio pleads with Shylock to listen, but Shylock refuses. Remembering the many times Antonio condemned him as a dog, Shylock advises the merchant to beware of his bite. Assured that the duke will grant him justice, Shylock insists that he will have his bond and tells the jailer not to bother speaking to him of mercy. Solanio declares that Shylock is the worst of men, and Antonio reasons that the Jew hates him for bailing out many of Shylock's debtors. Solanio attempts to comfort Antonio by suggesting that the duke will never allow such a ridiculous contract to stand, but Antonio is not convinced. Venice, Antonio claims, is a wealthy trading city with a great reputation for upholding the law, and if the duke breaks that law, Venice's economy may suffer. As Solanio departs, Antonio prays desperately that Bassanio will arrive to \"see me pay his debt, and then I care not\"", "analysis": "Act III, scenes iii-v Once the play reaches Act III, scene iii, it is difficult to sympathize with Shylock. Whatever humiliations he has suffered at Antonio's hands are repaid when he sees the Christian merchant in shackles. Antonio may have treated the moneylender badly, but Shylock's pursuit of the pound of flesh is an exercise in naked cruelty. In this scene, Shylock's narrowly focused rhetoric becomes monomaniacal in its obsession with the bond. \"I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond,\" he insists, and denies attempts at reason when he says, \"I'll have no speaking. I will have my bond\" . When Antonio tells Solanio that Shylock is getting revenge for his practice of lending money without interest, he seems to miss the bigger picture. Shylock's mind has been warped into obsession not by Antonio alone, but by the persecutions visited on him by all of Christian Venice. He has taken Antonio as the embodiment of all his persecutors so that, in his pound of flesh, he can avenge himself against everyone. The institution of law comes to the forefront of the play in these scenes, and we may be tempted to view the law as a sort of necessary evil, a dogmatic set of rules that can be forced to serve the most absurd requests. In the thirty-six lines that make up Act III, scene iii, Shylock alludes to revenge in only the vaguest of terms, but repeats the word \"bond\" no less than six times. He also frequently invokes the concept of justice. Law is cast as the very backbone of the Venetian economy, as Antonio expresses when he makes the grim statement that \"he duke cannot deny the course of law. . . . / . . . / Since that the trade and profit of the city / Consisteth of all nations\" . Trade is the city's lifeblood, and an integral part of trade is ensuring that merchants of all religions and nationalities are extended the same protections as full-blooded Venetian citizens. In principle, the duke's inability to bend the law is sound, as the law upholds the economy that has allowed Antonio and his friends to thrive. However, Shylock's furious rants about justice and his bond make it seem as if his very law-abiding nature has perverted a bastion of Christian uprightness. Shylock remains in control of events in Venice, but Portia, his antagonist, is now moving against him. Her cross-dressing is a device typical of women in Shakespeare's comedies. Indeed, the play has already shown Jessica dressed as a boy in her escape from Shylock's house. Dressing as a man is necessary since Portia is about to play a man's part, appearing as member of a male profession. The demands placed upon her by her father's will are gone, and she feels free to act and to prove herself more intelligent and capable than the men around her. The conversation between Jessica and Launcelot in Act III, scene v, does little to advance the plot. It acts as comic relief and conveys the impression of time passing while the various characters converge on the Venetian courtroom. Jessica's subsequent description of Portia's perfection to her husband is odd, given how little attention Portia paid to her, but Jessica recognizes that Portia is the center of the social world that she hopes to join."}

SCENE 3. Venice. A street [Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler.] SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy; This is the fool that lent out money gratis: Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak; I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not; I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond. [Exit.] SALARINO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. ANTONIO. Let him alone; I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life; his reason well I know: I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me. SALARINO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, 'Twill much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go; These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not. [Exeunt.]

act iii, scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section6/

Shylock escorts the bankrupt Antonio to prison. Antonio pleads with Shylock to listen, but Shylock refuses. Remembering the many times Antonio condemned him as a dog, Shylock advises the merchant to beware of his bite. Assured that the duke will grant him justice, Shylock insists that he will have his bond and tells the jailer not to bother speaking to him of mercy. Solanio declares that Shylock is the worst of men, and Antonio reasons that the Jew hates him for bailing out many of Shylock's debtors. Solanio attempts to comfort Antonio by suggesting that the duke will never allow such a ridiculous contract to stand, but Antonio is not convinced. Venice, Antonio claims, is a wealthy trading city with a great reputation for upholding the law, and if the duke breaks that law, Venice's economy may suffer. As Solanio departs, Antonio prays desperately that Bassanio will arrive to "see me pay his debt, and then I care not"

Act III, scenes iii-v Once the play reaches Act III, scene iii, it is difficult to sympathize with Shylock. Whatever humiliations he has suffered at Antonio's hands are repaid when he sees the Christian merchant in shackles. Antonio may have treated the moneylender badly, but Shylock's pursuit of the pound of flesh is an exercise in naked cruelty. In this scene, Shylock's narrowly focused rhetoric becomes monomaniacal in its obsession with the bond. "I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond," he insists, and denies attempts at reason when he says, "I'll have no speaking. I will have my bond" . When Antonio tells Solanio that Shylock is getting revenge for his practice of lending money without interest, he seems to miss the bigger picture. Shylock's mind has been warped into obsession not by Antonio alone, but by the persecutions visited on him by all of Christian Venice. He has taken Antonio as the embodiment of all his persecutors so that, in his pound of flesh, he can avenge himself against everyone. The institution of law comes to the forefront of the play in these scenes, and we may be tempted to view the law as a sort of necessary evil, a dogmatic set of rules that can be forced to serve the most absurd requests. In the thirty-six lines that make up Act III, scene iii, Shylock alludes to revenge in only the vaguest of terms, but repeats the word "bond" no less than six times. He also frequently invokes the concept of justice. Law is cast as the very backbone of the Venetian economy, as Antonio expresses when he makes the grim statement that "he duke cannot deny the course of law. . . . / . . . / Since that the trade and profit of the city / Consisteth of all nations" . Trade is the city's lifeblood, and an integral part of trade is ensuring that merchants of all religions and nationalities are extended the same protections as full-blooded Venetian citizens. In principle, the duke's inability to bend the law is sound, as the law upholds the economy that has allowed Antonio and his friends to thrive. However, Shylock's furious rants about justice and his bond make it seem as if his very law-abiding nature has perverted a bastion of Christian uprightness. Shylock remains in control of events in Venice, but Portia, his antagonist, is now moving against him. Her cross-dressing is a device typical of women in Shakespeare's comedies. Indeed, the play has already shown Jessica dressed as a boy in her escape from Shylock's house. Dressing as a man is necessary since Portia is about to play a man's part, appearing as member of a male profession. The demands placed upon her by her father's will are gone, and she feels free to act and to prove herself more intelligent and capable than the men around her. The conversation between Jessica and Launcelot in Act III, scene v, does little to advance the plot. It acts as comic relief and conveys the impression of time passing while the various characters converge on the Venetian courtroom. Jessica's subsequent description of Portia's perfection to her husband is odd, given how little attention Portia paid to her, but Jessica recognizes that Portia is the center of the social world that she hopes to join.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_5_part_2.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act iii.scene iv

act iii, scene iv

{"name": "act iii, scene iv", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section6/", "summary": "Lorenzo assures Portia that Antonio is worthy of all the help she is sending him, and that if Portia only knew the depths of Antonio's love and goodness, she would be proud of her efforts to save him. Portia replies that she has never regretted doing a good deed, and goes on to say that she could never deny help to anyone so close to her dear Bassanio. Indeed, Antonio and Bassanio are so inseparable that Portia believes saving her husband's friend is no different than saving her own husband. She has sworn to live in prayer and contemplation until Bassanio returns to her, and announces that she and Nerissa will retire to a nearby monastery. Lorenzo and Jessica, she declares, will rule the estate in her absence. Portia then sends her servant, Balthasar, to Padua, where he is to meet her cousin, Doctor Bellario, who will provide Balthasar with certain documents and clothing. From there, Balthasar will take the ferry to Venice, where Portia will await him. After Balthasar departs, Portia informs Nerissa that the two of them, dressed as young men, are going to pay an incognito visit to their new husbands. When Nerissa asks why, Portia dismisses the question, but promises to disclose the whole of her purpose on the coach ride to Venice", "analysis": "Act III, scenes iii-v Once the play reaches Act III, scene iii, it is difficult to sympathize with Shylock. Whatever humiliations he has suffered at Antonio's hands are repaid when he sees the Christian merchant in shackles. Antonio may have treated the moneylender badly, but Shylock's pursuit of the pound of flesh is an exercise in naked cruelty. In this scene, Shylock's narrowly focused rhetoric becomes monomaniacal in its obsession with the bond. \"I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond,\" he insists, and denies attempts at reason when he says, \"I'll have no speaking. I will have my bond\" . When Antonio tells Solanio that Shylock is getting revenge for his practice of lending money without interest, he seems to miss the bigger picture. Shylock's mind has been warped into obsession not by Antonio alone, but by the persecutions visited on him by all of Christian Venice. He has taken Antonio as the embodiment of all his persecutors so that, in his pound of flesh, he can avenge himself against everyone. The institution of law comes to the forefront of the play in these scenes, and we may be tempted to view the law as a sort of necessary evil, a dogmatic set of rules that can be forced to serve the most absurd requests. In the thirty-six lines that make up Act III, scene iii, Shylock alludes to revenge in only the vaguest of terms, but repeats the word \"bond\" no less than six times. He also frequently invokes the concept of justice. Law is cast as the very backbone of the Venetian economy, as Antonio expresses when he makes the grim statement that \"he duke cannot deny the course of law. . . . / . . . / Since that the trade and profit of the city / Consisteth of all nations\" . Trade is the city's lifeblood, and an integral part of trade is ensuring that merchants of all religions and nationalities are extended the same protections as full-blooded Venetian citizens. In principle, the duke's inability to bend the law is sound, as the law upholds the economy that has allowed Antonio and his friends to thrive. However, Shylock's furious rants about justice and his bond make it seem as if his very law-abiding nature has perverted a bastion of Christian uprightness. Shylock remains in control of events in Venice, but Portia, his antagonist, is now moving against him. Her cross-dressing is a device typical of women in Shakespeare's comedies. Indeed, the play has already shown Jessica dressed as a boy in her escape from Shylock's house. Dressing as a man is necessary since Portia is about to play a man's part, appearing as member of a male profession. The demands placed upon her by her father's will are gone, and she feels free to act and to prove herself more intelligent and capable than the men around her. The conversation between Jessica and Launcelot in Act III, scene v, does little to advance the plot. It acts as comic relief and conveys the impression of time passing while the various characters converge on the Venetian courtroom. Jessica's subsequent description of Portia's perfection to her husband is odd, given how little attention Portia paid to her, but Jessica recognizes that Portia is the center of the social world that she hopes to join."}

SCENE 4. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house. [Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR.] LORENZO. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. PORTIA. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now; for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit, Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish cruelty! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore, no more of it; hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return; for mine own part, I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord's return. There is a monastery two miles off, And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition, The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. LORENZO. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in an fair commands. PORTIA. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again. LORENZO. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you! JESSICA. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. PORTIA. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica. [Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO.] Now, Balthasar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all th' endeavour of a man In speed to Padua; see thou render this Into my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone; I shall be there before thee. BALTHASAR. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. [Exit.] PORTIA. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand That you yet know not of; we'll see our husbands Before they think of us. NERISSA. Shall they see us? PORTIA. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died; I could not do withal. Then I'll repent, And wish for all that, that I had not kill'd them. And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinu'd school About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. NERISSA. Why, shall we turn to men? PORTIA. Fie, what a question's that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles to-day. [Exeunt.]

act iii, scene iv

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section6/

Lorenzo assures Portia that Antonio is worthy of all the help she is sending him, and that if Portia only knew the depths of Antonio's love and goodness, she would be proud of her efforts to save him. Portia replies that she has never regretted doing a good deed, and goes on to say that she could never deny help to anyone so close to her dear Bassanio. Indeed, Antonio and Bassanio are so inseparable that Portia believes saving her husband's friend is no different than saving her own husband. She has sworn to live in prayer and contemplation until Bassanio returns to her, and announces that she and Nerissa will retire to a nearby monastery. Lorenzo and Jessica, she declares, will rule the estate in her absence. Portia then sends her servant, Balthasar, to Padua, where he is to meet her cousin, Doctor Bellario, who will provide Balthasar with certain documents and clothing. From there, Balthasar will take the ferry to Venice, where Portia will await him. After Balthasar departs, Portia informs Nerissa that the two of them, dressed as young men, are going to pay an incognito visit to their new husbands. When Nerissa asks why, Portia dismisses the question, but promises to disclose the whole of her purpose on the coach ride to Venice

Act III, scenes iii-v Once the play reaches Act III, scene iii, it is difficult to sympathize with Shylock. Whatever humiliations he has suffered at Antonio's hands are repaid when he sees the Christian merchant in shackles. Antonio may have treated the moneylender badly, but Shylock's pursuit of the pound of flesh is an exercise in naked cruelty. In this scene, Shylock's narrowly focused rhetoric becomes monomaniacal in its obsession with the bond. "I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond," he insists, and denies attempts at reason when he says, "I'll have no speaking. I will have my bond" . When Antonio tells Solanio that Shylock is getting revenge for his practice of lending money without interest, he seems to miss the bigger picture. Shylock's mind has been warped into obsession not by Antonio alone, but by the persecutions visited on him by all of Christian Venice. He has taken Antonio as the embodiment of all his persecutors so that, in his pound of flesh, he can avenge himself against everyone. The institution of law comes to the forefront of the play in these scenes, and we may be tempted to view the law as a sort of necessary evil, a dogmatic set of rules that can be forced to serve the most absurd requests. In the thirty-six lines that make up Act III, scene iii, Shylock alludes to revenge in only the vaguest of terms, but repeats the word "bond" no less than six times. He also frequently invokes the concept of justice. Law is cast as the very backbone of the Venetian economy, as Antonio expresses when he makes the grim statement that "he duke cannot deny the course of law. . . . / . . . / Since that the trade and profit of the city / Consisteth of all nations" . Trade is the city's lifeblood, and an integral part of trade is ensuring that merchants of all religions and nationalities are extended the same protections as full-blooded Venetian citizens. In principle, the duke's inability to bend the law is sound, as the law upholds the economy that has allowed Antonio and his friends to thrive. However, Shylock's furious rants about justice and his bond make it seem as if his very law-abiding nature has perverted a bastion of Christian uprightness. Shylock remains in control of events in Venice, but Portia, his antagonist, is now moving against him. Her cross-dressing is a device typical of women in Shakespeare's comedies. Indeed, the play has already shown Jessica dressed as a boy in her escape from Shylock's house. Dressing as a man is necessary since Portia is about to play a man's part, appearing as member of a male profession. The demands placed upon her by her father's will are gone, and she feels free to act and to prove herself more intelligent and capable than the men around her. The conversation between Jessica and Launcelot in Act III, scene v, does little to advance the plot. It acts as comic relief and conveys the impression of time passing while the various characters converge on the Venetian courtroom. Jessica's subsequent description of Portia's perfection to her husband is odd, given how little attention Portia paid to her, but Jessica recognizes that Portia is the center of the social world that she hopes to join.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1515-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Merchant of Venice/section_5_part_3.txt

The Merchant of Venice.act iii.scene v

act iii, scene v

{"name": "act iii, scene v", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section6/", "summary": "Quoting the adage that the sins of the father shall be delivered upon the children, Launcelot says he fears for Jessica's soul. When Jessica claims that she will be saved by her marriage to Lorenzo, Launcelot complains that the conversion of the Jews, who do not eat pork, will have disastrous consequences on the price of bacon. Lorenzo enters and chastises Launcelot for impregnating a Moorish servant. Launcelot delivers a dazzling series of puns in reply and departs to prepare for dinner. When Lorenzo asks Jessica what she thinks of Portia, she responds that the woman is without match, nearly perfect in all respects. Lorenzo jokes that he is as good a spouse as Portia, and leads them off to dinner", "analysis": "Act III, scenes iii-v Once the play reaches Act III, scene iii, it is difficult to sympathize with Shylock. Whatever humiliations he has suffered at Antonio's hands are repaid when he sees the Christian merchant in shackles. Antonio may have treated the moneylender badly, but Shylock's pursuit of the pound of flesh is an exercise in naked cruelty. In this scene, Shylock's narrowly focused rhetoric becomes monomaniacal in its obsession with the bond. \"I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond,\" he insists, and denies attempts at reason when he says, \"I'll have no speaking. I will have my bond\" . When Antonio tells Solanio that Shylock is getting revenge for his practice of lending money without interest, he seems to miss the bigger picture. Shylock's mind has been warped into obsession not by Antonio alone, but by the persecutions visited on him by all of Christian Venice. He has taken Antonio as the embodiment of all his persecutors so that, in his pound of flesh, he can avenge himself against everyone. The institution of law comes to the forefront of the play in these scenes, and we may be tempted to view the law as a sort of necessary evil, a dogmatic set of rules that can be forced to serve the most absurd requests. In the thirty-six lines that make up Act III, scene iii, Shylock alludes to revenge in only the vaguest of terms, but repeats the word \"bond\" no less than six times. He also frequently invokes the concept of justice. Law is cast as the very backbone of the Venetian economy, as Antonio expresses when he makes the grim statement that \"he duke cannot deny the course of law. . . . / . . . / Since that the trade and profit of the city / Consisteth of all nations\" . Trade is the city's lifeblood, and an integral part of trade is ensuring that merchants of all religions and nationalities are extended the same protections as full-blooded Venetian citizens. In principle, the duke's inability to bend the law is sound, as the law upholds the economy that has allowed Antonio and his friends to thrive. However, Shylock's furious rants about justice and his bond make it seem as if his very law-abiding nature has perverted a bastion of Christian uprightness. Shylock remains in control of events in Venice, but Portia, his antagonist, is now moving against him. Her cross-dressing is a device typical of women in Shakespeare's comedies. Indeed, the play has already shown Jessica dressed as a boy in her escape from Shylock's house. Dressing as a man is necessary since Portia is about to play a man's part, appearing as member of a male profession. The demands placed upon her by her father's will are gone, and she feels free to act and to prove herself more intelligent and capable than the men around her. The conversation between Jessica and Launcelot in Act III, scene v, does little to advance the plot. It acts as comic relief and conveys the impression of time passing while the various characters converge on the Venetian courtroom. Jessica's subsequent description of Portia's perfection to her husband is odd, given how little attention Portia paid to her, but Jessica recognizes that Portia is the center of the social world that she hopes to join."}

SCENE 5. The same. A garden. [Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.] LAUNCELOT. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn'd. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELOT. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter. JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. LAUNCELOT. Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways. JESSICA. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian. LAUNCELOT. Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow before, e'en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. JESSICA. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes. [Enter LORENZO.] LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners. JESSICA. Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork. LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. LAUNCELOT. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELOT. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. LAUNCELOT. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. [Exit.] LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words; and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For, having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon; first let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I'll set you forth. [Exeunt.]

act iii, scene v

https://web.archive.org/web/20210125081452/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/merchant/section6/

Quoting the adage that the sins of the father shall be delivered upon the children, Launcelot says he fears for Jessica's soul. When Jessica claims that she will be saved by her marriage to Lorenzo, Launcelot complains that the conversion of the Jews, who do not eat pork, will have disastrous consequences on the price of bacon. Lorenzo enters and chastises Launcelot for impregnating a Moorish servant. Launcelot delivers a dazzling series of puns in reply and departs to prepare for dinner. When Lorenzo asks Jessica what she thinks of Portia, she responds that the woman is without match, nearly perfect in all respects. Lorenzo jokes that he is as good a spouse as Portia, and leads them off to dinner

Act III, scenes iii-v Once the play reaches Act III, scene iii, it is difficult to sympathize with Shylock. Whatever humiliations he has suffered at Antonio's hands are repaid when he sees the Christian merchant in shackles. Antonio may have treated the moneylender badly, but Shylock's pursuit of the pound of flesh is an exercise in naked cruelty. In this scene, Shylock's narrowly focused rhetoric becomes monomaniacal in its obsession with the bond. "I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond," he insists, and denies attempts at reason when he says, "I'll have no speaking. I will have my bond" . When Antonio tells Solanio that Shylock is getting revenge for his practice of lending money without interest, he seems to miss the bigger picture. Shylock's mind has been warped into obsession not by Antonio alone, but by the persecutions visited on him by all of Christian Venice. He has taken Antonio as the embodiment of all his persecutors so that, in his pound of flesh, he can avenge himself against everyone. The institution of law comes to the forefront of the play in these scenes, and we may be tempted to view the law as a sort of necessary evil, a dogmatic set of rules that can be forced to serve the most absurd requests. In the thirty-six lines that make up Act III, scene iii, Shylock alludes to revenge in only the vaguest of terms, but repeats the word "bond" no less than six times. He also frequently invokes the concept of justice. Law is cast as the very backbone of the Venetian economy, as Antonio expresses when he makes the grim statement that "he duke cannot deny the course of law. . . . / . . . / Since that the trade and profit of the city / Consisteth of all nations" . Trade is the city's lifeblood, and an integral part of trade is ensuring that merchants of all religions and nationalities are extended the same protections as full-blooded Venetian citizens. In principle, the duke's inability to bend the law is sound, as the law upholds the economy that has allowed Antonio and his friends to thrive. However, Shylock's furious rants about justice and his bond make it seem as if his very law-abiding nature has perverted a bastion of Christian uprightness. Shylock remains in control of events in Venice, but Portia, his antagonist, is now moving against him. Her cross-dressing is a device typical of women in Shakespeare's comedies. Indeed, the play has already shown Jessica dressed as a boy in her escape from Shylock's house. Dressing as a man is necessary since Portia is about to play a man's part, appearing as member of a male profession. The demands placed upon her by her father's will are gone, and she feels free to act and to prove herself more intelligent and capable than the men around her. The conversation between Jessica and Launcelot in Act III, scene v, does little to advance the plot. It acts as comic relief and conveys the impression of time passing while the various characters converge on the Venetian courtroom. Jessica's subsequent description of Portia's perfection to her husband is odd, given how little attention Portia paid to her, but Jessica recognizes that Portia is the center of the social world that she hopes to join.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/4320-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals/section_1_part_0.txt

An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "Section II, Part I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219141046/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/enquiry-concerning-the-principles-of-morals/summary/section-ii-part-i", "summary": "Hume begins this section by recognizing that, when it comes to things like friendliness, kindness, and gratitude, it may seem pointless to examine why they're valued so much. C'mon, it's pretty obvious, right? Hume adds that we generally have an even higher opinion of folks that have not only these qualities but strong abilities that they use for the good of all; y'know like Superman, Spiderman, and all that crew. Hume uses the example of Pericles to sum up his key argument. Hume explains that, when Pericles was on his deathbed, his pals talked glowingly about his many awards and victories. Pericles, however, replied that these \"vulgar advantages\" were far less important than the happiness and contentment he'd brought to his citizens. Far from being important only to the likes of Pericles, Hume argues that social virtues like benevolence are even more important to us ordinary folk since we don't usually have epic achievements and successes to fall back on. In general, cut-throat ambition is a less likable trait than \"softer\" virtues such as kindness and compassion. The theme here is that, ideally, we don't just brag about our own achievements and good points but extend our thoughts and feelings toward other folks, too. In the final paragraph, Hume remembers that his current aim isn't to gush about the charms of these social virtues; it's to explore how morals are formed and come into practice. He sums up that no qualities are looked on more fondly than those that relate to sympathy and concern for others, as they play a big role in creating a connection between individuals .", "analysis": ""}

SECTION II. OF BENEVOLENCE. PART I. It may be esteemed, perhaps, a superfluous task to prove, that the benevolent or softer affections are estimable; and wherever they appear, engage the approbation and good-will of mankind. The epithets SOCIABLE, GOOD-NATURED, HUMANE, MERCIFUL, GRATEFUL, FRIENDLY, GENEROUS, BENEFICENT, or their equivalents, are known in all languages, and universally express the highest merit, which HUMAN NATURE is capable of attaining. Where these amiable qualities are attended with birth and power and eminent abilities, and display themselves in the good government or useful instruction of mankind, they seem even to raise the possessors of them above the rank of HUMAN NATURE, and make them approach in some measure to the divine. Exalted capacity, undaunted courage, prosperous success; these may only expose a hero or politician to the envy and ill-will of the public: but as soon as the praises are added of humane and beneficent; when instances are displayed of lenity, tenderness or friendship; envy itself is silent, or joins the general voice of approbation and applause. When Pericles, the great Athenian statesman and general, was on his death-bed, his surrounding friends, deeming him now insensible, began to indulge their sorrow for their expiring patron, by enumerating his great qualities and successes, his conquests and victories, the unusual length of his administration, and his nine trophies erected over the enemies of the republic. YOU FORGET, cries the dying hero, who had heard all, YOU FORGET THE MOST EMINENT OF MY PRAISES, WHILE YOU DWELL SO MUCH ON THOSE VULGAR ADVANTAGES, IN WHICH FORTUNE HAD A PRINCIPAL SHARE. YOU HAVE NOT OBSERVED THAT NO CITIZEN HAS EVER YET WORNE MOURNING ON MY ACCOUNT. [Plut. in Pericle] In men of more ordinary talents and capacity, the social virtues become, if possible, still more essentially requisite; there being nothing eminent, in that case, to compensate for the want of them, or preserve the person from our severest hatred, as well as contempt. A high ambition, an elevated courage, is apt, says Cicero, in less perfect characters, to degenerate into a turbulent ferocity. The more social and softer virtues are there chiefly to be regarded. These are always good and amiable [Cic. de Officiis, lib. I]. The principal advantage, which Juvenal discovers in the extensive capacity of the human species, is that it renders our benevolence also more extensive, and gives us larger opportunities of spreading our kindly influence than what are indulged to the inferior creation [Sat. XV. 139 and seq.]. It must, indeed, be confessed, that by doing good only, can a man truly enjoy the advantages of being eminent. His exalted station, of itself but the more exposes him to danger and tempest. His sole prerogative is to afford shelter to inferiors, who repose themselves under his cover and protection. But I forget, that it is not my present business to recommend generosity and benevolence, or to paint, in their true colours, all the genuine charms of the social virtues. These, indeed, sufficiently engage every heart, on the first apprehension of them; and it is difficult to abstain from some sally of panegyric, as often as they occur in discourse or reasoning. But our object here being more the speculative, than the practical part of morals, it will suffice to remark, (what will readily, I believe, be allowed) that no qualities are more intitled to the general good-will and approbation of mankind than beneficence and humanity, friendship and gratitude, natural affection and public spirit, or whatever proceeds from a tender sympathy with others, and a generous concern for our kind and species. These wherever they appear seem to transfuse themselves, in a manner, into each beholder, and to call forth, in their own behalf, the same favourable and affectionate sentiments, which they exert on all around. PART II. We may observe that, in displaying the praises of any humane, beneficent man, there is one circumstance which never fails to be amply insisted on, namely, the happiness and satisfaction, derived to society from his intercourse and good offices. To his parents, we are apt to say, he endears himself by his pious attachment and duteous care still more than by the connexions of nature. His children never feel his authority, but when employed for their advantage. With him, the ties of love are consolidated by beneficence and friendship. The ties of friendship approach, in a fond observance of each obliging office, to those of love and inclination. His domestics and dependants have in him a sure resource; and no longer dread the power of fortune, but so far as she exercises it over him. From him the hungry receive food, the naked clothing, the ignorant and slothful skill and industry. Like the sun, an inferior minister of providence he cheers, invigorates, and sustains the surrounding world. If confined to private life, the sphere of his activity is narrower; but his influence is all benign and gentle. If exalted into a higher station, mankind and posterity reap the fruit of his labours. As these topics of praise never fail to be employed, and with success, where we would inspire esteem for any one; may it not thence be concluded, that the utility, resulting from the social virtues, forms, at least, a PART of their merit, and is one source of that approbation and regard so universally paid to them? When we recommend even an animal or a plant as USEFUL and BENEFICIAL, we give it an applause and recommendation suited to its nature. As, on the other hand, reflection on the baneful influence of any of these inferior beings always inspires us with the sentiment of aversion. The eye is pleased with the prospect of corn-fields and loaded vine-yards; horses grazing, and flocks pasturing: but flies the view of briars and brambles, affording shelter to wolves and serpents. A machine, a piece of furniture, a vestment, a house well contrived for use and conveniency, is so far beautiful, and is contemplated with pleasure and approbation. An experienced eye is here sensible to many excellencies, which escape persons ignorant and uninstructed. Can anything stronger be said in praise of a profession, such as merchandize or manufacture, than to observe the advantages which it procures to society; and is not a monk and inquisitor enraged when we treat his order as useless or pernicious to mankind? The historian exults in displaying the benefit arising from his labours. The writer of romance alleviates or denies the bad consequences ascribed to his manner of composition. In general, what praise is implied in the simple epithet USEFUL! What reproach in the contrary! Your Gods, says Cicero [De Nat. Deor. lib. i.], in opposition to the Epicureans, cannot justly claim any worship or adoration, with whatever imaginary perfections you may suppose them endowed. They are totally useless and inactive. Even the Egyptians, whom you so much ridicule, never consecrated any animal but on account of its utility. The sceptics assert [Sext. Emp. adrersus Math. lib. viii.], though absurdly, that the origin of all religious worship was derived from the utility of inanimate objects, as the sun and moon, to the support and well-being of mankind. This is also the common reason assigned by historians, for the deification of eminent heroes and legislators [Diod. Sic. passim.]. To plant a tree, to cultivate a field, to beget children; meritorious acts, according to the religion of Zoroaster. In all determinations of morality, this circumstance of public utility is ever principally in view; and wherever disputes arise, either in philosophy or common life, concerning the bounds of duty, the question cannot, by any means, be decided with greater certainty, than by ascertaining, on any side, the true interests of mankind. If any false opinion, embraced from appearances, has been found to prevail; as soon as farther experience and sounder reasoning have given us juster notions of human affairs, we retract our first sentiment, and adjust anew the boundaries of moral good and evil. Giving alms to common beggars is naturally praised; because it seems to carry relief to the distressed and indigent: but when we observe the encouragement thence arising to idleness and debauchery, we regard that species of charity rather as a weakness than a virtue. Tyrannicide, or the assassination of usurpers and oppressive princes, was highly extolled in ancient times; because it both freed mankind from many of these monsters, and seemed to keep the others in awe, whom the sword or poniard could not reach. But history and experience having since convinced us, that this practice increases the jealousy and cruelty of princes, a Timoleon and a Brutus, though treated with indulgence on account of the prejudices of their times, are now considered as very improper models for imitation. Liberality in princes is regarded as a mark of beneficence, but when it occurs, that the homely bread of the honest and industrious is often thereby converted into delicious cates for the idle and the prodigal, we soon retract our heedless praises. The regrets of a prince, for having lost a day, were noble and generous: but had he intended to have spent it in acts of generosity to his greedy courtiers, it was better lost than misemployed after that manner. Luxury, or a refinement on the pleasures and conveniences of life, had not long been supposed the source of every corruption in government, and the immediate cause of faction, sedition, civil wars, and the total loss of liberty. It was, therefore, universally regarded as a vice, and was an object of declamation to all satirists, and severe moralists. Those, who prove, or attempt to prove, that such refinements rather tend to the increase of industry, civility, and arts regulate anew our MORAL as well as POLITICAL sentiments, and represent, as laudable or innocent, what had formerly been regarded as pernicious and blameable. Upon the whole, then, it seems undeniable, THAT nothing can bestow more merit on any human creature than the sentiment of benevolence in an eminent degree; and THAT a PART, at least, of its merit arises from its tendency to promote the interests of our species, and bestow happiness on human society. We carry our view into the salutary consequences of such a character and disposition; and whatever has so benign an influence, and forwards so desirable an end, is beheld with complacency and pleasure. The social virtues are never regarded without their beneficial tendencies, nor viewed as barren and unfruitful. The happiness of mankind, the order of society, the harmony of families, the mutual support of friends, are always considered as the result of their gentle dominion over the breasts of men. How considerable a PART of their merit we ought to ascribe to their utility, will better appear from future disquisitions; [Footnote: Sect. III. and IV.] as well as the reason, why this circumstance has such a command over our esteem and approbation. [Footnote: Sect. V.]

Section II, Part I

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219141046/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/enquiry-concerning-the-principles-of-morals/summary/section-ii-part-i

Hume begins this section by recognizing that, when it comes to things like friendliness, kindness, and gratitude, it may seem pointless to examine why they're valued so much. C'mon, it's pretty obvious, right? Hume adds that we generally have an even higher opinion of folks that have not only these qualities but strong abilities that they use for the good of all; y'know like Superman, Spiderman, and all that crew. Hume uses the example of Pericles to sum up his key argument. Hume explains that, when Pericles was on his deathbed, his pals talked glowingly about his many awards and victories. Pericles, however, replied that these "vulgar advantages" were far less important than the happiness and contentment he'd brought to his citizens. Far from being important only to the likes of Pericles, Hume argues that social virtues like benevolence are even more important to us ordinary folk since we don't usually have epic achievements and successes to fall back on. In general, cut-throat ambition is a less likable trait than "softer" virtues such as kindness and compassion. The theme here is that, ideally, we don't just brag about our own achievements and good points but extend our thoughts and feelings toward other folks, too. In the final paragraph, Hume remembers that his current aim isn't to gush about the charms of these social virtues; it's to explore how morals are formed and come into practice. He sums up that no qualities are looked on more fondly than those that relate to sympathy and concern for others, as they play a big role in creating a connection between individuals .

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_2_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 3

chapter 3: who m. jean percerin was

{"name": "Chapter Three: Who M. Jean Percerin Was", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-three-who-m-jean-percerin-was", "summary": "The King's tailor lives on Rue St. Honore, which today houses a large quantity of luxury stores, like Hermes and Chanel. Percerin's ancestors date from the time of Charles IX, several hundred years ago. We get three generations worth of Percerin history, which boils down to the idea that the Percerins are expert tailors who became wealthy as they dressed the nobility. Percerin worked for the King, but never worked as Colbert's tailor. D'Artagnan takes his friend Porthos over to Percerin's house. Before the two men arrive, however, they're stopped by traffic. Carriages upon carriages are waiting, all with the same destination in mind: Percerin. Porthos despairs, but D'Artagnan points out that if they get out of the carriage and walk, they can gain entrance. When they get to the door, the two friends find a servant politely turning away all the nobleman who are trying to get an appointment. Meanwhile, plenty of apprentice tailors are busy sewing and cutting. D'Artagnan barges in with Porthos by using the King's name. D'Artagnan spots a guy in his forties who seems to be peacefully surveying the scene. When the guy moves to hide his face under a hat, D'Artagnan's interest is aroused. It turns out this guy is kind of a big deal. D'Artagnan recognizes him as a Monsieur Moliere, and asks where Percerin may be found. Moliere tells D'Artagnan that Percerin is in his rooms, but cannot be disturbed. D'Artagnan threatens Moliere. He tells the man to fetch Percerin. In exchange, D'Artagnan will introduce Moliere to Porthos. Moliere looks Porthos up and down, and then heads off to find Percerin.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III. Who Messire Jean Percerin Was. The king's tailor, Messire Jean Percerin, occupied a rather large house in the Rue St. Honore, near the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. He was a man of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvets, being hereditary tailor to the king. The preferment of his house reached as far back as the time of Charles IX.; from whose reign dated, as we know, fancy in _bravery_ difficult enough to gratify. The Percerin of that period was a Huguenot, like Ambrose Pare, and had been spared by the Queen of Navarre, the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say, too, in those days; because, in sooth, he was the only one who could make for her those wonderful riding-habits which she so loved to wear, seeing that they were marvelously well suited to hide certain anatomical defects, which the Queen of Navarre used very studiously to conceal. Percerin being saved, made, out of gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensively indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot people, on whom she had long looked with detestation. But Percerin was a very prudent man; and having heard it said that there was no more dangerous sign for a Protestant than to be smiled up on by Catherine, and having observed that her smiles were more frequent than usual, he speedily turned Catholic with all his family; and having thus become irreproachable, attained the lofty position of master tailor to the Crown of France. Under Henry III., gay king as he was, this position was as grand as the height of one of the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras. Now Percerin had been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping up his reputation beyond the grave, took very good care not to make a bad death of it, and so contrived to die very skillfully; and that at the very moment he felt his powers of invention declining. He left a son and a daughter, both worthy of the name they were called upon to bear; the son, a cutter as unerring and exact as the square rule; the daughter, apt at embroidery, and at designing ornaments. The marriage of Henry IV. and Marie de Medici, and the exquisite court-mourning for the afore-mentioned queen, together with a few words let fall by M. de Bassompiere, king of the _beaux_ of the period, made the fortune of the second generation of Percerins. M. Concino Concini, and his wife Galligai, who subsequently shone at the French court, sought to Italianize the fashion, and introduced some Florentine tailors; but Percerin, touched to the quick in his patriotism and his self-esteem, entirely defeated these foreigners, and that so well that Concino was the first to give up his compatriots, and held the French tailor in such esteem that he would never employ any other, and thus wore a doublet of his on the very day that Vitry blew out his brains with a pistol at the Pont du Louvre. And so it was a doublet issuing from M. Percerin's workshop, which the Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the living human body it contained. Notwithstanding the favor Concino Concini had shown Percerin, the king, Louis XIII., had the generosity to bear no malice to his tailor, and to retain him in his service. At the time that Louis the Just afforded this great example of equity, Percerin had brought up two sons, one of whom made his _debut_ at the marriage of Anne of Austria, invented that admirable Spanish costume, in which Richelieu danced a saraband, made the costumes for the tragedy of "Mirame," and stitched on to Buckingham's mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be scattered about the pavements of the Louvre. A man becomes easily notable who has made the dresses of a Duke of Buckingham, a M. de Cinq-Mars, a Mademoiselle Ninon, a M. de Beaufort, and a Marion de Lorme. And thus Percerin the third had attained the summit of his glory when his father died. This same Percerin III., old, famous and wealthy, yet further dressed Louis XIV.; and having no son, which was a great cause of sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end, he had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a country house, men-servants the tallest in Paris; and by special authority from Louis XIV., a pack of hounds. He worked for MM. de Lyonne and Letellier, under a sort of patronage; but politic man as he was, and versed in state secrets, he never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This is beyond explanation; it is a matter for guessing or for intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live on unseen, intangible ideas; they act without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin (for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the Percerins who deserved the name of Great), the great Percerin was inspired when he cut a robe for the queen, or a coat for the king; he could mount a mantle for Monsieur, the clock of a stocking for Madame; but, in spite of his supreme talent, he could never hit off anything approaching a creditable fit for M. Colbert. "That man," he used often to say, "is beyond my art; my needle can never dot him down." We need scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet's tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed him. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old, nevertheless still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great enough for M. le Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when talking over the fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to leave their accounts in arrear with him; for Master Percerin would for the first time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless paid for the former order. It is easy to see at once that a tailor of such renown, instead of running after customers, made difficulties about obliging any fresh ones. And so Percerin declined to fit _bourgeois_, or those who had but recently obtained patents of nobility. A story used to circulate that even M. de Mazarin, in exchange for Percerin supplying him with a full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters of nobility into his pocket. It was to the house of this grand llama of tailors that D'Artagnan took the despairing Porthos; who, as they were going along, said to his friend, "Take care, my good D'Artagnan, not to compromise the dignity of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this Percerin, who will, I expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my friend, that if he is wanting in respect I will infallibly chastise him." "Presented by me," replied D'Artagnan, "you have nothing to fear, even though you were what you are not." "Ah! 'tis because--" "What? Have you anything against Percerin, Porthos?" "I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name." "And then?" "The fellow refused to supply me." "Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which it will be now exceedingly easy to set right. Mouston must have made a mistake." "Perhaps." "He has confused the names." "Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names." "I will take it all upon myself." "Very good." "Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are." "Here! how here? We are at the Halles; and you told me the house was at the corner of the Rue de l'Arbre Sec." "'Tis true, but look." "Well, I do look, and I see--" "What?" "_Pardieu!_ that we are at the Halles!" "You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on the roof of the carriage in front of us?" "No." "Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on top of the one in front of it. Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty or forty others which have arrived before us." "No, you are right, indeed. What a number of people! And what are they all about?" "'Tis very simple. They are waiting their turn." "Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne shifted their quarters?" "No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin's house." "And we are going to wait too?" "Oh, we shall show ourselves prompter and not so proud." "What are we to do, then?" "Get down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the tailor's house, which I will answer for our doing, if you go first." "Come along, then," said Porthos. They accordingly alighted and made their way on foot towards the establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin's doors were closed, while a servant, standing before them, was explaining to the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then M. Percerin could not receive anybody. It was bruited about outside still, on the authority of what the great lackey had told some great noble whom he favored, in confidence, that M. Percerin was engaged on five costumes for the king, and that, owing to the urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments, colors, and cut of these five suits. Some, contented with this reason, went away again, contented to repeat the tale to others, but others, more tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened, and among these last three Blue Ribbons, intended to take parts in a ballet, which would inevitably fail unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Percerin himself. D'Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter, behind which the journeyman tailors were doing their best to answer queries. (We forgot to mention that at the door they wanted to put off Porthos like the rest, but D'Artagnan, showing himself, pronounced merely these words, "The king's order," and was let in with his friend.) The poor fellows had enough to do, and did their best, to reply to the demands of the customers in the absence of their master, leaving off drawing a stitch to knit a sentence; and when wounded pride, or disappointed expectation, brought down upon them too cutting a rebuke, he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter. The line of discontented lords formed a truly remarkable picture. Our captain of musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance; and having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter that sheltered him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale face, and soft luminous eyes. He was looking at D'Artagnan and the rest, with his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring amateur. Only on perceiving, and doubtless recognizing, our captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was this action, perhaps, that attracted D'Artagnan's attention. If so, the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely different from what he had desired. In other respects his costume was plain, and his hair evenly cut enough for customers, who were not close observers, to take him for a mere tailor's apprentice, perched behind the board, and carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up his head too often to be very productively employed with his fingers. D'Artagnan was not deceived,--not he; and he saw at once that if this man was working at anything, it certainly was not at velvet. "Eh!" said he, addressing this man, "and so you have become a tailor's boy, Monsieur Moliere!" "Hush, M. d'Artagnan!" replied the man, softly, "you will make them recognize me." "Well, and what harm?" "The fact is, there is no harm, but--" "You were going to say there is no good in doing it either, is it not so?" "Alas! no; for I was occupied in examining some excellent figures." "Go on--go on, Monsieur Moliere. I quite understand the interest you take in the plates--I will not disturb your studies." "Thank you." "But on one condition; that you tell me where M. Percerin really is." "Oh! willingly; in his own room. Only--" "Only that one can't enter it?" "Unapproachable." "For everybody?" "Everybody. He brought me here so that I might be at my ease to make my observations, and then he went away." "Well, my dear Monsieur Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here." "I!" exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog, from which you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; "I disturb myself! Ah! Monsieur d'Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!" "If you don't go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere," said D'Artagnan, in a low tone, "I warn you of one thing: that I won't exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me." Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture, "This gentleman, is it not?" "Yes." Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared a very promising one, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.

Chapter Three: Who M. Jean Percerin Was

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-three-who-m-jean-percerin-was

The King's tailor lives on Rue St. Honore, which today houses a large quantity of luxury stores, like Hermes and Chanel. Percerin's ancestors date from the time of Charles IX, several hundred years ago. We get three generations worth of Percerin history, which boils down to the idea that the Percerins are expert tailors who became wealthy as they dressed the nobility. Percerin worked for the King, but never worked as Colbert's tailor. D'Artagnan takes his friend Porthos over to Percerin's house. Before the two men arrive, however, they're stopped by traffic. Carriages upon carriages are waiting, all with the same destination in mind: Percerin. Porthos despairs, but D'Artagnan points out that if they get out of the carriage and walk, they can gain entrance. When they get to the door, the two friends find a servant politely turning away all the nobleman who are trying to get an appointment. Meanwhile, plenty of apprentice tailors are busy sewing and cutting. D'Artagnan barges in with Porthos by using the King's name. D'Artagnan spots a guy in his forties who seems to be peacefully surveying the scene. When the guy moves to hide his face under a hat, D'Artagnan's interest is aroused. It turns out this guy is kind of a big deal. D'Artagnan recognizes him as a Monsieur Moliere, and asks where Percerin may be found. Moliere tells D'Artagnan that Percerin is in his rooms, but cannot be disturbed. D'Artagnan threatens Moliere. He tells the man to fetch Percerin. In exchange, D'Artagnan will introduce Moliere to Porthos. Moliere looks Porthos up and down, and then heads off to find Percerin.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_3_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 4

chapter 4: the samples

{"name": "Chapter Four: The Samples", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-four-the-samples", "summary": "Moliere comes back to escort D'Artagnan and Porthos to Percerin's rooms. Percerin is busy examining a piece of fabric, but goes to greet the guests. D'Artagnan introduces the new customer: Monsieur le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds. Percerin is not happy with the idea of making a suit for Porthos within two days. He tells D'Artagnan it is impossible. A certain Monsieur d'Herblay, better known as Aramis, chimes in and asks Percerin to make the suit for Porthos. He asks Percerin if the King is having five suits made - one in brocade, one in hunting cloth, one in velvet, one in satin, and one in Florentine stuffs. The information Aramis is after is the cut and the look of each suit of clothes. Percerin is terrified. This is apparently an audacious request. Aramis reveals the plan: Fouquet wants to present the King with a portrait on the day of the fete, and it will be best if the King in the portrait is dressed exactly as the real king. Le Brun has been commissioned to paint the portrait. Percerin is aghast at the idea of giving out information about the King's clothes. Aramis convinces Percerin to give up the information. Le Brun begins to paint, but Aramis interrupts him, saying that he has failed to capture the finer shades of each fabric. He asks Percerin for fabric samples from each suit, ostensibly so Le Brun will have more time to study the colors. Clearly something is afoot. D'Artagnan is suspicious. Why does Aramis want fabric samples? Fed up, D'Artagnan says he is going to join Porthos. Aramis joins D'Artagnan and the two friends leave together.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IV. The Patterns. During all this time the noble mob was slowly heaving away, leaving at every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another sign to D'Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin's room. The old man, with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its luster. Perceiving D'Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant with joy, and by no means courteous, but, take it altogether, in a tolerably civil manner. "The captain of the king's musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged." "Eh! yes, on the king's costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. You are making three, they tell me." "Five, my dear sir, five." "Three or five, 'tis all the same to me, my dear monsieur; and I know that you will make them most exquisitely." "Yes, I know. Once made they will be the most beautiful in the world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the word, they must first be made; and to do this, captain, I am pressed for time." "Oh, bah! there are two days yet; 'tis much more than you require, Monsieur Percerin," said D'Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner. Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be contradicted, even in his whims; but D'Artagnan did not pay the least attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume. "My dear M. Percerin," he continued, "I bring you a customer." "Ah! ah!" exclaimed Percerin, crossly. "M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds," continued D'Artagnan. Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes of the terrible Porthos, who, from his first entry into the room, had been regarding the tailor askance. "A very good friend of mine," concluded D'Artagnan. "I will attend to monsieur," said Percerin, "but later." "Later? but when?" "When I have time." "You have already told my valet as much," broke in Porthos, discontentedly. "Very likely," said Percerin; "I am nearly always pushed for time." "My friend," returned Porthos, sententiously, "there is always time to be found when one chooses to seek it." Percerin turned crimson; an ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. "Monsieur is quite at liberty to confer his custom elsewhere." "Come, come, Percerin," interposed D'Artagnan, "you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees; monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more, a friend of M. Fouquet's." "Ah! ah!" exclaimed the tailor, "that is another thing." Then turning to Porthos, "Monsieur le baron is attached to the superintendent?" he inquired. "I am attached to myself," shouted Porthos, at the very moment that the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere was all observation, D'Artagnan laughed, Porthos swore. "My dear Percerin," said D'Artagnan, "you will make a dress for the baron. 'Tis I who ask you." "To you I will not say nay, captain." "But that is not all; you will make it for him at once." "'Tis impossible within eight days." "That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the _fete_ at Vaux." "I repeat that it is impossible," returned the obstinate old man. "By no means, dear Monsieur Percerin, above all if _I_ ask you," said a mild voice at the door, a silvery voice which made D'Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis. "Monsieur d'Herblay!" cried the tailor. "Aramis," murmured D'Artagnan. "Ah! our bishop!" said Porthos. "Good morning, D'Artagnan; good morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear friends," said Aramis. "Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron's dress; and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet." And he accompanied the words with a sign, which seemed to say, "Agree, and dismiss them." It appeared that Aramis had over Master Percerin an influence superior even to D'Artagnan's, for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos, said, "Go and get measured on the other side." Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D'Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Moliere, said to him, in an undertone, "You see before you, my dear monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced, if you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type for me, Master Aristophanes, and profit by it." Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt long and keenly on the Baron Porthos. "Monsieur," he said, "if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without touching you." "Oh!" said Porthos, "how do you make that out, my friend?" "I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured, a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of a man; and if perchance monsieur should be one of these--" "_Corboeuf!_ I believe I am too!" "Well, that is a capital and most consolatory coincidence, and you shall have the benefit of our invention." "But how in the world can it be done?" asked Porthos, delighted. "Monsieur," said Moliere, bowing, "if you will deign to follow me, you will see." Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from D'Artagnan's liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together: D'Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere and Porthos disappeared, D'Artagnan drew near the bishop of Vannes, a proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him. "A dress for you, also, is it not, my friend?" Aramis smiled. "No," said he. "You will go to Vaux, however?" "I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D'Artagnan, that a poor bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new dresses for every _fete_." "Bah!" said the musketeer, laughing, "and do we write no more poems now, either?" "Oh! D'Artagnan," exclaimed Aramis, "I have long ago given up all such tomfoolery." "True," repeated D'Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades. "Don't you perceive," said Aramis, smiling, "that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear D'Artagnan?" "Ah! ah!" murmured the musketeer, aside; "that is, I am boring you, my friend." Then aloud, "Well, then, let us leave; I have no further business here, and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis--" "No, not I--I wished--" "Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?" "Something particular, certainly," repeated Aramis, "but not for you, D'Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not hear it." "Oh, no, no! I am going," said D'Artagnan, imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis's annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not a whit escaped him; and he knew that, in that impenetrable mind, every thing, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to some end; an unknown one, but an end that, from the knowledge he had of his friend's character, the musketeer felt must be important. On his part, Aramis saw that D'Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. "Stay, by all means," he said, "this is what it is." Then turning towards the tailor, "My dear Percerin," said he,--"I am even very happy that you are here, D'Artagnan." "Oh, indeed," exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before. Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. "My dear Percerin," said he, "I have, near hand, M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet's painters." "Ah, very good," thought D'Artagnan; "but why Lebrun?" Aramis looked at D'Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. "And you wish that I should make him a dress, similar to those of the Epicureans?" answered Percerin. And while saying this, in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade. "An Epicurean's dress?" asked D'Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry. "I see," said Aramis, with a most engaging smile, "it is written that our dear D'Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet's Epicureans, have you not?" "Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its sittings at Saint-Mande?" "Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in a regiment for the king." "Oh, very well, I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the king. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it." "Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other." "Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it," said D'Artagnan, making a show of departure. "Come in, M. Lebrun, come in," said Aramis, opening a side-door with his right hand, and holding back D'Artagnan with his left. "I'faith, I too, am quite in the dark," quoth Percerin. Aramis took an "opportunity," as is said in theatrical matters. "My dear M. de Percerin," Aramis continued, "you are making five dresses for the king, are you not? One in brocade; one in hunting-cloth; one in velvet; one in satin; and one in Florentine stuffs." "Yes; but how--do you know all that, monseigneur?" said Percerin, astounded. "It is all very simple, my dear monsieur; there will be a hunt, a banquet, concert, promenade and reception; these five kinds of dress are required by etiquette." "You know everything, monseigneur!" "And a thing or two in addition," muttered D'Artagnan. "But," cried the tailor, in triumph, "what you do not know, monseigneur--prince of the church though you are--what nobody will know--what only the king, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do know, is the color of the materials and nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the _ensemble_, the finish of it all!" "Well," said Aramis, "that is precisely what I have come to ask you, dear Percerin." "Ah, bah!" exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had pronounced these words in his softest and most honeyed tones. The request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous to M. Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished with a shout. D'Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so "very funny," but in order not to allow Aramis to cool. "At the outset, I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not?" said Aramis. "But D'Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this." "Let us see," said the attentive musketeer; perceiving with his wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the hour of battle was approaching. "Let us see," said Percerin, incredulously. "Why, now," continued Aramis, "does M. Fouquet give the king a _fete?_--Is it not to please him?" "Assuredly," said Percerin. D'Artagnan nodded assent. "By delicate attentions? by some happy device? by a succession of surprises, like that of which we were talking?--the enrolment of our Epicureans." "Admirable." "Well, then; this is the surprise we intend. M. Lebrun here is a man who draws most excellently." "Yes," said Percerin; "I have seen his pictures, and observed that his dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him a costume--whether to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original one." "My dear monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now, M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king." Percerin made a bound backwards, which D'Artagnan--calmest and most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone, so many strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just hazarded. "The king's dresses! Give the king's dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh! for once, monseigneur, your grace is mad!" cried the poor tailor in extremity. "Help me now, D'Artagnan," said Aramis, more and more calm and smiling. "Help me now to persuade monsieur, for _you_ understand; do you not?" "Eh! eh!--not exactly, I declare." "What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the king the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed exactly as the king will be on the day it is shown?" "Oh! yes, yes," said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this reasoning. "Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis." "Well, I don't know," replied the bishop; "either mine or M. Fouquet's." Then scanning Percerin, after noticing D'Artagnan's hesitation, "Well, Monsieur Percerin," he asked, "what do you say to this?" "I say, that--" "That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well--and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet's idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!" The tailor stammered. "It would, indeed, be a very pretty compliment to pay the young prince," continued Aramis; "but as the surintendant told me, 'if Percerin refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him, only--'" "'Only?'" repeated Percerin, rather troubled. "'Only,'" continued Aramis, "'I shall be compelled to say to the king,'--you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M. Fouquet's words,--'I shall be constrained to say to the king, "Sire, I had intended to present your majesty with your portrait, but owing to a feeling of delicacy, slightly exaggerated perhaps, although creditable, M. Percerin opposed the project."'" "Opposed!" cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would weigh upon him; "I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he is seeking to please the king! Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered, monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, 'tis not I who said it, Heaven have mercy on me. I call the captain of the musketeers to witness it! Is it not true, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?" D'Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or tragedy; he was at his wit's end at not being able to fathom it, but in the meanwhile wished to keep clear. But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the king was to be told he stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workmen's hands; and these masterpieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures, which, imported into France in the time of Concini, had been given to Percerin II. by Marshal d'Onore, after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors ruined in their competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his toil, suddenly stopped him. "I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun," he said; "your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for attentively observing the finer shades." "Quite true," said Percerin, "but time is wanting, and on that head, you will agree with me, monseigneur, I can do nothing." "Then the affair will fail," said Aramis, quietly, "and that because of a want of precision in the colors." Nevertheless Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments with the closest fidelity--a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed impatience. "What in the world, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?" the musketeer kept saying to himself. "That will never do," said Aramis: "M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll up your canvas." "But, monsieur," cried the vexed painter, "the light is abominable here." "An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a pattern of the materials, for example, and with time, and a better light--" "Oh, then," cried Lebrun, "I would answer for the effect." "Good!" said D'Artagnan, "this ought to be the knotty point of the whole thing; they want a pattern of each of the materials. _Mordioux!_ Will this Percerin give in now?" Percerin, beaten from his last retreat, and duped, moreover, by the feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five patterns and handed them to the bishop of Vannes. "I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?" said Aramis to D'Artagnan. "My dear Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "my opinion is that you are always the same." "And, consequently, always your friend," said the bishop in a charming tone. "Yes, yes," said D'Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, "If I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and to prevent it, 'tis time I left this place.--Adieu, Aramis," he added aloud, "adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos." "Then wait for me," said Aramis, pocketing the patterns, "for I have done, and shall be glad to say a parting word to our dear old friend." Lebrun packed up his paints and brushes, Percerin put back the dresses into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself the patterns were secure,--and they all left the study.

Chapter Four: The Samples

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

Moliere comes back to escort D'Artagnan and Porthos to Percerin's rooms. Percerin is busy examining a piece of fabric, but goes to greet the guests. D'Artagnan introduces the new customer: Monsieur le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds. Percerin is not happy with the idea of making a suit for Porthos within two days. He tells D'Artagnan it is impossible. A certain Monsieur d'Herblay, better known as Aramis, chimes in and asks Percerin to make the suit for Porthos. He asks Percerin if the King is having five suits made - one in brocade, one in hunting cloth, one in velvet, one in satin, and one in Florentine stuffs. The information Aramis is after is the cut and the look of each suit of clothes. Percerin is terrified. This is apparently an audacious request. Aramis reveals the plan: Fouquet wants to present the King with a portrait on the day of the fete, and it will be best if the King in the portrait is dressed exactly as the real king. Le Brun has been commissioned to paint the portrait. Percerin is aghast at the idea of giving out information about the King's clothes. Aramis convinces Percerin to give up the information. Le Brun begins to paint, but Aramis interrupts him, saying that he has failed to capture the finer shades of each fabric. He asks Percerin for fabric samples from each suit, ostensibly so Le Brun will have more time to study the colors. Clearly something is afoot. D'Artagnan is suspicious. Why does Aramis want fabric samples? Fed up, D'Artagnan says he is going to join Porthos. Aramis joins D'Artagnan and the two friends leave together.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_4_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 5

chapter 5: where, probably, moliere formed his first idea of the bourgeois gentillhomme

{"name": "Chapter Five: Where, Probably, Moliere Formed His First Idea of the Bourgeois Gentillhomme", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-five-where-probably-molire-formed-his-first-idea-of-the-bourgeois-gentillhomme", "summary": "Porthos is radiantly happy with this visit to Percerin. Aramis shakes hands with Porthos, then asks Moliere if he is ready to go to St. Mande. Porthos is astonished that Aramis is planning to hang out with an apprentice tailor. D'Artagnan and Aramis reveal to Porthos that Moliere is actually one of Percerin's chief clerks and a member of the Epicureans. Aramis and Moliere leave. D'Artagnan asks how the fitting went. Porthos is in rapture. He says that they first tried to find a dressmaker's dummy of the same size. He interrupts the story to say that he must remember Moliere's name. D'Artagnan tells him that Moliere is also known as Poquelin. Porthos says he will use Moliere, and remember the name by thinking of Voliere . Porthos tells D'Artagnan that Moliere then used a mirror to take his measurements. As he tells the story, he keeps calling the tailor \"Voliere.\" Moliere had Porthos throw himself on guard - because a suit shouldn't constrain its wearer even when said wearer is fighting. Finally, Porthos gives up on the Voliere business and tries calling him Poquelin. He has no better success at this. He tells D'Artagnan that Moliere had some lads support his arm, which was starting to get tired of being in fight position. Porthos is very proud of being the first to have his measurements taken in such a manner. The two men leave Percerin's house, and the narrator directs our attention to St. Mande.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter V. Where, Probably, Moliere Obtained His First Idea of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. D'Artagnan found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer an irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant, blooming, fascinating, and chattering with Moliere, who was looking upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only never seen anything greater, but not even ever anything so great. Aramis went straight up to Porthos and offered him his white hand, which lost itself in the gigantic clasp of his old friend,--an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain uneasiness. But the friendly pressure having been performed not too painfully for him, the bishop of Vannes passed over to Moliere. "Well, monsieur," said he, "will you come with me to Saint-Mande?" "I will go anywhere you like, monseigneur," answered Moliere. "To Saint-Mande!" cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. "What, Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to Saint-Mande?" "Yes," said Aramis, smiling, "our work is pressing." "And besides, my dear Porthos," continued D'Artagnan, "M. Moliere is not altogether what he seems." "In what way?" asked Porthos. "Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin's chief clerks, and is expected at Saint-Mande to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has ordered for the Epicureans." "'Tis precisely so," said Moliere. "Yes, monsieur." "Come, then, my dear M. Moliere," said Aramis, "that is, if you have done with M. du Vallon." "We have finished," replied Porthos. "And you are satisfied?" asked D'Artagnan. "Completely so," replied Porthos. Moliere took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the hand which the captain of the musketeers furtively offered him. "Pray, monsieur," concluded Porthos, mincingly, "above all, be exact." "You will have your dress the day after to-morrow, monsieur le baron," answered Moliere. And he left with Aramis. Then D'Artagnan, taking Porthos's arm, "What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos," he asked, "that you are so pleased with him?" "What has he done for me, my friend! done for me!" cried Porthos, enthusiastically. "Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?" "My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished: he has taken my measure without touching me!" "Ah, bah! tell me how he did it." "First, then, they went, I don't know where, for a number of lay figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit mine, but the largest--that of the drum-major of the Swiss guard--was two inches too short, and a half foot too narrow in the chest." "Indeed!" "It is exactly as I tell you, D'Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance." "What did he do, then?" "Oh! it is a very simple matter. I'faith, 'tis an unheard-of thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared me!" "Not to mention of the costumes, my dear Porthos." "Yes, thirty dresses." "Well, my dear Porthos, come, tell me M. Moliere's plan." "Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name." "Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that." "No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of _voliere_ [an aviary]; and as I have one at Pierrefonds--" "Capital!" returned D'Artagnan. "And M. Moliere's plan?" "'Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals do--of making me bend my back, and double my joints--all of them low and dishonorable practices--" D'Artagnan made a sign of approbation with his head. "'Monsieur,' he said to me," continued Porthos, "'a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass;' and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not exactly understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me." "Moliere!" "Ah! yes, Moliere--Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still possessed me, 'Take care,' said I to him, 'what you are going to do with me; I am very ticklish, I warn you.' But he, with his soft voice (for he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend), he with his soft voice, 'Monsieur,' said he, 'that your dress may fit you well, it must be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly reflected in this mirror. We shall take the measure of this reflection.'" "In fact," said D'Artagnan, "you saw yourself in the glass; but where did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?" "My good friend, it is the very glass in which the king is used to look to see himself." "Yes; but the king is a foot and a half shorter than you are." "Ah! well, I know not how that may be; it is, no doubt, a cunning way of flattering the king; but the looking-glass was too large for me. 'Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of three similar parallelograms in juxtaposition." "Oh, Porthos! what excellent words you have command of. Where in the word did you acquire such a voluminous vocabulary?" "At Belle-Isle. Aramis and I had to use such words in our strategic studies and castramentative experiments." D'Artagnan recoiled, as though the sesquipedalian syllables had knocked the breath out of his body. "Ah! very good. Let us return to the looking-glass, my friend." "Then, this good M. Voliere--" "Moliere." "Yes--Moliere--you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall recollect his name quite well. This excellent M. Moliere set to work tracing out lines on the mirror, with a piece of Spanish chalk, following in all the make of my arms and my shoulders, all the while expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable: 'It is advisable that a dress should not incommode its wearer.'" "In reality," said D'Artagnan, "that is an excellent maxim, which is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice." "That is why I found it all the more astonishing, when he expatiated upon it." "Ah! he expatiated?" "_Parbleu!_" "Let me hear his theory." "'Seeing that,' he continued, 'one may, in awkward circumstances, or in a troublesome position, have one's doublet on one's shoulder, and not desire to take one's doublet off--'" "True," said D'Artagnan. "'And so,' continued M. Voliere--" "Moliere." "Moliere, yes. 'And so,' went on M. Moliere, 'you want to draw your sword, monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?' "'I take it off,' I answered. "'Well, no,' he replied. "'How no?' "'I say that the dress should be so well made, that it will in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword.' "'Ah, ah!' "'Throw yourself on guard,' pursued he. "I did it with such wondrous firmness, that two panes of glass burst out of the window. "''Tis nothing, nothing,' said he. 'Keep your position.' "I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my wrist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist." "Yes," said D'Artagnan, "'tis the true guard--the academic guard." "You have said the very word, dear friend. In the meanwhile, Voliere--" "Moliere." "Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him--what did you say his other name was?" "Poquelin." "I prefer to call him Poquelin." "And how will you remember this name better than the other?" "You understand, he calls himself Poquelin, does he not?" "Yes." "If I were to call to mind Madame Coquenard." "Good." "And change _Coc_ into _Poc_, _nard_ into _lin_; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin." "'Tis wonderful," cried D'Artagnan, astounded. "Go on, my friend, I am listening to you with admiration." "This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass." "I beg your pardon--Poquelin." "What did I say, then?" "You said Coquelin." "Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time over it; he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is, that I must have been looking particularly handsome." "'Does it weary you?' he asked. "'A little,' I replied, bending a little in my hands, 'but I could hold out for an hour or so longer.' "'No, no, I will not allow it; the willing fellows will make it a duty to support your arms, as of old, men supported those of the prophet.' "'Very good,' I answered. "'That will not be humiliating to you?' "'My friend,' said I, 'there is, I think, a great difference between being supported and being measured.'" "The distinction is full of the soundest sense," interrupted D'Artagnan. "Then," continued Porthos, "he made a sign: two lads approached; one supported my left arm, while the other, with infinite address, supported my right." "'Another, my man,' cried he. A third approached. 'Support monsieur by the waist,' said he. The _garcon_ complied." "So that you were at rest?" asked D'Artagnan. "Perfectly; and Pocquenard drew me on the glass." "Poquelin, my friend." "Poquelin--you are right. Stay, decidedly I prefer calling him Voliere." "Yes; and then it was over, wasn't it?" "During that time Voliere drew me as I appeared in the mirror." "'Twas delicate in him." "I much like the plan; it is respectful, and keeps every one in his place." "And there it ended?" "Without a soul having touched me, my friend." "Except the three _garcons_ who supported you." "Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring." "'Tis true," answered D'Artagnan; who said afterwards to himself, "I'faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other." Porthos smiled. "What are you laughing at?" asked D'Artagnan. "Must I confess? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune." "Oh, that is true; I don't know a happier man than you. But what is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?' "Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me." "I desire nothing better." "It seems that I am the first who has had his measure taken in that manner." "Are you so sure of it?' "Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Voliere and the other _garcons_ showed me the fact." "Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere," said D'Artagnan. "Voliere, my friend." "Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to go on saying Voliere; but, as for me, I shall continued to say Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very ingenious fellow, and inspired you with this grand idea." "It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure." "Won't it be of use to him, indeed? I believe you, it will, and that in the highest degree;--for you see my friend Moliere is of all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, comtes, and marquises--according to their measure." On this observation, neither the application nor depth of which we shall discuss, D'Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. de Percerin's house and rejoined their carriages, wherein we will leave them, in order to look after Moliere and Aramis at Saint-Mande.

Chapter Five: Where, Probably, Moliere Formed His First Idea of the Bourgeois Gentillhomme

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-five-where-probably-molire-formed-his-first-idea-of-the-bourgeois-gentillhomme

Porthos is radiantly happy with this visit to Percerin. Aramis shakes hands with Porthos, then asks Moliere if he is ready to go to St. Mande. Porthos is astonished that Aramis is planning to hang out with an apprentice tailor. D'Artagnan and Aramis reveal to Porthos that Moliere is actually one of Percerin's chief clerks and a member of the Epicureans. Aramis and Moliere leave. D'Artagnan asks how the fitting went. Porthos is in rapture. He says that they first tried to find a dressmaker's dummy of the same size. He interrupts the story to say that he must remember Moliere's name. D'Artagnan tells him that Moliere is also known as Poquelin. Porthos says he will use Moliere, and remember the name by thinking of Voliere . Porthos tells D'Artagnan that Moliere then used a mirror to take his measurements. As he tells the story, he keeps calling the tailor "Voliere." Moliere had Porthos throw himself on guard - because a suit shouldn't constrain its wearer even when said wearer is fighting. Finally, Porthos gives up on the Voliere business and tries calling him Poquelin. He has no better success at this. He tells D'Artagnan that Moliere had some lads support his arm, which was starting to get tired of being in fight position. Porthos is very proud of being the first to have his measurements taken in such a manner. The two men leave Percerin's house, and the narrator directs our attention to St. Mande.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_5_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 6

chapter 6: the beehive, the bees, and the honey

{"name": "Chapter Six: The Beehive, the Bees, and the Honey", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-six-the-beehive-the-bees-and-the-honey", "summary": "Aramis is in a bad mood. Moliere, by contrast, seems to be in a good mood. The first floor of the left wing is filled with Epicureans. Pelisson is busy writing the comedy \"Les Facheux.\" The other writers are also very busy writing, with the exception of La Fontaine, who is simply wandering around the room. Annoyed, Pelisson asks La Fontaine to give him a rhyme. The two squabble over rhymes. Pelisson accuses La Fontaine of rhyming in a \"slovenly manner.\" Moliere advises La Fontaine that this is a grave insult that should not be left unchallenged. Moliere asks La Fontaine if he ever fought. La Fontaine replies that he fought only once, with a man who had seduced his wife. La Fontaine says that his opponent disarmed him, then apologized, saying that he would never again visit the house. The poets ask what happened next. La Fontaine tells them that he picked up his sword, told his opponent that the house had been very peaceful since the man starting visiting his wife, and that if the visits stopped he would be obliged to duel again. Everyone laughs and they continue discussing rhymes. The men continue jesting, and La Fontaine confesses that he's looking forward to a new suit of clothes. Aramis makes his appearance, and all the men become very quiet. Aramis dispenses invitations, and says that Fouquet sends his regards. Aramis asks if any of the men wish to accompany him to Paris. Moliere accepts. Before leaving, Aramis stops in to say good-bye to Fouquet. He tells Fouquet about the portrait Le Brun is preparing, and Fouquet approves. Aramis then asks Fouquet for a letter to give to Monsieur de Lyonne, requesting the release of a prisoner named Seldon from the Bastille. Aramis leaves with Moliere.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey. The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met D'Artagnan at M. Percerin's, returned to Saint-Mande in no very good humor. Moliere, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough sketch, and at knowing where to find his original again, whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Moliere arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house--every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV. during the _fete_ at Vaux. Pelisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to the "Facheux," a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer,--the gazetteers of all ages have always been so artless!--Loret was composing an account of the _fetes_ at Vaux, before those _fetes_ had taken place. La Fontaine sauntered about from one to the other, a peripatetic, absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and humming at everybody's elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbed Pelisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, "At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus." "What rhyme do you want?" asked the _Fabler_ as Madame de Sevigne used to call him. "I want a rhyme to _lumiere_." "_Orniere_," answered La Fontaine. "Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of _wheel-ruts_ when celebrating the delights of Vaux," said Loret. "Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pelisson. "What! doesn't rhyme!" cried La Fontaine, in surprise. "Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,--a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner." "Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?" "Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better." "Then I will never write anything again save in prose," said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pelisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah! I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the very truth." "Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your 'Fables.'" "And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made." "Where are your verses?" "In my head." "Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them." "True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them--" "Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?" "They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them!" "The deuce!" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!" "The deuce! the deuce!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I do?" "I have discovered the way," said Moliere, who had entered just at this point of the conversation. "What way?" "Write them first and burn them afterwards." "How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil of a Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!" he added. "_What_ are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard. "I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added, with increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner." "Oh, 'tis wrong to say so." "Nay, I am a poor creature!" "Who said so?" "_Parbleu!_ 'twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?" Pelisson, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer. "But if Pelisson said you were so," cried Moliere, "Pelisson has seriously offended you." "Do you think so?" "Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished." "_What!_" exclaimed La Fontaine. "Did you ever fight?" "Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse." "What wrong had he done you?" "It seems he ran away with my wife." "Ah, ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine's declaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make La Fontaine speak-- "And what was the result of the duel?" "The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house." "And you considered yourself satisfied?" said Moliere. "Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. 'I beg your pardon, monsieur,' I said, 'I have not fought you because you were my wife's friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or _morbleu!_ let us set to again.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands." All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tis all one," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pelisson has insulted you." "Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it." "And I am going to challenge him on your behalf." "Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable." "I do think it indispensable, and I am going to--" "Stay," exclaimed La Fontaine, "I want your advice." "Upon what? this insult?" "No; tell me really now whether _lumiere_ does not rhyme with _orniere_." "I should make them rhyme." "Ah! I knew you would." "And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time." "A hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine. "Four times as many as 'La Pucelle,' which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?" "Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature," said Moliere. "It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that _legume_, for instance, rhymes with _posthume_." "In the plural, above all." "Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as _orniere_ does with _lumiere_." "But give me _ornieres_ and _lumieres_ in the plural, my dear Pelisson," said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme." "Hem!" coughed Pelisson. "Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses." "Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now." "It is like _rivage_, which rhymes admirably with _herbage_. I would take my oath of it." "But--" said Moliere. "I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are preparing a _divertissement_ for Vaux, are you not?" "Yes, the 'Facheux.'" "Ah, yes, the 'Facheux;' yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your _divertissement_." "Doubtless it would suit capitally." "Ah! you are of my opinion?" "So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue." "You asked _me_ to write it?" "Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pelisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment." "Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I'faith, my dear Moliere, you are indeed often right." "When?" "When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you." "But inasmuch as Pelisson is about it!--" "Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature." "It was not Loret who said so, my friend." "Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so your _divertissement_ is called the 'Facheux?' Well, can you make _heureux_ rhyme with _facheux?_" "If obliged, yes." "And even with _capriceux_." "Oh, no, no." "It would be hazardous, and yet why so?" "There is too great a difference in the cadences." "I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret--"I was fancying--" "What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. "Make haste." "You are writing the prologue to the 'Facheux,' are you not?" "No! _mordieu!_ it is Pelisson." "Ah, Pelisson," cried La Fontaine, going over to him, "I was fancying," he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux--" "Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper." "Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pelisson, "tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?" "I should say, for instance, 'Oh! nymph, who--' After 'who' I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: 'this grot profound.'" "But the verb, the verb?" asked Pelisson. "To admire the greatest king of all kings round," continued La Fontaine. "But the verb, the verb," obstinately insisted Pelisson. "This second person singular of the present indicative?" "Well, then; quittest: "Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest king of all kings round." "You would not put 'who quittest,' would you?" "Why not?" "'Quittest,' after 'you who'?" "Ah! my dear fellow," exclaimed La Fontaine, "you are a shocking pedant!" "Without counting," said Moliere, "that the second verse, 'king of all kings round,' is very weak, my dear La Fontaine." "Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature,--a shuffler, as you said." "I never said so." "Then, as Loret said." "And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson." "Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses." "You expected yours, then, for the _fete?_" "Yes, for the _fete_, and then for after the _fete_. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded." "_Diable!_ your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded." "Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine, "the fact is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat--" "Well, your cat--" "She made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color." Moliere burst out laughing; Pelisson and Loret followed his example. At this juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay and sprightly fancies--as if that wan form had scared away the Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed--silence immediately reigned through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. "The superintendent," he said, "being kept to his room by business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the night." At these words, all settled down to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth white vellum; Pelisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere contributed fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, an article on the marvelous _fetes_ he predicted; and Aramis, laden with his booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone, decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we leave to-morrow evening." "In that case, I must give notice at home," said Moliere. "Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling; "he loves his home." "'_He_ loves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'He loves,' that does not mean, they love _him_." "As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am very sure." Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance. "Will any one go with me?" he asked. "I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage." "Good," said Moliere, "I accept it. I am in a hurry." "I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me some craw-fish." "He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine." Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the door, and shouted out: "He has promised us some whitings, In return for these our writings." The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the superintendent. "Oh, how they are laughing there!" said Fouquet, with a sigh. "Do you not laugh, monseigneur?" "I laugh no longer now, M. d'Herblay. The _fete_ is approaching; money is departing." "Have I not told you that was my business?" "Yes, you promised me millions." "You shall have them the day after the king's _entree_ into Vaux." Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the back of his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could find any? "Why doubt me?" said Aramis. Fouquet smiled and shook his head. "Man of little faith!" added the bishop. "My dear M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall--" "Well; if you 'fall'?" "I shall, at least, fall from such a height, that I shall shatter myself in falling." Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape from himself, "Whence came you," said he, "my friend?" "From Paris--from Percerin." "And what have you been doing at Percerin's, for I suppose you attach no great importance to our poets' dresses?" "No; I went to prepare a surprise." "Surprise?" "Yes; which you are going to give to the king." "And will it cost much?" "Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun." "A painting?--Ah! all the better! And what is this painting to represent?" "I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say or think of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets." "Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?" "Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with so good. People will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship." "Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate." "In your school." Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said. "I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter." "For whom?" "M. de Lyonne." "And what do you want with Lyonne?" "I wish to make him sign a _lettre de cachet_." "'_Lettre de cachet!_' Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?" "On the contrary--to let somebody out." "And who?" "A poor devil--a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits." "'Two Latin verses!' and, for 'two Latin verses,' the miserable being has been in prison for ten years!" "Yes!" "And has committed no other crime?" "Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I." "On your word?" "On my honor!" "And his name is--" "Seldon." "Yes.--But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!" "'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur." "And the woman is poor!" "In the deepest misery." "Heaven," said Fouquet, "sometimes bears with such injustice on earth, that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence. Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go. "Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said; "set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do not tell her--" "What, monseigneur?" "That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!" "So also do I pray," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand. And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience.

Chapter Six: The Beehive, the Bees, and the Honey

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-six-the-beehive-the-bees-and-the-honey

Aramis is in a bad mood. Moliere, by contrast, seems to be in a good mood. The first floor of the left wing is filled with Epicureans. Pelisson is busy writing the comedy "Les Facheux." The other writers are also very busy writing, with the exception of La Fontaine, who is simply wandering around the room. Annoyed, Pelisson asks La Fontaine to give him a rhyme. The two squabble over rhymes. Pelisson accuses La Fontaine of rhyming in a "slovenly manner." Moliere advises La Fontaine that this is a grave insult that should not be left unchallenged. Moliere asks La Fontaine if he ever fought. La Fontaine replies that he fought only once, with a man who had seduced his wife. La Fontaine says that his opponent disarmed him, then apologized, saying that he would never again visit the house. The poets ask what happened next. La Fontaine tells them that he picked up his sword, told his opponent that the house had been very peaceful since the man starting visiting his wife, and that if the visits stopped he would be obliged to duel again. Everyone laughs and they continue discussing rhymes. The men continue jesting, and La Fontaine confesses that he's looking forward to a new suit of clothes. Aramis makes his appearance, and all the men become very quiet. Aramis dispenses invitations, and says that Fouquet sends his regards. Aramis asks if any of the men wish to accompany him to Paris. Moliere accepts. Before leaving, Aramis stops in to say good-bye to Fouquet. He tells Fouquet about the portrait Le Brun is preparing, and Fouquet approves. Aramis then asks Fouquet for a letter to give to Monsieur de Lyonne, requesting the release of a prisoner named Seldon from the Bastille. Aramis leaves with Moliere.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_6_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 7

chapter 7: another supper at the bastille

{"name": "Chapter Seven: Another Supper at the Bastille", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-seven-another-supper-at-the-bastille", "summary": "It is seven o'clock at the Bastille, and Aramis is having dinner with Baisemeaux. Apparently, Aramis is being positively raunchy with his choice of stories. Baisemeaux commands one of his servants to close the windows, but Aramis requests that they remain open. He is waiting for the sound of a courier's arrival. At about eight o'clock, a courier arrives. Baisemeaux would prefer to continue eating and drinking with Aramis, rather than pay attention to the courier, but Aramis skillfully manipulates him into reading the message. It is an order of release for a prisoner named Seldon. Now Aramis must convince Baisemeaux to release the prisoner right away instead of waiting until after dinner. The order says that the matter is urgent, but Baisemeaux points out that this man has been in prison for over ten years, and suddenly his release is urgent. Again Aramis convinces Baisemeaux not to wait any longer. He begs the man to release the prisoner. While Baisemeaux's back is turned, Aramis switches the order for one that he takes from his pocket.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VII. Another Supper at the Bastile. Seven o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners' minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The time-piece of the Bastile, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the abundance and the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full-laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the shape of honestly filled bottles of good vintages. This same hour was that of M. le gouverneur's supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges, flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; hams, fried and sprinkled with white wine, _cardons_ of Guipuzcoa and _la bisque ecrevisses_: these, together with soups and _hors d'oeuvres_, constituted the governor's bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray and sword at side, kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness my lord of Vannes, and this evening Aramis, becoming sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up entirely upon this point of his guest's freedom. "Monsieur," said he, "for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur." "By no means," said Aramis; "call me monsieur; I am booted." "Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?" "No! faith," said Aramis, taking up his glass; "but I hope I remind you of a capital guest." "You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his greatness." "And let him go," added Aramis. "The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be _tete-a-tete_ when I am with a friend." Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. "I like exceedingly," continued Aramis, "to help myself." "Retire, Francois," cried Baisemeaux. "I was saying that your greatness puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you." "Indeed," said Aramis; "and the other?" "The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe." Aramis condescended to smile. "From abbe," continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis's smile--"from abbe, bishop--and from bishop--" "Ah! stay there, I beg," exclaimed Aramis. "I have just said, monsieur, that you gave me the idea of a cardinal." "Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening." "But you have wicked intentions, nevertheless, monseigneur." "Oh, yes, wicked, I own, as everything mundane is." "You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?" "In disguise, as you say." "And you still make use of your sword?" "Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois." "Have you no wine there?" "'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut." "I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers." "Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?" "But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand?" "Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois." Francois entered. "Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois," said Aramis. "You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?" "You are at home here," answered the governor. The window was opened. "Do you not think," said M. de Baisemeaux, "that you will find yourself very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?" "You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us." "Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years." "And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him." "Well, for my part, though 'tis singular," said the governor, "I prefer M. d'Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts." "Baisemeaux, make me tipsy to-night; let us have a merry time of it as of old, and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass." "Bravo!" said Baisemeaux, and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A courier came in about eight o'clock as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and, although the courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing. "The devil take him," said Aramis. "What! who?" asked Baisemeaux. "I hope 'tis neither the wine you drank nor he who is the cause of your drinking it." "No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron." "Pooh! some courier or other," replied the governor, redoubling his attention to the passing bottle. "Yes; and may the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more. Hurrah! hurrah!" "You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty," said Aramis, lifting his dazzling Venetian goblet. "Upon my honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!" Francois entered. "Wine, fellow! and better." "Yes, monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived." "Let him go to the devil, I say." "Yes, monsieur, but--" "Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow. To-morrow, there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight," said Baisemeaux, chanting the words. "Ah, monsieur," grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself, "monsieur." "Take care," said Aramis, "take care!" "Of what? dear M. d'Herblay," said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated. "The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order." "Nearly always." "Do not orders issue from the ministers?" "Yes, undoubtedly; but--" "And what to these ministers do but countersign the signature of the king?" "Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you are sitting before a good table, _tete-a-tete_ with a friend--Ah! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I forgot it is I who engage you at supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal." "Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier, to Francois." "Well, and what has Francois done?" "He has demurred!" "He was wrong, then?" "However, he _has_ demurred, you see; 'tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who are in the wrong in not listening to him." "Wrong? I to be wrong before Francois? that seems rather hard." "Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an observation which I deem important." "Oh! perhaps you are right," stammered Baisemeaux. "The king's order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat that the devil--" "If you had said as much to the great cardinal--hem! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had any importance." "I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. _Mordioux!_ am I not, then, excusable?" "Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the soldier's coat, and I am accustomed to obedience everywhere." "You wish, then--" "I wish that you would do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before this soldier." "'Tis mathematically true," exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited: "Let them send this order of the king's up to me," he repeated, recovering himself. And he added in a low tone, "Do you know what it is? I will tell you something about as interesting as this. 'Beware of fire near the powder magazine;' or, 'Look close after such and such a one, who is clever at escaping,' Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest, deepest slumber, by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather, bring me a slip of paper containing these words: 'Monsieur de Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastile. They would know better; they have never considered the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But, indeed, what can you expect, monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy," added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. "Then let them do their business." "And do you do yours," added the bishop, smiling. Francois re-entered; Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister's order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then, Baisemeaux, having read it: "What was I just saying?" he exclaimed. "What is it?" asked the bishop. "An order of release! There, now; excellent news indeed to disturb us!" "Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!" "And at eight o'clock in the evening!" "It is charitable!" "Oh! charity is all very well, but it is for that fellow who says he is so weary and tired, but not for me who am amusing myself," said Baisemeaux, exasperated. "Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a good payer?" "Oh, yes, indeed! a miserable, five-franc rat!" "Let me see it," asked M. d'Herblay. "It is no indiscretion?" "By no means; read it." "There is 'Urgent,' on the paper; you have seen that, I suppose?" "Oh, admirable! 'Urgent!'--a man who has been there ten years! It is _urgent_ to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o'clock!--_urgent!_" And Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again. "They are fond of these tricks!" he said, with his mouth full; "they seize a man, some fine day, keep him under lock and key for ten years, and write to you, 'Watch this fellow well,' or 'Keep him very strictly.' And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason they write--'Set him at liberty,' and actually add to their missive--'urgent.' You will own, my lord, 'tis enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders!" "What do you expect? It is for them to write," said Aramis, "for you to execute the order." "Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a slave." "Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is well known." "Thank Heaven!" "But your goodness of heart is also known." "Ah! don't speak of it!" "And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier." "And I shall directly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the prisoner referred to shall be set free." "To-morrow?" "At dawn." "Why not this evening, seeing that the _lettre de cachet_ bears, both on the direction and inside, '_urgent_'?" "Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent, too!" "Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest, and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity." "You wish it?" "I entreat you." "What! in the very middle of our repast?" "I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites." "It shall be as you desire, only our supper will get cold." "Oh! never heed that." Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the table; Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, which he drew swiftly from his pocket. "Francois," said the governor, "let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere." Francois bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone.

Chapter Seven: Another Supper at the Bastille

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-seven-another-supper-at-the-bastille

It is seven o'clock at the Bastille, and Aramis is having dinner with Baisemeaux. Apparently, Aramis is being positively raunchy with his choice of stories. Baisemeaux commands one of his servants to close the windows, but Aramis requests that they remain open. He is waiting for the sound of a courier's arrival. At about eight o'clock, a courier arrives. Baisemeaux would prefer to continue eating and drinking with Aramis, rather than pay attention to the courier, but Aramis skillfully manipulates him into reading the message. It is an order of release for a prisoner named Seldon. Now Aramis must convince Baisemeaux to release the prisoner right away instead of waiting until after dinner. The order says that the matter is urgent, but Baisemeaux points out that this man has been in prison for over ten years, and suddenly his release is urgent. Again Aramis convinces Baisemeaux not to wait any longer. He begs the man to release the prisoner. While Baisemeaux's back is turned, Aramis switches the order for one that he takes from his pocket.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_7_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 8

chapter 8: the general of the order

{"name": "Chapter Eight: The General of the Order", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-eight-the-general-of-the-order", "summary": "Baisemeaux finally thinks of a good excuse: the prisoner will have nowhere to go at this hour of the day. Aramis says he will take the prisoner wherever he wishes to go. Baisemeaux gives the order to release Seldon. Aramis asks if he meant Marchiali. The two argue for a minute before Baisemeaux picks up the order and is astonished to read the name \"Marchiali.\" Baisemeaux is deeply confused. He wants confirmation from his superiors on which prisoner ought to be released. It becomes clear to Baisemeaux that this is a counterfeit order. Finally, Aramis writes an order on a sheet of paper that the order releasing Marchiali must be obeyed immediately. He signs it as the General of the Order. Baisemeaux is shocked and tries to decide on a course of action. Aramis very gently tells him not to think too hard about it. Baisemeaux releases Marchiali. Aramis steps forward and offers the services of his carriage. Aramis leaves with the prisoner. They drive into the middle of the forest so the two can have a proper heart to heat. The guy driving the carriage is deaf and dumb. They take the carriage off the road to avoid other travelers. Aramis takes off the pistols he was carrying.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VIII. The General of the Order. There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper, and it was clear he was trying to invent some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon an excuse at last. "Eh! but it is impossible!" he cried. "How impossible?" said Aramis. "Give me a glimpse of this impossibility." "'Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to, a man so unacquainted with Paris?" "He will find a place wherever he can." "You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!" "I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes." "You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell monsieur le major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere." "Seldon!" exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. "You said Seldon, I think?" "I said Seldon, of course. 'Tis the name of the man they set free." "Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?" said Aramis. "Marchiali? oh! yes, indeed. No, no, Seldon." "I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Baisemeaux." "I have read the order." "And I also." "And I saw 'Seldon' in letters as large as that," and Baisemeaux held up his finger. "And I read 'Marchiali' in characters as large as this," said Aramis, also holding up two fingers. "To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter," said Baisemeaux, confident he was right. "There is the paper, you have only to read it." "I read 'Marchiali,'" returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. "Look." Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. "Yes, yes," he said, quite overwhelmed; "yes, Marchiali. 'Tis plainly written Marchiali! Quite true!" "Ah!--" "How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?" "There is 'Marchiali,'" repeated the inflexible Aramis. "I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand nothing about it." "You believe your eyes, at any rate." "To tell me very plainly there is 'Marchiali.'" "And in a good handwriting, too." "'Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of ink." "No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot." "Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed my finger--this very one--in the powder that was over the blot." "In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis, "and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali, blot or no blot." "The order is signed to release Marchiali," replied Baisemeaux, mechanically, endeavoring to regain his courage. "And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world." Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux's confusion of mind, and restored his courage. "Monseigneur," he said, "this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a priest confessor of _our order_ came to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner." "I don't know that, monsieur," replied the bishop. "'Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d'Herblay." "It is true. But _with us_, monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did." "In any case," said Baisemeaux, "the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man." Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again took up the order and examined it every way. This investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was dangerous. "Are you going to release Marchiali?" he said. "What mellow, fragrant and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor." "Monseigneur," replied Baisemeaux, "I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself." "The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?" "Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order." "What is the good of all that?" asked Aramis, coldly. "What good?" "Yes; what is your object, I ask?" "The object of never deceiving oneself, monseigneur; nor being wanting in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor infringing the duties of a service one has accepted of one's own free will." "Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he infringed either the duties or laws of his office." Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment. "It follows," pursued Aramis, "that you are going to ask advice, to put your conscience at ease in the matter?" "Yes, monseigneur." "And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?" "Never doubt it, monseigneur." "You know the king's signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?" "Yes, monseigneur." "Is it not on this order of release?" "It is true, but it may--" "Be forged, you mean?" "That is evident, monseigneur." "You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?" "I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the king's signature may have been forged, so also, and with even greater probability, may M. de Lyonne's." "Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?" "On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his majesty's signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed." "Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on the governor, "I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one." Baisemeaux gave him a pen. "And a sheet of white paper," added Aramis. Baisemeaux handed him some paper. "Now, I--I, also--I, here present--incontestably, I--am going to write an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are!" Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that the voice of the bishop's, but just now so playful and gay, had become funereal and sad; that the wax lights changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine into chalices of blood. Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his shoulder. "A. M. D. G.," wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four letters, which signify _ad majorem Dei gloriam_, "to the greater glory of God;" and thus he continued: "It is our pleasure that the order brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the king, of the castle of the Bastile, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into operation." (Signed) D'HERBLAY "General of the Order, by the grace of God." Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished, that his features remained contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large chamber but the wing-whisper of a little moth, which was fluttering to its death about the candles. Aramis, without even deigning to look at the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition, drew from his pocket a small case of black wax; he sealed the letter, and stamped it with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet, and when the operation was concluded, presented--still in silence--the missive to M. de Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam of feeling played over his features, and he fell, as if thunder-struck, on a chair. "Come, come," said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the governor of the Bastile had slowly recovered his senses, "do not lead me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the order is as terrible as His, and that men die merely from having seen Him. Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your hand--obey." Baisemeaux, reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis's hand, and rose. "Immediately?" he murmured. "Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and do the honors over this beautiful dessert." "Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this; I who have laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a footing of equality!" "Say nothing about it, old comrade," replied the bishop, who perceived how strained the cord was and how dangerous it would have been to break it; "say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way; to you, my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Having exactly fulfilled these two requirements, let us live happily." Baisemeaux reflected; he perceived, at a glance, the consequence of this withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a forged order; and, putting in the scale the guarantee offered him by the official order of the general, did not consider it of any value. Aramis divined this. "My dear Baisemeaux," said he, "you are a simpleton. Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble to think for you." And at another gesture he made, Baisemeaux bowed again. "How shall I set about it?" he said. "What is the process for releasing a prisoner?" "I have the regulations." "Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend." "I go with my major to the prisoner's room, and conduct him, if he is a personage of importance." "But this Marchiali is not an important personage," said Aramis carelessly. "I don't know," answered the governor, as if he would have said, "It is for you to instruct me." "Then if you don't know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as you act towards one of obscure station." "Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner before the governor, in the office." "Well, 'tis very wise, that; and then?" "Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of his imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister's orders have not otherwise dictated." "What was the minister's order as to this Marchiali?" "Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without papers, and almost without clothes." "See how simple, then, all is. Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the governor's house." Baisemeaux obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order, which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about it, to the next whom it concerned. Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it was the door to the dungeon, which had just rendered up its prey to the free air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room but one, which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare prevented the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied tenfold the changing forms and shadows of the place, by its wavering uncertainty. Steps drew near. "Go and meet your men," said Aramis to Baisemeaux. The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys disappeared. Baisemeaux re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed himself in the shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an agitated tone of voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or saying a word. "You will swear ('tis the regulation that requires it)," added the governor, "never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastile." The prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hands and swore with his lips. "And now, monsieur, you are free. Whither do you intend going?" The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some protection, on which he ought to rely. Then was it that Aramis came out of the shade: "I am here," he said, "to render the gentleman whatever service he may please to ask." The prisoner slightly reddened, and, without hesitation, passed his arm through that of Aramis. "God have you in his holy keeping," he said, in a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the form of the blessing astonished him. Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to him; "Does my order trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come to search?" "I desire to keep it, monseigneur," said Baisemeaux. "If they found it here, it would be a certain indication I should be lost, and in that case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me." "Being your accomplice, you mean?" answered Aramis, shrugging his shoulders. "Adieu, Baisemeaux," said he. The horses were in waiting, making each rusty spring reverberate the carriage again with their impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop to the bottom of the steps. Aramis caused his companion to mount before him, then followed, and without giving the driver any further order, "Go on," said he. The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard. An officer with a torch went before the horses, and gave orders at every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his "sealed heart knock against his ribs." The prisoner, buried in a corner of the carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length, a jolt more sever than the others announced to them that they had cleared the last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last gate, that in the Rue St. Antoine. No more walls either on the right or the left; heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, and life everywhere. The horses, kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as the middle of the faubourg. There they began to trot. Little by little, whether they were warming to their work, or whether they were urged, they gained in swiftness, and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to fly, so great was the ardor of the coursers. The horses galloped thus as far as Villeneuve St. George's, where relays were waiting. Then four instead of two whirled the carriage away in the direction of Melun, and pulled up for a moment in the middle of the forest of Senart. No doubt the order had been given the postilion beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to make a sign. "What is the matter?" asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long dream. "The matter is, monseigneur," said Aramis, "that before going further, it is necessary your royal highness and I should converse." "I will await an opportunity, monsieur," answered the young prince. "We could not have a better, monseigneur. We are in the middle of a forest, and no one can hear us." "The postilion?" "The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, monseigneur." "I am at your service, M. d'Herblay." "Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?" "Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage, for it has restored me to liberty." "Wait, monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken." "What?" "We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages traveling like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping, deem us in some difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass us." "Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side avenues." "'Tis exactly what I wished to do, monseigneur." Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom he touched on the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by the bridle, and led them over the velvet sward and the mossy grass of a winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night, the deep shades formed a curtain blacker than ink. This done, the man lay down on a slope near his horses, who, on either side, kept nibbling the young oak shoots. "I am listening," said the young prince to Aramis; "but what are you doing there?" "I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further need, monseigneur."

Chapter Eight: The General of the Order

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

Baisemeaux finally thinks of a good excuse: the prisoner will have nowhere to go at this hour of the day. Aramis says he will take the prisoner wherever he wishes to go. Baisemeaux gives the order to release Seldon. Aramis asks if he meant Marchiali. The two argue for a minute before Baisemeaux picks up the order and is astonished to read the name "Marchiali." Baisemeaux is deeply confused. He wants confirmation from his superiors on which prisoner ought to be released. It becomes clear to Baisemeaux that this is a counterfeit order. Finally, Aramis writes an order on a sheet of paper that the order releasing Marchiali must be obeyed immediately. He signs it as the General of the Order. Baisemeaux is shocked and tries to decide on a course of action. Aramis very gently tells him not to think too hard about it. Baisemeaux releases Marchiali. Aramis steps forward and offers the services of his carriage. Aramis leaves with the prisoner. They drive into the middle of the forest so the two can have a proper heart to heat. The guy driving the carriage is deaf and dumb. They take the carriage off the road to avoid other travelers. Aramis takes off the pistols he was carrying.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_8_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 9

chapter 9: the tempter

{"name": "Chapter Nine: The Tempter", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-nine-the-tempter", "summary": "Aramis explains to the former prisoner why the current King is such a bad egg. He then explains that, as leader of the Jesuits, he is convinced that God is using him as an instrument of justice. Aramis explains that he wants the former prisoner to ascend the throne of France. Philippe asks what will happen to his brother, King Louis XIV. Aramis proposes that they simply exchange places. Aramis tells Philippe that there are no dangers, only obstacles. Philippe points out that his conscience may not be so easily appeased. Aramis gives Philippe a choice: a humble life as a private citizen or king of the most powerful country in the world. Aramis tells Philippe that he knows of twenty leagues of quiet country where Philippe can live a humble and rustic life with no dangers. Philippe asks for ten minutes to make his decision.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IX. The Tempter. "My prince," said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his companion, "weak creature as I am, so unpretending in genius, so low in the scale of intelligent beings, it has never yet happened to me to converse with a man without penetrating his thoughts through that living mask which has been thrown over our mind, in order to retain its expression. But to-night, in this darkness, in the reserve which you maintain, I can read nothing on your features, and something tells me that I shall have great difficulty in wresting from you a sincere declaration. I beseech you, then, not for love of me, for subjects should never weigh as anything in the balance which princes hold, but for love of yourself, to retain every syllable, every inflexion which, under the present most grave circumstances, will all have a sense and value as important as any every uttered in the world." "I listen," replied the young prince, "decidedly, without either eagerly seeking or fearing anything you are about to say to me." And he buried himself still deeper in the thick cushions of the carriage, trying to deprive his companion not only of the sight of him, but even of the very idea of his presence. Black was the darkness which fell wide and dense from the summits of the intertwining trees. The carriage, covered in by this prodigious roof, would not have received a particle of light, not even if a ray could have struggled through the wreaths of mist that were already rising in the avenue. "Monseigneur," resumed Aramis, "you know the history of the government which to-day controls France. The king issued from an infancy imprisoned like yours, obscure as yours, and confined as yours; only, instead of ending, like yourself, this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in solitude, these straightened circumstances in concealment, he was fain to bear all these miseries, humiliations, and distresses, in full daylight, under the pitiless sun of royalty; on an elevation flooded with light, where every stain appears a blemish, every glory a stain. The king has suffered; it rankles in his mind; and he will avenge himself. He will be a bad king. I say not that he will pour out his people's blood, like Louis XI., or Charles IX.; for he has no mortal injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and substance of his people; for he has himself undergone wrongs in his own interest and money. In the first place, then, I acquit my conscience, when I consider openly the merits and the faults of this great prince; and if I condemn him, my conscience absolves me." Aramis paused. It was not to listen if the silence of the forest remained undisturbed, but it was to gather up his thoughts from the very bottom of his soul--to leave the thoughts he had uttered sufficient time to eat deeply into the mind of his companion. "All that Heaven does, Heaven does well," continued the bishop of Vannes; "and I am so persuaded of it that I have long been thankful to have been chosen depositary of the secret which I have aided you to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I govern a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto, the motto of God, '_Patiens quia oeternus_.'" The prince moved. "I divine, monseigneur, why you are raising your head, and are surprised at the people I have under my command. You did not know you were dealing with a king--oh! monseigneur, king of a people very humble, much disinherited; humble because they have no force save when creeping; disinherited, because never, almost never in this world, do my people reap the harvest they sow, nor eat the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an abstract idea; they heap together all the atoms of their power, so from a single man; and round this man, with the sweat of their labor, they create a misty halo, which his genius shall, in turn, render a glory gilded with the rays of all the crowns in Christendom. Such is the man you have beside you, monseigneur. It is to tell you that he has drawn you from the abyss for a great purpose, to raise you above the powers of the earth--above himself." [1] The prince lightly touched Aramis's arm. "You speak to me," he said, "of that religious order whose chief you are. For me, the result of your words is, that the day you desire to hurl down the man you shall have raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will keep under your hand your creation of yesterday." "Undeceive yourself, monseigneur," replied the bishop. "I should not take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal highness, if I had not a double interest in gaining it. The day you are elevated, you are elevated forever; you will overturn the footstool, as you rise, and will send it rolling so far, that not even the sight of it will ever again recall to you its right to simple gratitude." "Oh, monsieur!" "Your movement, monseigneur, arises from an excellent disposition. I thank you. Be well assured, I aspire to more than gratitude! I am convinced that, when arrived at the summit, you will judge me still more worthy to be your friend; and then, monseigneur, we two will do such great deeds, that ages hereafter shall long speak of them." "Tell me plainly, monsieur--tell me without disguise--what I am to-day, and what you aim at my being to-morrow." "You are the son of King Louis XIII., brother of Louis XIV., natural and legitimate heir to the throne of France. In keeping you near him, as Monsieur has been kept--Monsieur, your younger brother--the king reserved to himself the right of being legitimate sovereign. The doctors only could dispute his legitimacy. But the doctors always prefer the king who is to the king who is not. Providence has willed that you should be persecuted; this persecution to-day consecrates you king of France. You had, then, a right to reign, seeing that it is disputed; you had a right to be proclaimed seeing that you have been concealed; and you possess royal blood, since no one has dared to shed yours, as that of your servants has been shed. Now see, then, what this Providence, which you have so often accused of having in every way thwarted you, has done for you. It has given you the features, figure, age, and voice of your brother; and the very causes of your persecution are about to become those of your triumphant restoration. To-morrow, after to-morrow--from the very first, regal phantom, living shade of Louis XIV., you will sit upon his throne, whence the will of Heaven, confided in execution to the arm of man, will have hurled him, without hope of return." "I understand," said the prince, "my brother's blood will not be shed, then." "You will be sole arbiter of his fate." "The secret of which they made an evil use against me?" "You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal it? He concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my prince, will have the same interest in concealing him, who will, as a prisoner, resemble you, as you will resemble him as a king." "I fall back on what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?" "Who guarded _you?_" "You know this secret--you have made use of it with regard to myself. Who else knows it?" "The queen-mother and Madame de Chevreuse." "What will they do?" "Nothing, if you choose." "How is that?" "How can they recognize you, if you act in such a manner that no one can recognize you?" "'Tis true; but there are grave difficulties." "State them, prince." "My brother is married; I cannot take my brother's wife." "I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce; it is in the interest of your new policy; it is human morality. All that is really noble and really useful in this world will find its account therein." "The imprisoned king will speak." "To whom do you think he will speak--to the walls?" "You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence." "If need be, yes. And besides, your royal highness--" "Besides?" "I was going to say, that the designs of Providence do not stop on such a fair road. Every scheme of this caliber is completed by its results, like a geometrical calculation. The king, in prison, will not be for you the cause of embarrassment that you have been for the king enthroned. His soul is naturally proud and impatient; it is, moreover, disarmed and enfeebled, by being accustomed to honors, and by the license of supreme power. The same Providence which has willed that the concluding step in the geometrical calculation I have had the honor of describing to your royal highness should be your ascension to the throne, and the destruction of him who is hurtful to you, has also determined that the conquered one shall soon end both his own and your sufferings. Therefore, his soul and body have been adapted for but a brief agony. Put into prison as a private individual, left alone with your doubts, deprived of everything, you have exhibited the most sublime, enduring principle of life in withstanding all this. But your brother, a captive, forgotten, and in bonds, will not long endure the calamity; and Heaven will resume his soul at the appointed time--that is to say, soon." At this point in Aramis's gloomy analysis, a bird of night uttered from the depths of the forest that prolonged and plaintive cry which makes every creature tremble. "I will exile the deposed king," said Philippe, shuddering; "'twill be more human." "The king's good pleasure will decide the point," said Aramis. "But has the problem been well put? Have I brought out of the solution according to the wishes or the foresight of your royal highness?" "Yes, monsieur, yes; you have forgotten nothing--except, indeed, two things." "The first?" "Let us speak of it at once, with the same frankness we have already conversed in. Let us speak of the causes which may bring about the ruin of all the hopes we have conceived. Let us speak of the risks we are running." "They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I have said, all things did not concur to render them of absolutely no account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if the constancy and intrepidity of your royal highness are equal to that perfection of resemblance to your brother which nature has bestowed upon you. I repeat it, there are no dangers, only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I find in all languages, but have always ill-understood, and, were I king, would have obliterated as useless and absurd." "Yes, indeed, monsieur; there is a very serious obstacle, an insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting." "Ah!" said Aramis. "There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, that never dies." "True, true," said the bishop; "there is a weakness of heart of which you remind me. You are right, too, for that, indeed, is an immense obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch, leaps into the middle of it, and is killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of another leaves loopholes whereby his enemy has him in his power." "Have you a brother?" said the young man to Aramis. "I am alone in the world," said the latter, with a hard, dry voice. "But, surely, there is some one in the world whom you love?" added Philippe. "No one!--Yes, I love you." The young man sank into so profound a silence, that the mere sound of his respiration seemed like a roaring tumult for Aramis. "Monseigneur," he resumed, "I have not said all I had to say to your royal highness; I have not offered you all the salutary counsels and useful resources which I have at my disposal. It is useless to flash bright visions before the eyes of one who seeks and loves darkness: useless, too, is it to let the magnificence of the cannon's roar make itself heard in the ears of one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur, I have your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts; listen to my words; precious they indeed are, in their import and their sense, for you who look with such tender regard upon the bright heavens, the verdant meadows, the pure air. I know a country instinct with delights of every kind, an unknown paradise, a secluded corner of the world--where alone, unfettered and unknown, in the thick covert of the woods, amidst flowers, and streams of rippling water, you will forget all the misery that human folly has so recently allotted you. Oh! listen to me, my prince. I do not jest. I have a heart, and mind, and soul, and can read your own,--aye, even to its depths. I will not take you unready for your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires, of my caprice, or my ambition. Let it be all or nothing. You are chilled and galled, sick at heart, overcome by excess of the emotions which but one hour's liberty has produced in you. For me, that is a certain and unmistakable sign that you do not wish to continue at liberty. Would you prefer a more humble life, a life more suited to your strength? Heaven is my witness, that I wish your happiness to be the result of the trial to which I have exposed you." "Speak, speak," said the prince, with a vivacity which did not escape Aramis. "I know," resumed the prelate, "in the Bas-Poitou, a canton, of which no one in France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country is immense, is it not? Twenty leagues, monseigneur, all covered with water and herbage, and reeds of the most luxuriant nature; the whole studded with islands covered with woods of the densest foliage. These large marshes, covered with reeds as with a thick mantle, sleep silently and calmly beneath the sun's soft and genial rays. A few fishermen with their families indolently pass their lives away there, with their great living-rafts of poplar and alder, the flooring formed of reeds, and the roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating-houses, are wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping fisherman is not awakened by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is merely because he has seen a large flight of landrails or plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodchucks, which fall an easy pray to net or gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike, red and gray mullet, swim in shoals into his nets; he has but to choose the finest and largest, and return the others to the waters. Never yet has the food of the stranger, be he soldier or simple citizen, never has any one, indeed, penetrated into that district. The sun's rays there are soft and tempered: in plots of solid earth, whose soil is swart and fertile, grows the vine, nourishing with generous juice its purple, white, and golden grapes. Once a week, a boat is sent to deliver the bread which has been baked at an oven--the common property of all. There--like the seigneurs of early days--powerful in virtue of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful reed-built house, would you live, rich in the produce of the chase, in plentitude of absolute secrecy. There would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, no longer recognizable, for you would have been perfectly transformed, you would have succeeded in acquiring a destiny accorded to you by Heaven. There are a thousand pistoles in this bag, monseigneur--more, far more, than sufficient to purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to constitute you the richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the country. Accept it, as I offer it you--sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, without a moment's pause, I will unharness two of my horses, which are attached to the carriage yonder, and they, accompanied by my servant--my deaf and dumb attendant--shall conduct you--traveling throughout the night, sleeping during the day--to the locality I have described; and I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to my prince the major service he himself preferred. I shall have made one human being happy; and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had made one man powerful; the former task is far more difficult. And now, monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay, do not hesitate. At Poitou, you can risk nothing, except the chance of catching the fevers prevalent there; and even of them, the so-called wizards of the country will cure you, for the sake of your pistoles. If you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a throne, strangled in a prison-cell. Upon my soul, I assure you, now I begin to compare them together, I myself should hesitate which lot I should accept." "Monsieur," replied the young prince, "before I determine, let me alight from this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that still voice within me, which Heaven bids us all to hearken to. Ten minutes is all I ask, and then you shall have your answer." "As you please, monseigneur," said Aramis, bending before him with respect, so solemn and august in tone and address had sounded these strange words.

Chapter Nine: The Tempter

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

Aramis explains to the former prisoner why the current King is such a bad egg. He then explains that, as leader of the Jesuits, he is convinced that God is using him as an instrument of justice. Aramis explains that he wants the former prisoner to ascend the throne of France. Philippe asks what will happen to his brother, King Louis XIV. Aramis proposes that they simply exchange places. Aramis tells Philippe that there are no dangers, only obstacles. Philippe points out that his conscience may not be so easily appeased. Aramis gives Philippe a choice: a humble life as a private citizen or king of the most powerful country in the world. Aramis tells Philippe that he knows of twenty leagues of quiet country where Philippe can live a humble and rustic life with no dangers. Philippe asks for ten minutes to make his decision.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_9_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 10

chapter 10: crown and tiara

{"name": "Chapter Ten: Crown and Tiara", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-ten-crown-and-tiara", "summary": "Aramis is filled with suspense as he watches the prince wrestle with his decision. finally agrees and asks Aramis what he is expecting in return for placing the prince on the throne of France. Aramis elects to table that conversation for later. Instead, Aramis wants to prepare Philippe to on impersonating Louis in court life. Philippe proves to have memorized all the notes Aramis had sent him. As king, Philippe has plans for everyone: He promises to deliver La Valliere back to the arms of Raoul. In two months' time, Philippe promises that Aramis will be made a cardinal. He asks for Aramis's other ambitions. Aramis argues that Cardinal Richelieu's greatest mistake was allowing two kings of France - Richelieu and Louis - to try to rule as one. It's much better to have two separate thrones. Aramis says to Philippe: \"I shall have given you the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter.\" In other words, Aramis wants to become pope. He is convinced that Philippe can rule the bodies of men and Aramis will take their souls. Philippe agrees to this plan. Aramis tells Philippe that Louis will be removed from his bed while he sleeps, and that Philippe will take his place. Aramis asks to kneel before Philippe, but says that they ought to embrace. He calls Aramis his holy father. The carriage begins moving and head to Vaux.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter X. Crown and Tiara. Aramis was the first to descend from the carriage; he held the door open for the young man. He saw him place his foot on the mossy ground with a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the carriage with an unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor prisoner was unaccustomed to walk on God's earth. It was the 15th of August, about eleven o'clock at night; thick clouds, portending a tempest, overspread the heavens, and shrouded every light and prospect underneath their heavy folds. The extremities of the avenues were imperceptibly detached from the copse, by a lighter shadow of opaque gray, which, upon closer examination, became visible in the midst of the obscurity. But the fragrance which ascended from the grass, fresher and more penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around him; the warm and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time for many years past; the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country, spoke to the prince in so seductive a language, that notwithstanding the preternatural caution, we would almost say dissimulation of his character, of which we have tried to give an idea, he could not restrain his emotion, and breathed a sigh of ecstasy. Then, by degrees, he raised his aching head and inhaled the softly scented air, as it was wafted in gentle gusts to his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest, as if to control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious draughts of that mysterious air which interpenetrates at night the loftiest forests. The sky he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the universal freshness--was not all this reality? Was not Aramis a madman to suppose that he had aught else to dream of in this world? Those exciting pictures of country life, so free from fears and troubles, the ocean of happy days that glitters incessantly before all young imaginations, are real allurements wherewith to fascinate a poor, unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison cares, emaciated by the stifling air of the Bastile. It was the picture, it will be remembered, drawn by Aramis, when he offered the thousand pistoles he had with him in the carriage to the prince, and the enchanted Eden which the deserts of Bas-Poitou hid from the eyes of the world. Such were the reflections of Aramis as he watched, with an anxiety impossible to describe, the silent progress of the emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually becoming more and more absorbed in his meditations. The young prince was offering up an inward prayer to Heaven, to be divinely guided in this trying moment, upon which his life or death depended. It was an anxious time for the bishop of Vannes, who had never before been so perplexed. His iron will, accustomed to overcome all obstacles, never finding itself inferior or vanquished on any occasion, to be foiled in so vast a project from not having foreseen the influence which a view of nature in all its luxuriance would have on the human mind! Aramis, overwhelmed by anxiety, contemplated with emotion the painful struggle that was taking place in Philippe's mind. This suspense lasted the whole ten minutes which the young man had requested. During this space of time, which appeared an eternity, Philippe continued gazing with an imploring and sorrowful look towards the heavens; Aramis did not remove the piercing glance he had fixed on Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his head. His thought returned to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his brow contracted, his mouth assuming an expression of undaunted courage; again his looks became fixed, but this time they wore a worldly expression, hardened by covetousness, pride, and strong desire. Aramis's look immediately became as soft as it had before been gloomy. Philippe, seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed: "Lead me to where the crown of France is to be found." "Is this your decision, monseigneur?" asked Aramis. "It is." "Irrevocably so?" Philippe did not even deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the bishop, as if to ask him if it were possible for a man to waver after having once made up his mind. "Such looks are flashes of the hidden fire that betrays men's character," said Aramis, bowing over Philippe's hand; "you will be great, monseigneur, I will answer for that." "Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with you; in the first place the dangers, or the obstacles we may meet with. That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend imposing on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d'Herblay." "The conditions, monseigneur?" "Doubtless. You will not allow so mere a trifle to stop me, and you will not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no interest in this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the truth--" "I will do so, monseigneur. Once a king--" "When will that be?" "To-morrow evening--I mean in the night." "Explain yourself." "When I shall have asked your highness a question." "Do so." "I sent to your highness a man in my confidence with instructions to deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will thoroughly acquaint your highness with the different persons who compose and will compose your court." "I perused those notes." "Attentively?" "I know them by heart." "And understand them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastile? In a week's time it will not be requisite to further question a mind like yours. You will then be in full possession of liberty and power." "Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar representing his lesson to his master." "We will begin with your family, monseigneur." "My mother, Anne of Austria! all her sorrows, her painful malady. Oh! I know her--I know her." "Your second brother?" asked Aramis, bowing. "To these notes," replied the prince, "you have added portraits so faithfully painted, that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., loved a little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in disgrace." "You will have to be careful with regard to the watchfulness of the latter," said Aramis; "she is sincerely attached to the actual king. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived." "She is fair, has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze reveals her identity. She halts slightly in her gait; she writes a letter every day, to which I have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan." "Do you know the latter?" "As if I saw him, and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as those I composed in answer to his." "Very good. Do you know your ministers?" "Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent enough, his hair covering his forehead, a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet." "As for the latter, we need not disturb ourselves about him." "No; because necessarily you will not require me to exile him, I suppose?" Aramis, struck with admiration at the remark, said, "You will become very great, monseigneur." "You see," added the prince, "that I know my lesson by heart, and with Heaven's assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong." "You have still an awkward pair of eyes to deal with, monseigneur." "Yes, the captain of the musketeers, M. d'Artagnan, your friend." "Yes; I can well say 'my friend.'" "He who escorted La Valliere to Le Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk, cooped in an iron box, to Charles II.; he who so faithfully served my mother; he to whom the crown of France owes so much that it owes everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?" "Never, sire. D'Artagnan is a man to whom, at a certain given time, I will undertake to reveal everything; but be on your guard with him, for if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will certainly be killed or taken. He is a bold and enterprising man." "I will think it over. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish to be done with regard to him?" "One moment more, I entreat you, monseigneur; and forgive me, if I seem to fail in respect to questioning you further." "It is your duty to do so, nay, more than that, your right." "Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting another friend of mine." "M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is concerned, his interests are more than safe." "No; it is not he whom I intended to refer to." "The Comte de la Fere, then?" "And his son, the son of all four of us." "That poor boy who is dying of love for La Valliere, whom my brother so disloyally bereft him of? Be easy on that score. I shall know how to rehabilitate his happiness. Tell me only one thing, Monsieur d'Herblay; do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom, or is it one of the laws of the human heart?" "A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere, finishes by forgetting the fault or crime of the woman he loves; but I do not yet know whether Raoul will be able to forget." "I will see after that. Have you anything further to say about your friend?" "No; that is all." "Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?" "To keep him on as surintendant, in the capacity in which he has hitherto acted, I entreat you." "Be it so; but he is the first minister at present." "Not quite so." "A king, ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of course, require a first minister of state." "Your majesty will require a friend." "I have only one, and that is yourself." "You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so zealous for your glory." "You shall be my first minister of state." "Not immediately, monseigneur, for that would give rise to too much suspicion and astonishment." "M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de Medici, was simply bishop of Lucon, as you are bishop of Vannes." "I perceive that your royal highness has studied my notes to great advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight." "I am perfectly aware that M. de Richelieu, by means of the queen's protection, soon became cardinal." "It would be better," said Aramis, bowing, "that I should not be appointed first minister until your royal highness has procured my nomination as cardinal." "You shall be nominated before two months are past, Monsieur d'Herblay. But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if you were to limit yourself to that." "In that case, I have something still further to hope for, monseigneur." "Speak! speak!" "M. Fouquet will not keep long at the head of affairs, he will soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, consistently, I mean, with all his labors, thanks to the youthfulness he still retains; but this protracted youth will disappear at the approach of the first serious annoyance, or at the first illness he may experience. We will spare him the annoyance, because he is an agreeable and noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid all M. Fouquet's debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M. Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of poets and painters,--we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and I have become your royal highness's prime minister, I shall be able to think of my own interests and yours." The young man looked at his interrogator. "M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now, was very much to blame in the fixed idea he had of governing France alone, unaided. He allowed two kings, King Louis XIII. and himself, to be seated on the self-same throne, whilst he might have installed them more conveniently upon two separate and distinct thrones." "Upon two thrones?" said the young man, thoughtfully. "In fact," pursued Aramis, quietly, "a cardinal, prime minister of France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most Christian Majesty the King of France, a cardinal to whom the king his master lends the treasures of the state, his army, his counsel, such a man would be acting with twofold injustice in applying these mighty resources to France alone. Besides," added Aramis, "you will not be a king such as your father was, delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all things wearied; you will be a king governing by your brain and by your sword; you will have in the government of the state no more than you will be able to manage unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides, our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but in any degree affected, by a secret thought. I shall have given you the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter. Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand should joined in ties of intimate association the hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V., who owned two-thirds of the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will be able to reach to half your stature. I have no alliances, I have no predilections; I will not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The whole universe is our own; for me the minds of men, for you their bodies. And as I shall be the first to die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of my plan, monseigneur?" "I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. Monsieur d'Herblay, you shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you please." "It is useless. Never shall I act except in such a manner that you will be the gainer; I shall never ascend the ladder of fortune, fame, or position, until I have first seen you placed upon the round of the ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts in the world are easily violated because the interests included in them incline more to one side than to another. With us, however, this will never be the case; I have no need of any guarantees." "And so--my dear brother--will disappear?" "Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest a crowned sovereign, he will awake a captive. Alone you will rule from that moment, and you will have no interest dearer and better than that of keeping me near you." "I believe it. There is my hand on it, Monsieur d'Herblay." "Allow me to kneel before you, sire, most respectfully. We will embrace each other on the day we shall have upon our temples, you the crown, I the tiara." "Still embrace me this very day also, and be, for and towards me, more than great, more than skillful, more than sublime in genius; be kind and indulgent--be my father!" Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to his voice; he fancied he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto unknown; but this impression was speedily removed. "His father!" he thought; "yes, his Holy Father." And they resumed their places in the carriage, which sped rapidly along the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte.

Chapter Ten: Crown and Tiara

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-ten-crown-and-tiara

Aramis is filled with suspense as he watches the prince wrestle with his decision. finally agrees and asks Aramis what he is expecting in return for placing the prince on the throne of France. Aramis elects to table that conversation for later. Instead, Aramis wants to prepare Philippe to on impersonating Louis in court life. Philippe proves to have memorized all the notes Aramis had sent him. As king, Philippe has plans for everyone: He promises to deliver La Valliere back to the arms of Raoul. In two months' time, Philippe promises that Aramis will be made a cardinal. He asks for Aramis's other ambitions. Aramis argues that Cardinal Richelieu's greatest mistake was allowing two kings of France - Richelieu and Louis - to try to rule as one. It's much better to have two separate thrones. Aramis says to Philippe: "I shall have given you the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter." In other words, Aramis wants to become pope. He is convinced that Philippe can rule the bodies of men and Aramis will take their souls. Philippe agrees to this plan. Aramis tells Philippe that Louis will be removed from his bed while he sleeps, and that Philippe will take his place. Aramis asks to kneel before Philippe, but says that they ought to embrace. He calls Aramis his holy father. The carriage begins moving and head to Vaux.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_10_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 11

chapter 11: the chateau de vaux le vicomte

{"name": "Chapter Eleven: The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-eleven-the-chateau-de-vaux-le-vicomte", "summary": "We learn that Vaux is a prestigious palace with an illustrious history. Fouquet wanders throughout his property making sure everything is perfect for the King's arrival. Aramis waves him over to where Le Brun is putting the finishing touches on a portrait of the King. It is perfect. Even Percerin admits as much. Fouquet is so happy that he kisses Le Brun. Fouquet receives word that the King's procession has been seen approaching. He confesses to Aramis that, if the King were willing, they could actually be friends. Aramis tells Fouquet to tell Colbert that, and maybe the man will take pity on him. Aramis leaves to change clothes. We learn that he is staying in the room directly above the King's. Porthos is staying next door.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XI. The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte. The chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from Melun, had been built by Fouquet in 1655, at a time when there was a scarcity of money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile, false, and useful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money in the construction of this palace, had found a means of gathering, as the result of his generous profusion, three illustrious men together: Levau, the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens; and Lebrun, the decorator of the apartments. If the Chateau de Vaux possessed a single fault with which it could be reproached, it was its grand, pretentious character. It is even at the present day proverbial to calculate the number of acres of roofing, the restoration of which would, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and narrowed as the epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates, supported by caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of the main building opening upon a vast, so-called, court of honor, inclosed by deep ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing could be more noble in appearance than the central forecourt raised upon the flight of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it four pavilions at the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rose majestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes ornamented with arabesques, and the pediments which crowned the pilasters, conferred richness and grace on every part of the building, while the domes which surmounted the whole added proportion and majesty. This mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to those royal residences which Wolsey fancied he was called upon to construct, in order to present them to his master from the fear of rendering him jealous. But if magnificence and splendor were displayed in any one particular part of this palace more than another,--if anything could be preferred to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to the sumptuousness of the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and statues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The _jets d'eau_, which were regarded as wonderful in 1653, are still so, even at the present time; the cascades awakened the admiration of kings and princes; and as for the famous grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions, the residence of that illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pelisson made converse with La Fontaine, we must be spared the description of all its beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,--we will enter the park, the trees of which are of eight years' growth only--that is to say, in their present position--and whose summits even yet, as they proudly tower aloft, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the rising sun. Lenotre had hastened the pleasure of the Maecenas of his period; all the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had been accelerated by careful culture and the richest plant-food. Every tree in the neighborhood which presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature had been taken up by its roots and transplanted to the park. Fouquet could well afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had bought up three villages and their appurtenances (to use a legal word) to increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that, for the purpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had divided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a thousand fountains into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery said a great many other things in his "Clelie," about this palace of Valterre, the charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser to send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves, than to refer them to "Clelie;" and yet there are as many leagues from Paris to Vaux, as there are volumes of the "Clelie." This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of the greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet's friends had transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their troops of sculptors and artists; not forgetting others with their ready-mended pens,--floods of impromptus were contemplated. The cascades, somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forth their waters brighter and clearer than crystal: they scattered over the bronze triton and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened like fire in the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in squadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that morning arrived, walked all through the palace with a calm, observant glance, in order to give his last orders, after his intendants had inspected everything. It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down its burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze: it raised the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened, on the walls, those magnificent peaches, of which the king, fifty years later, spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity of the finer sorts of peaches being complained of, in the beautiful gardens there--gardens which had cost France double the amount that had been expended on Vaux--the _great king_ observed to some one: "You are far too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet's peaches." Oh, fame! Oh, blazon of renown! Oh, glory of this earth! That very man whose judgment was so sound and accurate where merit was concerned--he who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for the remainder of his life in one of the state prisons--merely remembered the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty millions of francs in the fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in the writing-desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A peach--a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis work on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves,--this little vegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last surintendant of France. With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the _ensemble_ alone. In one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had been made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theater; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the _salons_, and the galleries, and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The surintendant joined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large picture scarcely finished. Applying himself, heart and soul, to his work, the painter Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue and the inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they were expecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had condescended to show beforehand to the bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh, and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor that had been bestowed upon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter's neck and embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy moment for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring, in Lebrun's painting, the suit that he had made for his majesty, a perfect _objet d'art_, as he called it, which was not to be matched except in the wardrobe of the surintendant. His distress and his exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given from the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the still empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had just perceived the advancing procession of the king and the queens. His majesty was entering Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers. "In an hour--" said Aramis to Fouquet. "In an hour!" replied the latter, sighing. "And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal _fetes!_" continued the bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his false smile. "Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask myself the same thing." "I will answer you in four and twenty hours, monseigneur. Assume a cheerful countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing." "Well, believe me or not, as you like, D'Herblay," said the surintendant, with a swelling heart, pointing at the _cortege_ of Louis, visible in the horizon, "he certainly loves me but very little, and I do not care much more for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that since he is approaching my house--" "Well, what?" "Well, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more sacred than ever for me; he is my acknowledged sovereign, and as such is very dear to me." "Dear? yes," said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray did, at a later period, with Louis XV. "Do not laugh, D'Herblay; I feel that, if he really seemed to wish it, I could love that young man." "You should not say that to me," returned Aramis, "but rather to M. Colbert." "To M. Colbert!" exclaimed Fouquet. "Why so?" "Because he would allow you a pension out of the king's privy purse, as soon as he becomes surintendant," said Aramis, preparing to leave as soon as he had dealt this last blow. "Where are you going?" returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look. "To my own apartment, in order to change my costume, monseigneur." "Whereabouts are you lodging, D'Herblay?" "In the blue room on the second story." "The room immediately over the king's room?" "Precisely." "You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!" "During the night, monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed." "And your servants?" "I have but one attendant with me. I find my reader quite sufficient. Adieu, monseigneur; do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for the arrival of the king." "We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and shall see your friend Du Vallon also?" "He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing." And Fouquet, bowing, with a smile, passed on like a commander-in-chief who pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has been signaled in sight. [2]

Chapter Eleven: The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-eleven-the-chateau-de-vaux-le-vicomte

We learn that Vaux is a prestigious palace with an illustrious history. Fouquet wanders throughout his property making sure everything is perfect for the King's arrival. Aramis waves him over to where Le Brun is putting the finishing touches on a portrait of the King. It is perfect. Even Percerin admits as much. Fouquet is so happy that he kisses Le Brun. Fouquet receives word that the King's procession has been seen approaching. He confesses to Aramis that, if the King were willing, they could actually be friends. Aramis tells Fouquet to tell Colbert that, and maybe the man will take pity on him. Aramis leaves to change clothes. We learn that he is staying in the room directly above the King's. Porthos is staying next door.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_11_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 12

chapter 12: the wine of melun

{"name": "Chapter Twelve: The Wine of Melun", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twelve-the-wine-of-melun", "summary": "The King hopes to pass through Melun very quickly and press onwards to Vaux. That way he has time later to see his mistress. Meanwhile, D'Artagnan is racking his brains trying to understand Aramis's suspicious actions. He concludes that it must all be for the purpose of overturning Colbert's power, to which D'Artagnan does not object. D'Artagnan resolves to catch Aramis alone and ask him point blank about his plans. D'Artagnan is very attentive to the king's military entourage, with the result that the king appears to be at the head of a small army. When they arrive at Melun, city officials start fussing over the King and making long speeches. The King is vexed, and asks who is responsible for the delay. D'Artagnan does not hesitate in pointing the finger to Colbert. The King gets angry when he realizes that there will no time left for with La Valliere. D'Artagnan is nervous as it typically requires four hours for the King's entire household to enter Vaux. Etiquette demands that the King arrive in Vaux accompanied by men carrying shiny pointy objects, but D'Artagnan understands that the King is impatient. He decides to throw the problem to Colbert. Colbert throws the problem to the King, who promptly throws it to the Queen, who throws it right back to the King. D'Artagnan cuts in with a clever idea. He suggests that the King enter Vaux with only the captain of the guards as a mark of friendship and esteem for Fouquet. The King is very pleased with this idea. So is D'Artagnan - this way he gains some time to speak with Aramis. At about seven in the evening, the King and D'Artagnan enter Vaux and are received by Fouquet, who has been waiting for the last half hour.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XII. The Wine of Melun. The king had, in point of fact, entered Melun with the intention of merely passing through the city. The youthful monarch was most eagerly anxious for amusements; only twice during the journey had he been able to catch a glimpse of La Valliere, and, suspecting that his only opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the gardens, and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone through, he had been very desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as possible. But he reckoned without his captain of the musketeers, and without M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who could not be consoled at the departure of Ulysses, our Gascon could not console himself for not having guessed why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the king's new costumes. "There is not a doubt," he said to himself, "that my friend the bishop of Vannes had some motive in that;" and then he began to rack his brains most uselessly. D'Artagnan, so intimately acquainted with all the court intrigues, who knew the position of Fouquet better than even Fouquet himself did, had conceived the strangest fancies and suspicions at the announcement of the _fete_, which would have ruined a wealthy man, and which became impossible, utter madness even, for a man so poor as he was. And then, the presence of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle, and been nominated by Monsieur Fouquet inspector-general of all the arrangements; his perseverance in mixing himself up with all the surintendant's affairs; his visits to Baisemeaux; all this suspicious singularity of conduct had excessively troubled and tormented D'Artagnan during the last two weeks. "With men of Aramis's stamp," he said, "one is never the stronger except sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier, there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has covered his cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis's object possibly be?" And D'Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. "What does it matter to me, after all," he continued, "if his only object is to overthrow M. Colbert? And what else can he be after?" And D'Artagnan rubbed his forehead--that fertile land, whence the plowshare of his nails had turned up so many and such admirable ideas in his time. He, at first, thought of talking the matter over with Colbert, but his friendship for Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too strictly. He revolted at the bare idea of such a thing, and, besides, he hated the financier too cordially. Then, again, he wished to unburden his mind to the king; but yet the king would not be able to understand the suspicions which had not even a shadow of reality at their base. He resolved to address himself to Aramis, direct, the first time he met him. "I will get him," said the musketeer, "between a couple of candles, suddenly, and when he least expects it, I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me--What will he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something, for _mordioux!_ there is something in it, I know." Somewhat calmer, D'Artagnan made every preparation for the journey, and took the greatest care that the military household of the king, as yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well officered and well disciplined in its meager and limited proportions. The result was that, through the captain's arrangements, the king, on arriving at Melun, saw himself at the head of both the musketeers and Swiss guards, as well as a picket of the French guards. It might almost have been called a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with great delight: he even wished they had been a third more in number. "But why?" said the king. "In order to show greater honor to M. Fouquet," replied Colbert. "In order to ruin him the sooner," thought D'Artagnan. When this little army appeared before Melun, the chief magistrates came out to meet the king, and to present him with the keys of the city, and invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville, in order to partake of the wine of honor. The king, who expected to pass through the city and to proceed to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from vexation. "Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?" muttered the king, between his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long address. "Not I, certainly," replied D'Artagnan, "but I believe it was M. Colbert." Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, "What was M. d'Artagnan good enough to say?" "I was good enough to remark that it was you who stopped the king's progress, so that he might taste the _vin de Brie_. Was I right?" "Quite so, monsieur." "In that case, then, it was you whom the king called some name or other." "What name?" "I hardly know; but wait a moment--idiot, I think it was--no, no, it was fool or dolt. Yes; his majesty said that the man who had thought of the _vin de Melun_ was something of the sort." D'Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his mustache; M. Colbert's large head seemed to become larger and larger than ever. D'Artagnan, seeing how ugly anger made him, did not stop half-way. The orator still went on with his speech, while the king's color was visibly increasing. "_Mordioux!_" said the musketeer, coolly, "the king is going to have an attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the deuce did you get hold of that idea, Monsieur Colbert? You have no luck." "Monsieur," said the financier, drawing himself up, "my zeal for the king's service inspired me with the idea." "Bah!" "Monsieur, Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and which it would be imprudent to displease." "There, now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one idea in your idea." "What was that, monsieur?" "That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us." This was a home-stroke, hard enough in all conscience. Colbert was completely thrown out of the saddle by it, and retired, thoroughly discomfited. Fortunately, the speech was now at an end; the king drank the wine which was presented to him, and then every one resumed the progress through the city. The king bit his lips in anger, for the evening was closing in, and all hope of a walk with La Valliere was at an end. In order that the whole of the king's household should enter Vaux, four hours at least were necessary, owing to the different arrangements. The king, therefore, who was boiling with impatience, hurried forward as much as possible, in order to reach it before nightfall. But, at the moment he was setting off again, other and fresh difficulties arose. "Is not the king going to sleep at Melun?" said Colbert, in a low tone of voice, to D'Artagnan. M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address himself in that manner to the chief of the musketeers; for the latter guessed that the king's intention was very far from that of remaining where he was. D'Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux except he were well and strongly accompanied; and desired that his majesty would not enter except with all the escort. On the other hand, he felt that these delays would irritate that impatient monarch beyond measure. In what way could he possibly reconcile these difficulties? D'Artagnan took up Colbert's remark, and determined to repeated it to the king. "Sire," he said, "M. Colbert has been asking me if your majesty does not intend to sleep at Melun." "Sleep at Melun! What for?" exclaimed Louis XIV. "Sleep at Melun! Who, in Heaven's name, can have thought of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?" "It was simply," replied Colbert, quickly, "the fear of causing your majesty the least delay; for, according to established etiquette, you cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal residences, until the soldiers' quarters have been marked out by the quartermaster, and the garrison properly distributed." D'Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his mustache to conceal his vexation; and the queens were not less interested. They were fatigued, and would have preferred to go to rest without proceeding any farther; more especially, in order to prevent the king walking about in the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court, for, if etiquette required the princesses to remain within their own rooms, the ladies of honor, as soon as they had performed the services required of them, had no restrictions placed upon them, but were at liberty to walk about as they pleased. It will easily be conjectured that all these rival interests, gathering together in vapors, necessarily produced clouds, and that the clouds were likely to be followed by a tempest. The king had no mustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting the handle of his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How could he get out of it? D'Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible, and Colbert as sulky as he could. Who was there he could get in a passion with? "We will consult the queen," said Louis XIV., bowing to the royal ladies. And this kindness of consideration softened Maria Theresa's heart, who, being of a kind and generous disposition, when left to her own free-will, replied: "I shall be delighted to do whatever your majesty wishes." "How long will it take us to get to Vaux?" inquired Anne of Austria, in slow and measured accents, placing her hand upon her bosom, where the seat of her pain lay. "An hour for your majesty's carriages," said D'Artagnan; "the roads are tolerably good." The king looked at him. "And a quarter of an hour for the king," he hastened to add. "We should arrive by daylight?" said Louis XIV. "But the billeting of the king's military escort," objected Colbert, softly, "will make his majesty lose all the advantage of his speed, however quick he may be." "Double ass that you are!" thought D'Artagnan; "if I had any interest or motive in demolishing your credit with the king, I could do it in ten minutes. If I were in the king's place," he added aloud, "I should, in going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me; I should go to him as a friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of the guards; I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should be invested with a still more sacred character by doing so." Delight sparkled in the king's eyes. "That is indeed a very sensible suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends; the gentlemen who are with the carriages can go slowly: but we who are mounted will ride on." And he rode off, accompanied by all those who were mounted. Colbert hid his ugly head behind his horse's neck. "I shall be quits," said D'Artagnan, as he galloped along, "by getting a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honor. _Mordioux!_ I have said so, and it must be so." And this was the way how, towards seven o'clock in the evening, without announcing his arrival by the din of trumpets, and without even his advanced guard, without out-riders or musketeers, the king presented himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet, who had been informed of his royal guest's approach, had been waiting for the last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and his friends.

Chapter Twelve: The Wine of Melun

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twelve-the-wine-of-melun

The King hopes to pass through Melun very quickly and press onwards to Vaux. That way he has time later to see his mistress. Meanwhile, D'Artagnan is racking his brains trying to understand Aramis's suspicious actions. He concludes that it must all be for the purpose of overturning Colbert's power, to which D'Artagnan does not object. D'Artagnan resolves to catch Aramis alone and ask him point blank about his plans. D'Artagnan is very attentive to the king's military entourage, with the result that the king appears to be at the head of a small army. When they arrive at Melun, city officials start fussing over the King and making long speeches. The King is vexed, and asks who is responsible for the delay. D'Artagnan does not hesitate in pointing the finger to Colbert. The King gets angry when he realizes that there will no time left for with La Valliere. D'Artagnan is nervous as it typically requires four hours for the King's entire household to enter Vaux. Etiquette demands that the King arrive in Vaux accompanied by men carrying shiny pointy objects, but D'Artagnan understands that the King is impatient. He decides to throw the problem to Colbert. Colbert throws the problem to the King, who promptly throws it to the Queen, who throws it right back to the King. D'Artagnan cuts in with a clever idea. He suggests that the King enter Vaux with only the captain of the guards as a mark of friendship and esteem for Fouquet. The King is very pleased with this idea. So is D'Artagnan - this way he gains some time to speak with Aramis. At about seven in the evening, the King and D'Artagnan enter Vaux and are received by Fouquet, who has been waiting for the last half hour.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_12_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 13

chapter 13: nectar and ambrosia

{"name": "Chapter Thirteen: Nectar and Ambrosia", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirteen-nectar-and-ambrosia", "summary": "The royal ladies arrive at about eight o'clock. All the delights of Vaux are on full display. Rather than being pleased, the King begins to sulk, because his own palace pales in comparison to Vaux. At the banquet, all kinds of wonderful food are served. Anne of Austria looks down her nose at everything, and Maria Theresa, the young queen, eats well and happily compliments all the dishes. Fouquet and his wife personally serve the royals. As soon as he is full, the King is annoyed again. Everyone seems to like Fouquet. After dinner, the King goes to the gardens and is able to take La Valliere by the hand and say \"I love you.\" The evening is complete. The King is taken to the chamber of Morpheus, a magnificent bedchamber decorated by Le Brun. He asks to see Colbert before going to bed.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XIII. Nectar and Ambrosia. M. Fouquet held the stirrup of the king, who, having dismounted, bowed most graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him, which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the king's part, carried respectfully to his lips. The king wished to wait in the first courtyard for the arrival of the carriages, nor had he long to wait, for the roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent, and a stone would hardly have been found of the size of an egg the whole way from Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a carpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight o'clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet, and at the moment they made their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from every quarter, trees, vases, and marble statues. This species of enchantment lasted until their majesties had retired into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects which the chronicler has heaped up, or rather embalmed, in his recital, at the risk of rivaling the brain-born scenes of romancers; these splendors whereby night seemed vanquished and nature corrected, together with every delight and luxury combined for the satisfaction of all the senses, as well as the imagination, Fouquet did in real truth offer to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat of which no monarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal. We do not intend to describe the grand banquet, at which the royal guests were present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and more than magic transformations and metamorphoses; it will be enough for our purpose to depict the countenance the king assumed, which, from being gay, soon wore a very gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He remembered his own residence, royal though it was, and the mean and indifferent style of luxury that prevailed there, which comprised but little more than what was merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own personal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the older furniture and plate of Henry II., of Francis I., and of Louis XI., were but historic monuments of earlier days; nothing but specimens of art, the relics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet, the value of the article was as much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate from a gold service, which artists in his own employ had modeled and cast for him alone. Fouquet drank wines of which the king of France did not even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more valuable than the entire royal cellar. What, too, was to be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures, the servants and officers, of every description, of his household? What of the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order; stiff formality by personal, unrestrained comfort; the happiness and contentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed the host? The perfect swarm of busily engaged persons moving about noiselessly; the multitude of guests,--who were, however, even less numerous than the servants who waited on them,--the myriad of exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of dazzling light, the masses of unknown flowers of which the hot-houses had been despoiled, redundant with luxuriance of unequaled scent and beauty; the perfect harmony of the surroundings, which, indeed, was no more than the prelude of the promised _fete_, charmed all who were there; and they testified their admiration over and over again, not by voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention, those two languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master powerful enough to restrain them. As for the king, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at the queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride was superior to that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with which she treated everything handed to her. The young queen, kind-hearted by nature and curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good appetite, and asked the names of the strange fruits as they were placed upon the table. Fouquet replied that he was not aware of their names. The fruits came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them himself, having an intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic fruits and plants. The king felt and appreciated the delicacy of the replies, but was only the more humiliated; he thought the queen a little too familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a little too much, in being too proud and haughty; his chief anxiety, however, was himself, that he might remain cold and distant in his behavior, bordering lightly the limits of supreme disdain or simple admiration. But Fouquet had foreseen all this; he was, in fact, one of those men who foresee everything. The king had expressly declared that, so long as he remained under Fouquet's roof, he did not wish his own different repasts to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would, consequently, dine with the rest of society; but by the thoughtful attention of the surintendant, the king's dinner was served up separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the general table; the dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of which was composed, comprised everything the king liked and generally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse--he, indeed, who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom--for saying that he was not hungry. Nay, M. Fouquet did even better still; he certainly, in obedience to the king's expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as the soups were served, he arose and personally waited on the king, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the queen-mother's armchair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this excess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The queen ate a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king ate of everything, saying to M. Fouquet: "It is impossible, monsieur le surintendant, to dine better anywhere." Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to devour the dishes spread before them with such enthusiasm that it looked as though a cloud of Egyptian locusts was settling down on green and growing crops. As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the king became morose and overgloomed again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he fancied he had previously manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet. D'Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations which he turned to good profit. When the supper was finished, the king expressed a wish not to lose the promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she had placed herself at the orders of the lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and lake with her own bright and quasi-phosphorescent light. The air was strangely soft and balmy; the daintily shell-gravelled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the feet. The _fete_ was complete in every respect, for the king, having met La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her hand and say, "I love you," without any one overhearing him except M. d'Artagnan, who followed, and M. Fouquet, who preceded him. The dreamy night of magical enchantments stole smoothly on. The king having requested to be shown to his room, there was immediately a movement in every direction. The queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by them music of theorbos and lutes; the king found his musketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had brought them on from Melun and had invited them to supper. D'Artagnan's suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a _fete_ given by a man who was in every sense of the word a king. "M. Fouquet," he said, "is the man for me." The king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of Morpheus, of which we owe some cursory description to our readers. It was the handsomest and largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy as well as the unhappy dreams which Morpheus inflicts on kings as well as on other men. Everything that sleep gives birth to that is lovely, its fairy scenes, its flowers and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or profound repose of the senses, had the painter elaborated on his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned chalice, the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper; wizards and phantoms with terrific masks, those half-dim shadows more alarming than the approach of fire or the somber face of midnight, these, and such as these, he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures. No sooner had the king entered his room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause of it, the king replied, as pale as death: "I am sleepy, that is all." "Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once?" "No; I have to talk with a few persons first," said the king. "Will you have the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him." Fouquet bowed and left the room.

Chapter Thirteen: Nectar and Ambrosia

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirteen-nectar-and-ambrosia

The royal ladies arrive at about eight o'clock. All the delights of Vaux are on full display. Rather than being pleased, the King begins to sulk, because his own palace pales in comparison to Vaux. At the banquet, all kinds of wonderful food are served. Anne of Austria looks down her nose at everything, and Maria Theresa, the young queen, eats well and happily compliments all the dishes. Fouquet and his wife personally serve the royals. As soon as he is full, the King is annoyed again. Everyone seems to like Fouquet. After dinner, the King goes to the gardens and is able to take La Valliere by the hand and say "I love you." The evening is complete. The King is taken to the chamber of Morpheus, a magnificent bedchamber decorated by Le Brun. He asks to see Colbert before going to bed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_14_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 15

chapter 15: colbert

{"name": "Chapter Fifteen: Colbert", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifteen-colbert", "summary": "The next day, Vaux is again overflowing with various delights, including a comedy in which Moliere is one of the chief actors. After dinner, the court settles down for a game of cards. The King wins a thousand pistols, and Fouquet somehow manages to lose ten thousand, leaving everyone happy. The royal party heads for a walk in the park. The King is especially keen to see La Valliere again. Her love for the King allows La Valliere to see that somebody is in danger of incurring his wrath. La Valliere does not approve and becomes saddened. The King asks her why she looks so sad. She asks why he is sad. He tells here that he is not sad, but rather humiliated by Fouquet's behavior. He asks her if she is on Fouquet's side. She says no, but asks for the source of the King's information. The King beckons Colbert over and insists that he lay out the indictment against Fouquet. He wants La Valliere to approve of his actions. It becomes clear the King is planning to arrest Fouquet. La Valliere protests; it is dishonorable to arrest Fouquet under his own roof. Colbert tries to disagree, but fails. The King, overcome with love for his mistress, kisses her hand. Colbert despairs, but then remembers he has one more hand to play. As La Valliere leaves, Colbert drops a piece of paper on the floor behind her. He points it out to the King, saying that La Valliere dropped it. The King picks it up as torches arrive to flood the area with light.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XV. Colbert. History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various events of the following day, of the splendid _fetes_ given by the surintendant to his sovereign. Nothing but amusement and delight was allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day; there was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy, too, in which, to his great amazement, Porthos recognized "M. Coquelin de Voliere" as one of the actors, in the piece called "Les Facheux." Full of preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then administered to him, the king, during the whole of the day, so brilliant in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which all the wonders of the "Arabian Night's Entertainments" seemed to be reproduced for his especial amusement--the king, we say, showed himself cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon his face; every one who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as the source becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water that increase its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the king's heart. Towards the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk, concluded that the event he was expecting would not be long before it was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the bishop of Vannes, and had he received for every annoyance which he inflicted on the king a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have done better. During the whole of the day the king, who, in all probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Valliere's society as actively as he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet. The evening came. The king had expressed a wish not to walk in the park until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The king won a thousand pistoles, and, having won them, put them in his pocket, and then rose, saying, "And now, gentlemen, to the park." He found the ladies of the court were already there. The king, we have before observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket; but M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs' profit to divide, a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and the officers of the king's household the most joyous countenances in the world. It was not the same, however, with the king's face; for, notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction. Colbert was waiting for or upon him at the corner of one of the avenues; he was most probably waiting there in consequence of a rendezvous which had been given him by the king, as Louis XIV., who had avoided him, or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together. But La Valliere, too, had observed the king's gloomy aspect and kindling glances; she had remarked this--and as nothing which lay hidden or smoldering in his heart was hidden from the gaze of her affection, she understood that this repressed wrath menaced some one; she prepared to withstand the current of his vengeance, and intercede like an angel of mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of the emotion she had divined, she accordingly presented herself to the king with an embarrassed aspect, which in his then disposition of mind the king interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone--nearly alone, inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces--the king advanced towards La Valliere and took her by the hand. "Mademoiselle," he said to her, "should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you were indisposed? for you seem to breathe as if you were oppressed by some secret cause of uneasiness, and your eyes are filled with tears." "Oh! sire, if I be indeed so, and if my eyes are indeed full of tears, I am sorrowful only at the sadness which seems to oppress your majesty." "My sadness? You are mistaken, mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I experience." "What is it, then, sire?" "Humiliation." "Humiliation? oh! sire, what a word for you to use!" "I mean, mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and judge whether I am not eclipsed--I, the king of France--before the monarch of these wide domains. Oh!" he continued, clenching his hands and teeth, "when I think that this king--" "Well, sire?" said Louise, terrified. "--That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who grows proud and self-sufficient upon the strength of property that belongs to me, and which he has stolen. And therefore I am about to change this impudent minister's _fete_ into sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance." "Oh! your majesty--" "Well, mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet's part?" said Louis, impatiently. "No, sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your majesty has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court." Louis XIV. made a sign for Colbert to approach. "Speak, Monsieur Colbert," said the young prince, "for I almost believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere has need of your assistance before she can put any faith in the king's word. Tell mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you, mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be long." Why did Louis XIV. insist upon it in such a manner? A very simple reason--his heart was not at rest, his mind was not thoroughly convinced; he imagined there lay some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue behind these thirteen millions of francs; and he wished that the pure heart of La Valliere, which had revolted at the idea of theft or robbery, should approve--even were it only by a single word--the resolution he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated before carrying into execution. "Speak, monsieur," said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced; "speak, since the king wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?" "Oh! not very heinous, mademoiselle," he returned, "a mere abuse of confidence." "Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you have related it, leave us, and go and inform M. d'Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him." "M. d'Artagnan, sire!" exclaimed La Valliere; "but why send for M. d'Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me." "_Pardieu!_ in order to arrest this haughty, arrogant Titan who, true to his menace, threatens to scale my heaven." "Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?" "Ah! does that surprise you?" "In his own house!" "Why not? If he be guilty, he is as guilty in his own house as anywhere else." "M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign." "In plain truth, mademoiselle, it seems as if you were defending this traitor." Colbert began to chuckle silently. The king turned round at the sound of this suppressed mirth. "Sire," said La Valliere, "it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is yourself." "Me! you are defending me?" "Sire, you would dishonor yourself if you were to give such an order." "Dishonor myself!" murmured the king, turning pale with anger. "In plain truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say." "If I do, sire, my only motive is that of serving your majesty," replied the noble-hearted girl: "for that I would risk, I would sacrifice my very life, without the least reserve." Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Valliere, that timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning imposed silence upon him. "Monsieur," she said, "when the king acts well, whether, in doing so, he does either myself or those who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the king to confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should tell him so." "But it appears to me, mademoiselle," Colbert ventured to say, "that I too love the king." "Yes, monseigneur, we both love him, but each in a different manner," replied La Valliere, with such an accent that the heart of the young king was powerfully affected by it. "I love him so deeply, that the whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the king himself does not doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the least of all his servants. But whoso touches his honor assails my life. Therefore, I repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own roof." Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say." "Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so; and, from the moment the king said, 'I think so,' I have no occasion for other lips to say, 'I affirm it.' But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, 'M. Fouquet's person is sacred to the king because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.'" La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself the king could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the king breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere. "Mademoiselle," he said, gently, "why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again?" "Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?" "Should he escape, and take to flight?" exclaimed Colbert. "Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king's eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the king's honor and glory appear, compared with such unnecessary misery and shame." Louis kissed La Valliere's hand, as he knelt before her. "I am lost," thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up again. "Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!--not yet," he said to himself. And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast, with all the ardor of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his pocket-book and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter, somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full of hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king formed together--a group revealed but for a moment, as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Valliere's white dress. "Leave me, Louise," he said, "for some one is coming." "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming," cried Colbert, to expedite the young girl's departure. Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the king, who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, "Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere has let something fall." "What is it?" inquired the king. "A paper--a letter--something white; look there, sire." The king stooped down immediately and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand, as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived, inundating the blackness of the scene with a flood of light as bight as day.

Chapter Fifteen: Colbert

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

The next day, Vaux is again overflowing with various delights, including a comedy in which Moliere is one of the chief actors. After dinner, the court settles down for a game of cards. The King wins a thousand pistols, and Fouquet somehow manages to lose ten thousand, leaving everyone happy. The royal party heads for a walk in the park. The King is especially keen to see La Valliere again. Her love for the King allows La Valliere to see that somebody is in danger of incurring his wrath. La Valliere does not approve and becomes saddened. The King asks her why she looks so sad. She asks why he is sad. He tells here that he is not sad, but rather humiliated by Fouquet's behavior. He asks her if she is on Fouquet's side. She says no, but asks for the source of the King's information. The King beckons Colbert over and insists that he lay out the indictment against Fouquet. He wants La Valliere to approve of his actions. It becomes clear the King is planning to arrest Fouquet. La Valliere protests; it is dishonorable to arrest Fouquet under his own roof. Colbert tries to disagree, but fails. The King, overcome with love for his mistress, kisses her hand. Colbert despairs, but then remembers he has one more hand to play. As La Valliere leaves, Colbert drops a piece of paper on the floor behind her. He points it out to the King, saying that La Valliere dropped it. The King picks it up as torches arrive to flood the area with light.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_15_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 16

chapter 16: jealousy

{"name": "Chapter Sixteen: Jealousy", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-sixteen-jealousy", "summary": "The fireworks begin. King Louis XIV reads the piece of paper, which he assumes is a love note for himself. Wrong. It is a letter from Fouquet to La Valliere proclaiming his love for her. The King is angry. Fouquet notices the change in the King's mood and asks for the source of the problem. The King says \"nothing\" and heads back to the chateau. The entire court is obliged to follow. Fouquet assumes the King has had a quarrel with La Valliere. Fouquet sends for D'Artagnan. The King requests that Fouquet be arrested. D'Artagnan is astonished. Finally, he asks the King for a written order, mindful that the King may later change his mind. D'Artagnan protests the arrest. Before he leaves, the King asks D'Artagnan to keep it a private affair. D'Artagnan says that is a rather difficult proposition. The King then asks D'Artagnan to simply watch over Fouquet until the morning, when a final decision will be made. The King dismisses D'Artagnan, then paces all around his room, fuming. He now assumes La Valliere defended Fouquet because she loves him too. The King has an fit, knocks over a table, and throws himself onto his bed.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XVI. Jealousy. The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention every one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV.'s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king towards the chateau, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with a prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays on every side, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and _feted_ by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out to Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still stronger magnet of love drew the young prince's attention towards the _souvenir_ of his idol; and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighboring villages loud cheers of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle La Valliere had destined for him. But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed so brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read into his heart, now torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity, kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, he, still too weak to hide his sufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the king's feet, the reader has doubtlessly guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere's heart. Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was far from guessing the evil; Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young prince from his wrathful reverie. "What is the matter, sire?" inquired the superintendent, with an expression of graceful interest. Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing." "I am afraid your majesty is suffering?" "I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is nothing." And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court followed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV., but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to console him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king, when the latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the king had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark, approaching to amiability, which the king could find to say to M. Fouquet, as he took leave of him, were in these words, "M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d'Artagnan to come here." But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly willing to order M. Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d'Ancre; and so he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of those royal smiles which, like lightning-flashes, indicated _coups d'etat_. Fouquet took the king's hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips. Five minutes afterwards, D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV.'s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all their ears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time to approach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," he exclaimed, "that no one enters here." "Very good, sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time past analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said, "Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?" "How many men have you here?" inquired the king, without making any other reply to the question addressed to him. "What for, sire?" "How many men have you, I say?" repeated the king, stamping upon the ground with his foot. "I have the musketeers." "Well; and what others?" "Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss." "How many men will be required to--" "To do what, sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes. "To arrest M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan fell back a step. "To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth. "Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?" exclaimed the king, in tones of cold, vindictive passion. "I never say that anything is impossible," replied D'Artagnan, wounded to the quick. "Very well; do it, then." D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door; it was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when he reached it he suddenly paused, and said, "Your majesty will forgive me, but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions." "For what purpose--and since when has the king's word been insufficient for you?" "Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger, may possibly change when the feeling changes." "A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besides that?" "Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately, others have not," D'Artagnan replied, impertinently. The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the face of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. "What is your thought?" he exclaimed. "This, sire," replied D'Artagnan: "you cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us that the king was wrong to lose his temper." "Wrong to lose his temper!" cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice. "Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temper at times, in Heaven's name?" "The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their temper except when under the protection of their own palace." "The king is master wherever he may be." "That is a flattering, complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king is at home in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it." The king bit his lips, but said nothing. "Can it be possible?" said D'Artagnan; "here is a man who is positively ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him arrested! _Mordioux!_ Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people treated me in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts of fireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send myself and everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done." "Go," said the king; "but have you men enough?" "Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest M. Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is like drinking a glass of wormwood; one makes an ugly face, and that is all." "If he defends himself?" "He! it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am sure that if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, he would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination as this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once." "Stay," said the king; "do not make his arrest a public affair." "That will be more difficult." "Why so?" "Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, 'In the king's name, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess-board, in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from his guests, and keep him a prisoner for you, without one of them, alas! having heard anything about it; that, indeed, is a genuine difficulty, the greatest of all, in truth; and I hardly see how it is to be done." "You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much sooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people who prevent me doing what I wish." "I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you indeed decided?" "Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind by to-morrow morning." "That shall be done, sire." "And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now leave me to myself." "You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing his last shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his whole mind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offense. "No, no one," he said; "no one here! Leave me." D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his own hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace, like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the colored streamers and the iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in the expression of his violent feelings. "Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most attached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling--love itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterest reflections. "A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love. "A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as he continued, "He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He destroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know. That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, but he shall forthwith fall! I hate him--I hate him--I hate him!" and as he pronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting violently, over and over again, and then rose like one in an epileptic fit. "To-morrow! to-morrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured, "when the sun rises, no other rival shall that brilliant king of space possess but me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the abject ruin my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess at last and at least that I am indeed greater than he." The king, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the very bitterness of anger, almost weeping, and half-suffocated, he threw himself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in his extremity of passion, trying to find repose of body at least there. The bed creaked beneath his weight, and with the exception of a few broken sounds, emerging, or, one might say, exploding, from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon reigned in the chamber of Morpheus.

Chapter Sixteen: Jealousy

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

The fireworks begin. King Louis XIV reads the piece of paper, which he assumes is a love note for himself. Wrong. It is a letter from Fouquet to La Valliere proclaiming his love for her. The King is angry. Fouquet notices the change in the King's mood and asks for the source of the problem. The King says "nothing" and heads back to the chateau. The entire court is obliged to follow. Fouquet assumes the King has had a quarrel with La Valliere. Fouquet sends for D'Artagnan. The King requests that Fouquet be arrested. D'Artagnan is astonished. Finally, he asks the King for a written order, mindful that the King may later change his mind. D'Artagnan protests the arrest. Before he leaves, the King asks D'Artagnan to keep it a private affair. D'Artagnan says that is a rather difficult proposition. The King then asks D'Artagnan to simply watch over Fouquet until the morning, when a final decision will be made. The King dismisses D'Artagnan, then paces all around his room, fuming. He now assumes La Valliere defended Fouquet because she loves him too. The King has an fit, knocks over a table, and throws himself onto his bed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_16_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 17

chapter 17: high treason

{"name": "Chapter Seventeen: High Treason", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-seventeen-high-treason", "summary": "Finally, the King quiets down, and falls asleep. The bed begins to sink and all the lovely furnishings of the chamber of Morpheus disappear. The King is convinced he is having a bad dream. Finally, he realizes he is awake. On either side of him is an armed and masked man. The King demands to know what is going on. He learns that he is in a tunnel. The men ask him to follow. If not, he will be rolled into a cloak and carried. The King assumes they are assassins. He follows them down the tunnel. The men lead Louis to a carriage. They go straight to the Bastille. It is now about three in the morning. They send for Baisemeaux. We learn that one of the masked men is Aramis. Aramis apologizes to Baisemeaux for the confusion - it appears that Seldon, he tells the governor, was the prisoner that ought to have been released, and he is bringing Marchiali back. Aramis hands Baisemeaux the original order of release. The poor man is deeply confused. To prevent further confusion, Aramis tears up the original order for Marchiali's release. Aramis then demands Seldon's release. Aramis whispers to Baisemeaux that Marchiali's first move as a free man was to pretend to be the King of France. He warns Baisemeaux that Marchiali is likely to persist in these delusions. We learn the other masked man is Porthos. Baisemeaux takes the King and puts him in the cell previously occupied by Philippe. Before leaving, Aramis tells Baisemeaux that no one is to enter the prisoner's cell without express permission from the King. Porthos and Aramis head back to Vaux.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XVII. High Treason. The ungovernable fury which took possession of the king at the sight and at the perusal of Fouquet's letter to La Valliere by degrees subsided into a feeling of pain and extreme weariness. Youth, invigorated by health and lightness of spirits, requiring soon that what it loses should be immediately restored--youth knows not those endless, sleepless nights which enable us to realize the fable of the vulture unceasingly feeding on Prometheus. In cases where the man of middle life, in his acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old, in their state of natural exhaustion, find incessant augmentation of their bitter sorrow, a young man, surprised by the sudden appearance of misfortune, weakens himself in sighs, and groans, and tears, directly struggling with his grief, and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with whom he is engaged. Once overthrown, his struggles cease. Louis could not hold out more than a few minutes, at the end of which he had ceased to clench his hands, and scorch in fancy with his looks the invisible objects of his hatred; he soon ceased to attack with his violent imprecations not M. Fouquet alone, but even La Valliere herself; from fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he had thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his bed, his nerveless arms fell quietly down; his head lay languidly on his pillow; his limbs, exhausted with excessive emotion, still trembled occasionally, agitated by muscular contractions; while from his breast faint and infrequent sighs still issued. Morpheus, the tutelary deity of the apartment, towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger and reconciled by his tears, showered down upon him the sleep-inducing poppies with which his hands are ever filled; so presently the monarch closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as it often happens in that first sleep, so light and gentle, which raises the body above the couch, and the soul above the earth--it seemed to him, we say, as if the god Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes resembling human eyes; that something shone brightly, and moved to and fro in the dome above the sleeper; that the crowd of terrible dreams which thronged together in his brain, and which were interrupted for a moment, half revealed a human face, with a hand resting against the mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And strange enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the king himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at his own face reflected in a mirror; with the exception, however, that the face was saddened by a feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him as if the dome gradually retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance became more and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as that by which a vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the immovableness of the bed. Doubtless the king was dreaming, and in this dream the crown of gold, which fastened the curtains together, seemed to recede from his vision, just as the dome, to which it remained suspended, had done, so that the winged genius which, with both its hand, supported the crown, seemed, though vainly so, to call upon the king, who was fast disappearing from it. The bed still sunk. Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this cruel hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded away into darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable in its nature seemed to infect the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor velvet hangings, were visible any longer, nothing but walls of a dull gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker every moment. And yet the bed still continued to descend, and after a minute, which seemed in its duration almost an age to the king, it reached a stratum of air, black and chill as death, and then it stopped. The king could no longer see the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can see the light of day. "I am under the influence of some atrocious dream," he thought. "It is time to awaken from it. Come! let me wake." Every one has experienced the sensation the above remark conveys; there is hardly a person who, in the midst of a nightmare whose influence is suffocating, has not said to himself, by the help of that light which still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished, "It is nothing but a dream, after all." This was precisely what Louis XIV. said to himself; but when he said, "Come, come! wake up," he perceived that not only was he already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open also. And then he looked all round him. On his right hand and on his left two armed men stood in stolid silence, each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face covered with a mask; one of them held a small lamp in his hand, whose glimmering light revealed the saddest picture a king could look upon. Louis could not help saying to himself that his dream still lasted, and that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his arms or to say something aloud; he darted from his bed, and found himself upon the damp, moist ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the lamp in his hand, he said: "What is this, monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?" "It is no jest," replied in a deep voice the masked figure that held the lantern. "Do you belong to M. Fouquet?" inquired the king, greatly astonished at his situation. "It matters very little to whom we belong," said the phantom; "we are your masters now, that is sufficient." The king, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other masked figure. "If this is a comedy," he said, "you will tell M. Fouquet that I find it unseemly and improper, and that I command it should cease." The second masked person to whom the king had addressed himself was a man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and motionless as any block of marble. "Well!" added the king, stamping his foot, "you do not answer!" "We do not answer you, my good monsieur," said the giant, in a stentorian voice, "because there is nothing to say." "At least, tell me what you want," exclaimed Louis, folding his arms with a passionate gesture. "You will know by and by," replied the man who held the lamp. "In the meantime tell me where I am." "Look." Louis looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the masked figure raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but the damp walls which glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the snail. "Oh--oh!--a dungeon," cried the king. "No, a subterranean passage." "Which leads--?" "Will you be good enough to follow us?" "I shall not stir from hence!" cried the king. "If you are obstinate, my dear young friend," replied the taller of the two, "I will lift you up in my arms, and roll you up in your own cloak, and if you should happen to be stifled, why--so much the worse for you." As he said this, he disengaged from beneath his cloak a hand of which Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession, on the day when he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak. The king dreaded violence, for he could well believe that the two men into whose power he had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and that they would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities, if necessary. He shook his head and said: "It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then." Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who carried the lantern walked first, the king followed him, while the second masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palaces of Ann Radcliffe's creation. All these windings and turnings, during which the king heard the sound of running water _over his head_, ended at last in a long corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp opened the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his girdle, where, during the whole of the brief journey, the king had heard them rattle. As soon as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the balmy odors that trees exhale in hot summer nights. He paused, hesitatingly, for a moment or two; but the huge sentinel who followed him thrust him out of the subterranean passage. "Another blow," said the king, turning towards the one who had just had the audacity to touch his sovereign; "what do you intend to do with the king of France?" "Try to forget that word," replied the man with the lamp, in a tone which as little admitted of a reply as one of the famous decrees of Minos. "You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the words that you have just made use of," said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his companion handed to him; "but the king is too kind-hearted." Louis, at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if he meditated flight; but the giant's hand was in a moment placed on his shoulder, and fixed him motionless where he stood. "But tell me, at least, where we are going," said the king. "Come," replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in his manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed to be in waiting. The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses, with their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of a large oak. "Get in," said the same man, opening the carriage-door and letting down the step. The king obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage, the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses were bound, harnessed them himself, and mounted on the box of the carriage, which was unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the forest of Senart found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in the same manner the first horses had been, and without a postilion. The man on the box changed the horses, and continued to follow the road towards Paris with the same rapidity, so that they entered the city about three o'clock in the morning. They carriage proceeded along the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and, after having called out to the sentinel, "By the king's order," the driver conducted the horses into the circular inclosure of the Bastile, looking out upon the courtyard, called La Cour du Gouvernement. There the horses drew up, reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a sergeant of the guard ran forward. "Go and wake the governor," said the coachman in a voice of thunder. With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the entrance of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything remained as calm in the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, M. de Baisemeaux appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door. "What is the matter now?" he asked; "and whom have you brought me there?" The man with the lantern opened the carriage-door, and said two or three words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down from his seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet, and placed its muzzle on his prisoner's chest. "And fire at once if he speaks!" added aloud the man who alighted from the carriage. "Very good," replied his companion, without another remark. With this recommendation, the person who had accompanied the king in the carriage ascended the flight of steps, at the top of which the governor was awaiting him. "Monsieur d'Herblay!" said the latter. "Hush!" said Aramis. "Let us go into your room." "Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?" "A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux," Aramis replied, quietly. "It appears that you were quite right the other day." "What about?" inquired the governor. "About the order of release, my dear friend." "Tell me what you mean, monsieur--no, monseigneur," said the governor, almost suffocated by surprise and terror. "It is a very simple affair: you remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that an order of release was sent to you." "Yes, for Marchiali." "Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?" "Certainly; you will recollect, however, that I would not credit it, but that you compelled me to believe it." "Oh! Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!--strongly recommended, that was all." "Strongly recommended, yes; strongly recommended to give him up to you; and that you carried him off with you in your carriage." "Well, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake; it was discovered at the ministry, so that I now bring you an order from the king to set at liberty Seldon,--that poor Seldon fellow, you know." "Seldon! are you sure this time?" "Well, read it yourself," added Aramis, handing him the order. "Why," said Baisemeaux, "this order is the very same that has already passed through my hands." "Indeed?" "It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. _Parbleu!_ I recognize it by the blot of ink." "I do not know whether it is that; but all I know is, that I bring it for you." "But then, what about the other?" "What other?" "Marchiali." "I have got him here with me." "But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back again." "Don't talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child! Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?" Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took it out. Aramis seized hold of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and burnt them. "Good heavens! what are you doing?" exclaimed Baisemeaux, in an extremity of terror. "Look at your position quietly, my good governor," said Aramis, with imperturbable self-possession, "and you will see how very simple the whole affair is. You no longer possess any order justifying Marchiali's release." "I am a lost man!" "Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to you, and all accordingly is just the same as if he had never left." "Ah!" said the governor, completely overcome by terror. "Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately." "I should think so, indeed." "And you will hand over this Seldon to me, whose liberation is authorized by this order. Do you understand?" "I--I--" "You do understand, I see," said Aramis. "Very good." Baisemeaux clapped his hands together. "But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from me, do you bring him back again?" cried the unhappy governor, in a paroxysm of terror, and completely dumbfounded. "For a friend such as you are," said Aramis--"for so devoted a servant, I have no secrets;" and he put his mouth close to Baisemeaux's ear, as he said, in a low tone of voice, "you know the resemblance between that unfortunate fellow, and--" "And the king?--yes!" "Very good; the first use that Marchiali made of his liberty was to persist--Can you guess what?" "How is it likely I should guess?" "To persist in saying that he was king of France; to dress himself up in clothes like those of the king; and then pretend to assume that he was the king himself." "Gracious heavens!" "That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend. He is mad and lets every one see how mad he is." "What is to be done, then?" "That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him. You understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the king's ears, the king, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw that all his kindness had been repaid by black ingratitude, became perfectly furious; so that, now--and remember this very distinctly, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely--so that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may allow him to communicate with any one else but me or the king himself. You understand, Baisemeaux, sentence of death!" "You need not ask me whether I understand." "And now, let us go down, and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here." "What would be the good of that?" "It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book at once!" "Of course, certainly; not a doubt of it." "In that case, have him up." Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to be rung, as a warning to every one to retire, in order to avoid meeting a prisoner, about whom it was desired to observe a certain mystery. Then, when the passages were free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at whose breast Porthos, faithful to the directions which had been given him, still kept his musket leveled. "Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?" cried the governor, as soon as he perceived the king. "Very good, very good." And immediately, making the king get out of the carriage, he led him, still accompanied by Porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs, to the second Bertaudiere, and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six long years had bemoaned his existence. The king entered the cell without pronouncing a single word: he faltered in as limp and haggard as a rain-struck lily. Baisemeaux shut the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then returned to Aramis. "It is quite true," he said, in a low tone, "that he bears a striking resemblance to the king; but less so than you said." "So that," said Aramis, "you would not have been deceived by the substitution of the one for the other?" "What a question!" "You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and now, set Seldon free." "Oh, yes. I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at once." "Bah! to-morrow will be time enough." "To-morrow!--oh, no. This very minute." "Well; go off to your affairs, I will go away to mine. But it is quite understood, is it not?" "What 'is quite understood'?" "That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell, expect with an order from the king; an order which I will myself bring." "Quite so. Adieu, monseigneur." Aramis returned to his companion. "Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again to Vaux, and as fast as possible." "A man is light and easy enough, when he has faithfully served his king; and, in serving him, saved his country," said Porthos. "The horses will be as light as if our tissues were constructed of the wind of heaven. So let us be off." And the carriage, lightened of a prisoner, who might well be--as he in fact was--very heavy in the sight of Aramis, passed across the drawbridge of the Bastile, which was raised again immediately behind it.

Chapter Seventeen: High Treason

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-seventeen-high-treason

Finally, the King quiets down, and falls asleep. The bed begins to sink and all the lovely furnishings of the chamber of Morpheus disappear. The King is convinced he is having a bad dream. Finally, he realizes he is awake. On either side of him is an armed and masked man. The King demands to know what is going on. He learns that he is in a tunnel. The men ask him to follow. If not, he will be rolled into a cloak and carried. The King assumes they are assassins. He follows them down the tunnel. The men lead Louis to a carriage. They go straight to the Bastille. It is now about three in the morning. They send for Baisemeaux. We learn that one of the masked men is Aramis. Aramis apologizes to Baisemeaux for the confusion - it appears that Seldon, he tells the governor, was the prisoner that ought to have been released, and he is bringing Marchiali back. Aramis hands Baisemeaux the original order of release. The poor man is deeply confused. To prevent further confusion, Aramis tears up the original order for Marchiali's release. Aramis then demands Seldon's release. Aramis whispers to Baisemeaux that Marchiali's first move as a free man was to pretend to be the King of France. He warns Baisemeaux that Marchiali is likely to persist in these delusions. We learn the other masked man is Porthos. Baisemeaux takes the King and puts him in the cell previously occupied by Philippe. Before leaving, Aramis tells Baisemeaux that no one is to enter the prisoner's cell without express permission from the King. Porthos and Aramis head back to Vaux.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_17_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 18

chapter 18: a night at the bastille

{"name": "Chapter Eighteen: A Night at the Bastille", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-eighteen-a-night-at-the-bastille", "summary": "The King feels awful. He hears a sound, looks around the room, and sees an enormous rat. He gives an involuntary shout, and then fully realizes he is not dreaming, but actually a prisoner in the Bastille. He is convinced Fouquet is behind all of this. The King begins shouting for the governor of the Bastille at the top of his lungs, and in general makes a loud ruckus. The other prisoners start getting angry. They need their sleep after all. Finally a jailer yells at him to be quiet. Louis continues making noise any way he can. He begins to despair, then wonders when the first meal is served. He feels guilty that he cannot remember this small detail about his own prison. A jailer comes in with food and notes that Louis must have been going quite mad to break all his furniture. Louis demands to see the governor and threatens the jailer. The jailer laughs, says Louis is really going crazy, and takes away the knife. Louis is left more desperate and angry than before. The narrator notes that within two hours, Louis has been transformed into a madman. Baisemeaux is annoyed at all the noise as he sits down to his own breakfast.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XVIII. A Night at the Bastile. Pain, anguish, and suffering in human life are always in proportion to the strength with which a man is endowed. We will not pretend to say that Heaven always apportions to a man's capability of endurance the anguish with which he afflicts him; for that, indeed, would not be true, since Heaven permits the existence of death, which is, sometimes, the only refuge open to those who are too closely pressed--too bitterly afflicted, as far as the body is concerned. Suffering is in proportion to the strength which has been accorded; in other words, the weak suffer more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what are the elementary principles, we may ask, that compose human strength? Is it not--more than anything else--exercise, habit, experience? We shall not even take the trouble to demonstrate this, for it is an axiom in morals, as in physics. When the young king, stupefied and crushed in every sense and feeling, found himself led to a cell in the Bastile, he fancied death itself is but a sleep; that it, too, has its dreams as well; that the bed had broken through the flooring of his room at Vaux; that death had resulted from the occurrence; and that, still carrying out his dream, the king, Louis XIV., now no longer living, was dreaming one of those horrors, impossible to realize in life, which is termed dethronement, imprisonment, and insult towards a sovereign who formerly wielded unlimited power. To be present at--an actual witness, too--of this bitterness of death; to float, indecisively, in an incomprehensible mystery, between resemblance and reality; to hear everything, to see everything, without interfering in a single detail of agonizing suffering, was--so the king thought within himself--a torture far more terrible, since it might last forever. "Is this what is termed eternity--hell?" he murmured, at the moment the door was closed upon him, which we remember Baisemeaux had shut with his own hands. He did not even look round him; and in the room, leaning with his back against the wall, he allowed himself to be carried away by the terrible supposition that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes, in order to avoid looking upon something even worse still. "How can I have died?" he said to himself, sick with terror. "The bed might have been let down by some artificial means? But no! I do not remember to have felt a bruise, nor any shock either. Would they not rather have poisoned me at my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my ancestress, Jeanne d'Albret?" Suddenly, the chill of the dungeons seemed to fall like a wet cloak upon Louis's shoulders. "I have seen," he said, "my father lying dead upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm and worn; those hands, once so skillful, lying nerveless by his side; those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death; nothing there betokened a sleep that was disturbed by dreams. And yet, how numerous were the dreams which Heaven might have sent that royal corpse--him whom so many others had preceded, hurried away by him into eternal death! No, that king was still the king: he was enthroned still upon that funeral couch, as upon a velvet armchair; he had not abdicated one title of his majesty. God, who had not punished him, cannot, will not punish me, who have done nothing." A strange sound attracted the young man's attention. He looked round him, and saw on the mantel-shelf, just below an enormous crucifix, coarsely painted in fresco on the wall, a rat of enormous size engaged in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but fixing all the time, an intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of the cell. The king could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust: he moved back towards the door, uttering a loud cry; and as if he but needed this cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously, to recognize himself, Louis knew that he was alive and in full possession of his natural senses. "A prisoner!" he cried. "I--I, a prisoner!" He looked round him for a bell to summon some one to him. "There are no bells in the Bastile," he said, "and it is in the Bastile I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner? It must have been owing to a conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn to Vaux, as to a snare. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent--That voice that I but just now heard was M. d'Herblay's; I recognized it. Colbert was right, then. But what is Fouquet's object? To reign in my place and stead?--Impossible. Yet who knows!" thought the king, relapsing into gloom again. "Perhaps my brother, the Duc d'Orleans, is doing that which my uncle wished to do during the whole of his life against my father. But the queen?--My mother, too? And La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere, she will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear, dear girl! Yes, it is--it must be so. They have shut her up as they have me. We are separated forever!" And at this idea of separation the poor lover burst into a flood of tears and sobs and groans. "There is a governor in this place," the king continued, in a fury of passion; "I will speak to him, I will summon him to me." He called--no voice replied to his. He seized hold of his chair, and hurled it against the massive oaken door. The wood resounded against the door, and awakened many a mournful echo in the profound depths of the staircase; but from a human creature, none. This was a fresh proof for the king of the slight regard in which he was held at the Bastile. Therefore, when his first fit of anger had passed away, having remarked a barred window through which there passed a stream of light, lozenge-shaped, which must be, he knew, the bright orb of approaching day, Louis began to call out, at first gently enough, then louder and louder still; but no one replied. Twenty other attempts which he made, one after another, obtained no other or better success. His blood began to boil within him, and mount to his head. His nature was such, that, accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of disobedience. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy for him to lift, and made use of it as a battering ram to strike against the door. He struck so loudly, and so repeatedly, that the perspiration soon began to pour down his face. The sound became tremendous and continuous; certain stifled, smothered cries replied in different directions. This sound produced a strange effect upon the king. He paused to listen; it was the voice of the prisoners, formerly his victims, now his companions. The voices ascended like vapors through the thick ceilings and the massive walls, and rose in accusations against the author of this noise, as doubtless their sighs and tears accused, in whispered tones, the author of their captivity. After having deprived so many people of their liberty, the king came among them to rob them of their rest. This idea almost drove him mad; it redoubled his strength, or rather his will, bent upon obtaining some information, or a conclusion to the affair. With a portion of the broken chair he recommenced the noise. At the end of an hour, Louis heard something in the corridor, behind the door of his cell, and a violent blow, which was returned upon the door itself, made him cease his own. "Are you mad?" said a rude, brutal voice. "What is the matter with you this morning?" "This morning!" thought the king; but he said aloud, politely, "Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastile?" "My good fellow, your head is out of sorts," replied the voice; "but that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet; _mordioux!_" "Are you the governor?" the king inquired again. He heard a door on the corridor close; the jailer had just left, not condescending to reply a single word. When the king had assured himself of his departure, his fury knew no longer any bounds. As agile as a tiger, he leaped from the table to the window, and struck the iron bars with all his might. He broke a pane of glass, the pieces of which fell clanking into the courtyard below. He shouted with increasing hoarseness, "The governor, the governor!" This excess lasted fully an hour, during which time he was in a burning fever. With his hair in disorder and matted on his forehead, his dress torn and covered with dust and plaster, his linen in shreds, the king never rested until his strength was utterly exhausted, and it was not until then that he clearly understood the pitiless thickness of the walls, the impenetrable nature of the cement, invincible to every influence but that of time, and that he possessed no other weapon but despair. He leaned his forehead against the door, and let the feverish throbbings of his heart calm by degrees; it had seemed as if one single additional pulsation would have made it burst. "A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners will be brought to me. I shall then see some one, I shall speak to him, and get an answer." And the king tried to remember at what hour the first repast of the prisoners was served at the Bastile; he was ignorant even of this detail. The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like the thrust of a dagger, that he should have lived for five and twenty years a king, and in the enjoyment of every happiness, without having bestowed a moment's thought on the misery of those who had been unjustly deprived of their liberty. The king blushed for very shame. He felt that Heaven, in permitting this fearful humiliation, did no more than render to the man the same torture as had been inflicted by that man upon so many others. Nothing could be more efficacious for reawakening his mind to religious influences than the prostration of his heart and mind and soul beneath the feeling of such acute wretchedness. But Louis dared not even kneel in prayer to God to entreat him to terminate his bitter trial. "Heaven is right," he said; "Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often refused my own fellow-creatures." He had reached this stage of his reflections, that is, of his agony of mind, when a similar noise was again heard behind his door, followed this time by the sound of the key in the lock, and of the bolts being withdrawn from their staples. The king bounded forward to be nearer to the person who was about to enter, but, suddenly reflecting that it was a movement unworthy of a sovereign, he paused, assumed a noble and calm expression, which for him was easy enough, and waited with his back turned towards the window, in order, to some extent, to conceal his agitation from the eyes of the person who was about to enter. It was only a jailer with a basket of provisions. The king looked at the man with restless anxiety, and waited until he spoke. "Ah!" said the latter, "you have broken your chair. I said you had done so! Why, you have gone quite mad." "Monsieur," said the king, "be careful what you say; it will be a very serious affair for you." The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily. "What do you say?" he said. "Desire the governor to come to me," added the king, in accents full of calm and dignity. "Come, my boy," said the turnkey, "you have always been very quiet and reasonable, but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish you to know it in time. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance; that is an offense punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons. Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor." "I wish to see the governor," replied the king, still governing his passions. "He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you; so take care." "I insist upon it, do you hear?" "Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good! I shall take away your knife." And the jailer did what he said, quitted the prisoner, and closed the door, leaving the king more astounded, more wretched, more isolated than ever. It was useless, though he tried it, to make the same noise again on his door, and equally useless that he threw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a single sound was heard in recognition. Two hours afterwards he could not be recognized as a king, a gentleman, a man, a human being; he might rather be called a madman, tearing the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastile seemed to tremble to its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the turnkeys and the sentinels had reported the occurrence to him, but what was the good of it? Were not these madmen common enough in such a prison? and were not the walls still stronger? M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told him, and in perfect conformity with the king's order, hoped only that one thing might happen; namely, that the madman Marchiali might be mad enough to hang himself to the canopy of his bed, or to one of the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for M. Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali--the complications first of setting at liberty and then imprisoning again, the complications arising from the strong likeness in question--had at last found a very proper _denouement_. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that D'Herblay himself was not altogether dissatisfied with the result. "And then, really," said Baisemeaux to his next in command, "an ordinary prisoner is already unhappy enough in being a prisoner; he suffers quite enough, indeed, to induce one to hope, charitably enough, that his death may not be far distant. With still greater reason, accordingly, when the prisoner has gone mad, and might bite and make a terrible disturbance in the Bastile; why, in such a case, it is not simply an act of mere charity to wish him dead; it would be almost a good and even commendable action, quietly to have him put out of his misery." And the good-natured governor thereupon sat down to his late breakfast.

Chapter Eighteen: A Night at the Bastille

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-eighteen-a-night-at-the-bastille

The King feels awful. He hears a sound, looks around the room, and sees an enormous rat. He gives an involuntary shout, and then fully realizes he is not dreaming, but actually a prisoner in the Bastille. He is convinced Fouquet is behind all of this. The King begins shouting for the governor of the Bastille at the top of his lungs, and in general makes a loud ruckus. The other prisoners start getting angry. They need their sleep after all. Finally a jailer yells at him to be quiet. Louis continues making noise any way he can. He begins to despair, then wonders when the first meal is served. He feels guilty that he cannot remember this small detail about his own prison. A jailer comes in with food and notes that Louis must have been going quite mad to break all his furniture. Louis demands to see the governor and threatens the jailer. The jailer laughs, says Louis is really going crazy, and takes away the knife. Louis is left more desperate and angry than before. The narrator notes that within two hours, Louis has been transformed into a madman. Baisemeaux is annoyed at all the noise as he sits down to his own breakfast.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_21_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 22

chapter 22: showing how orders were respected at the bastille

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Two: Showing How Orders Were Respected at the Bastille", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-two-showing-how-orders-were-respected-at-the-bastille", "summary": "Fouquet races towards the Bastille, still unsure if Aramis was telling the truth. When he shows up at the Bastille, the soldiers do not believe Monsieur Fouquet could have traveled so rapidly from Vaux. Fouquet causes a grand commotion, causing Baisemeaux to come rushing out of the prison brandishing a sword. Fouquet walks into the Bastille with Baisemeaux, who, was totally ignorant of the crime he helped commit. Fouquet learns that a prisoner named Marchiali was released and subsequently re-instated by Aramis. Baisemeaux refuses to release Marchiali without a signed order from the King. Fouquet threatens to leave and return with ten thousand men and thirty cannons if Baisemeaux doesn't release the prisoner. Fouquet gives Baisemeaux ten minutes to make up his mind. Meanwhile, he starts writing out orders for armed men to storm the Bastille. Baisemeaux finally takes Fouquet to see Marchiali. As they ascend the staircase, Louis's howling can be heard clearly. Fouquet grabs the key from Baisemeaux and tells him leave. Louis continues shouting that he is the King, and that Fouquet had put him in the Bastille. Fouquet opens the door.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXII. Showing How the Countersign Was Respected at the Bastile. Fouquet tore along as fast as his horses could drag him. On his way he trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been revealed to him. "What must have been," he thought, "the youth of those extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, are still able to conceive such gigantic plans, and carry them through without a tremor?" At one moment he could not resist the idea that all Aramis had just been recounting to him was nothing more than a dream, and whether the fable itself was not the snare; so that when Fouquet arrived at the Bastile, he might possibly find an order of arrest, which would send him to join the dethroned king. Strongly impressed with this idea, he gave certain sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were being harnessed to his carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d'Artagnan and to certain others whose fidelity to the king was far above suspicion. "In this way," said Fouquet to himself, "prisoner or not, I shall have performed the duty that I owe my honor. The orders will not reach them until after my return, if I should return free, and consequently they will not have been unsealed. I shall take them back again. If I am delayed; it will be because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in that case assistance will be sent for me as well as for the king." Prepared in this manner, the superintendent arrived at the Bastile; he had traveled at the rate of five leagues and a half the hour. Every circumstance of delay which Aramis had escaped in his visit to the Bastile befell Fouquet. It was useless giving his name, equally useless his being recognized; he could not succeed in obtaining an entrance. By dint of entreaties, threats, commands, he succeeded in inducing a sentinel to speak to one of the subalterns, who went and told the major. As for the governor they did not even dare disturb him. Fouquet sat in his carriage, at the outer gate of the fortress, chafing with rage and impatience, awaiting the return of the officers, who at last re-appeared with a sufficiently sulky air. "Well," said Fouquet, impatiently, "what did the major say?" "Well, monsieur," replied the soldier, "the major laughed in my face. He told me that M. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even were he at Paris, M. Fouquet would not get up at so early an hour as the present." "_Mordieu!_ you are an absolute set of fools," cried the minister, darting out of the carriage; and before the subaltern had time to shut the gate, Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the soldier, who cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground, regardless of the cries of the man, who, however, having at last come up with Fouquet, called out to the sentinel of the second gate, "Look out, look out, sentinel!" The man crossed his pike before the minister; but the latter, robust and active, and hurried away, too, by his passion, wrested the pike from the soldier and struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with it. The subaltern, who approached too closely, received a share of the blows as well. Both of them uttered loud and furious cries, at the sound of which the whole of the first body of the advanced guard poured out of the guardhouse. Among them there was one, however, who recognized the superintendent, and who called, "Monseigneur, ah! monseigneur. Stop, stop, you fellows!" And he effectually checked the soldiers, who were on the point of revenging their companions. Fouquet desired them to open the gate, but they refused to do so without the countersign; he desired them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter had already heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward, followed by his major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men, persuaded that an attack was being made on the Bastile. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet immediately, and dropped the sword he bravely had been brandishing. "Ah! monseigneur," he stammered, "how can I excuse--" "Monsieur," said the superintendent, flushed with anger, and heated by his exertions, "I congratulate you. Your watch and ward are admirably kept." Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this remark was made ironically, and portended a furious burst of anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, and, beckoning the sentinel and the subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, towards him, he said, "There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you." And he followed the governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general satisfaction. Baisemeaux was already trembling with shame and uneasiness. Aramis's early visit, from that moment, seemed to possess consequences, which a functionary such as he (Baisemeaux) was, was perfectly justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing, however, when Fouquet in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look, said, "You have seen M. d'Herblay this morning?" "Yes, monseigneur." "And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?" "Well," thought Baisemeaux, "good so far;" and then he added, aloud, "But what crime, monseigneur, do you allude to?" "That for which you can be quartered alive, monsieur--do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately to the prisoner." "To what prisoner?" said Baisemeaux, trembling. "You pretend to be ignorant? Very good--it is the best plan for you, perhaps; for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in such a crime, it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your assumption of ignorance." "I entreat you, monseigneur--" "That will do. Lead me to the prisoner." "To Marchiali?" "Who is Marchiali?" "The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d'Herblay." "He is called Marchiali?" said the superintendent, his conviction somewhat shaken by Baisemeaux's cool manner. "Yes, monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here." Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if he would read his very heart; and perceived, with that clear-sightedness most men possess who are accustomed to the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with perfect sincerity. Besides, in observing his face for a few moments, he could not believe that Aramis would have chosen such a confidant. "It is the prisoner," said the superintendent to him, "whom M. d'Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?" "Yes, monseigneur." "And whom he brought back this morning?" added Fouquet, quickly: for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis's plan. "Precisely, monseigneur." "And his name is Marchiali, you say?" "Yes, Marchiali. If monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him." "What has he done, then?" "Ever since this morning he has annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion, as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastile itself down about our ears." "I will soon relieve you of his possession," said Fouquet. "Ah! so much the better." "Conduct me to his prison." "Will monseigneur give me the order?" "What order?" "An order from the king." "Wait until I sign you one." "That will not be sufficient, monseigneur. I must have an order from the king." Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. "As you are so scrupulous," he said, "with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which this one was set at liberty." Baisemeaux showed him the order to release Seldon. "Very good," said Fouquet; "but Seldon is not Marchiali." "But Marchiali is not at liberty, monseigneur; he is here." "But you said that M. d'Herblay carried him away and brought him back again." "I did not say so." "So surely did you say it, that I almost seem to hear it now." "It was a slip of my tongue, then, monseigneur." "Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care." "I have nothing to fear, monseigneur; I am acting according to the very strictest regulation." "Do you dare to say so?" "I would say so in the presence of one of the apostles. M. d'Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty. Seldon is free." "I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastile." "You must prove that, monseigneur." "Let me see him." "You, monseigneur, who govern this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from the king." "M. d'Herblay has entered, however." "That remains to be proved, monseigneur." "M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular attention to what you are saying." "All the documents are there, monseigneur." "M. d'Herblay is overthrown." "Overthrown?--M. d'Herblay! Impossible!" "You see that he has undoubtedly influenced you." "No, monseigneur; what does, in fact, influence me, is the king's service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter." "Stay, M. le gouverneur, I give you my word that if you allow me to see the prisoner, I will give you an order from the king at once." "Give it to me now, monseigneur." "And that, if you refuse me, I will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot." "Before you commit such an act of violence, monseigneur, you will reflect," said Baisemeaux, who had turned very pale, "that we will only obey an order signed by the king; and that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do me so much injury; me, too, who am perfectly innocent." "True. True!" cried Fouquet, furiously; "perfectly true. M. de Baisemeaux," he added, in a sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy governor towards him, "do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?" "No, monseigneur; and allow me to observe that you are terrifying me out of my senses; I am trembling all over--in fact, I feel as though I were about to faint." "You will stand a better chance of fainting outright, Monsieur Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon." "Good heavens, monseigneur, you are losing your senses." "When I have roused the whole population of Paris against you and your accursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place, and hanged you to the topmost tree of yonder pinnacle!" "Monseigneur! monseigneur! for pity's sake!" "I give you ten minutes to make up your mind," added Fouquet, in a calm voice. "I will sit down here, in this armchair, and wait for you; if, in ten minutes' time, you still persist, I leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like. Then--you shall _see!_" Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of despair, but he did not reply a single syllable; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen and ink, and wrote: "Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal guard and to march upon the Bastile on the king's immediate service." Baisemeaux shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote: "Order for the Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss guards, of the king's guards, and to march upon the Bastile on the king's immediate service." Baisemeaux reflected. Fouquet still wrote: "Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and apprehend, wherever he may be found, le Chevalier d'Herblay, Eveque de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are: first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastile, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion--" "Stop, monseigneur!" cried Baisemeaux; "I do not understand a single jot of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them at their awful work, might happen here in a couple of hours, that the king, by whom I must be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before this flood of imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, monseigneur, you shall see Marchiali." Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by Baisemeaux as he wiped the perspiration from his face. "What a terrible morning!" he said; "what a disgrace for _me!_" "Walk faster," replied Fouquet. Baisemeaux made a sign to the jailer to precede them. He was afraid of his companion, which the latter could not fail to perceive. "A truce to this child's play," he said, roughly. "Let the man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take place here." "Ah!" said Baisemeaux, undecided. "Again!" cried M. Fouquet. "Ah! say 'no' at once, and I will leave the Bastile and will myself carry my own dispatches." Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied, except by the minister, ascended the staircase. The higher they advanced up the spiral staircase, the more clearly did certain muffled murmurs become distinct appeals and fearful imprecations. "What is that?" asked Fouquet. "That is your Marchiali," said the governor; "this is the way these madmen scream." And he accompanied that reply with a glance more pregnant with injurious allusion, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than politeness. The latter trembled; he had just recognized in one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the king's voice. He paused on the staircase, snatching the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them. "Ah!" he cried, "M. d'Herblay did not say a word about that." "Give me the keys at once!" cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. "Which is the key of the door I am to open?" "That one." A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo. "Leave this place," said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening tone. "I ask nothing better," murmured the latter, to himself. "There will be a couple of madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am sure." "Go!" repeated Fouquet. "If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastile." "This job will kill me, I am sure it will," muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps. The prisoner's cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the king, crying out, in a frenzy of rage, "Help, help! I am the king." The key of the second door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the bunch. The king, however, furious and almost mad with rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, "It was M. Fouquet who brought me here. Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the king! Help the king against M. Fouquet!" These cries filled the minister's heart with terrible emotions. They were followed by a shower of blows leveled against the door with a part of the broken chair with which the king had armed himself. Fouquet at last succeeded in finding the key. The king was almost exhausted; he could hardly articulate distinctly as he shouted, "Death to Fouquet! death to the traitor Fouquet!" The door flew open.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Showing How Orders Were Respected at the Bastille

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-two-showing-how-orders-were-respected-at-the-bastille

Fouquet races towards the Bastille, still unsure if Aramis was telling the truth. When he shows up at the Bastille, the soldiers do not believe Monsieur Fouquet could have traveled so rapidly from Vaux. Fouquet causes a grand commotion, causing Baisemeaux to come rushing out of the prison brandishing a sword. Fouquet walks into the Bastille with Baisemeaux, who, was totally ignorant of the crime he helped commit. Fouquet learns that a prisoner named Marchiali was released and subsequently re-instated by Aramis. Baisemeaux refuses to release Marchiali without a signed order from the King. Fouquet threatens to leave and return with ten thousand men and thirty cannons if Baisemeaux doesn't release the prisoner. Fouquet gives Baisemeaux ten minutes to make up his mind. Meanwhile, he starts writing out orders for armed men to storm the Bastille. Baisemeaux finally takes Fouquet to see Marchiali. As they ascend the staircase, Louis's howling can be heard clearly. Fouquet grabs the key from Baisemeaux and tells him leave. Louis continues shouting that he is the King, and that Fouquet had put him in the Bastille. Fouquet opens the door.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_22_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 23

chapter 23: the king's gratitude

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Three: The King's Gratitude", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-three-the-kings-gratitude", "summary": "When Fouquet walks in, the King is \"the most complete picture of despair, hunger, and fear that could possibly be united in one figure.\" The King believes Fouquet is there to assassinate him. Fouquet corrects him - he's there to free the King. The King knows he will never forgive Fouquet for having seen him in this state. Fouquet brings the King up to speed on the situation. The King refuses to believe the existence of a twin brother. The King plans to kill Aramis, Porthos, and the imposter twin brother. Fouquet points out that they cannot spill royal blood on the scaffold. The King continues to disbelieve that he has a twin. Fouquet begs the King's forgiveness on behalf of Porthos and Aramis. The King resists, and Fouquet reminds him of the situation. Fouquet is the King's rescuer. He also reminds the King that Aramis could easily have shot him in the forest, and asks that Aramis be pardoned on those grounds. Instead of feeling grateful, the King feels humiliated. He refuses to pardon the two conspirators. As Fouquet and the King leave, Baisemeaux remains completely baffled, even though Fouquet handed him an order showing the King approved the release.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXIII. The King's Gratitude. The two men were on the point of darting towards each other when they suddenly and abruptly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and each uttered a cry of horror. "Have you come to assassinate me, monsieur?" said the king, when he recognized Fouquet. "The king in this state!" murmured the minister. Nothing could be more terrible indeed than the appearance of the young prince at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat and with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms. Haggard, ghastly pale, his hair in disheveled masses, Louis XIV. presented the most perfect picture of despair, distress, anger and fear combined that could possibly be united in one figure. Fouquet was so touched, so affected and disturbed by it, that he ran towards him with his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the massive piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use. "Sire," said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, "do you not recognize the most faithful of your friends?" "A friend--you!" repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance. "The most respectful of your servants," added Fouquet, throwing himself on his knees. The king let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet approached him, kissed his knees, and took him in his arms with inconceivable tenderness. "My king, my child," he said, "how you must have suffered!" Louis, recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at himself, and ashamed of the disordered state of his apparel, ashamed of his conduct, and ashamed of the air of pity and protection that was shown towards him, drew back. Fouquet did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the king's feeling of pride would never forgive him for having been a witness of such an exhibition of weakness. "Come, sire," he said, "you are free." "Free?" repeated the king. "Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me." "You do not believe that!" exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; "you cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act." And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader. While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run struck him far more than the importance of the secret relative to his twin brother. "Monsieur," he said, suddenly to Fouquet, "this double birth is a falsehood; it is impossible--you cannot have been the dupe of it." "Sire!" "It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my mother can be suspected, and my first minister has not yet done justice on the criminals!" "Reflect, sire, before you are hurried away by anger," replied Fouquet. "The birth of your brother--" "I have only one brother--and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of the Bastile." "Be careful, sire, for this man has been deceived as every one else has by the prince's likeness to yourself." "Likeness? Absurd!" "This Marchiali must be singularly like your majesty, to be able to deceive every one's eye," Fouquet persisted. "Ridiculous!" "Do not say so, sire; those who had prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the resemblance between you." "But where are these persons, then?" murmured the king. "At Vaux." "At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there!" "My most instant duty appeared to me to be your majesty's release. I have accomplished that duty; and now, whatever your majesty may command, shall be done. I await your orders." Louis reflected for a few moments. "Muster all the troops in Paris," he said. "All the necessary orders are given for that purpose," replied Fouquet. "You have given orders!" exclaimed the king. "For that purpose, yes, sire; your majesty will be at the head of ten thousand men in less than an hour." The only reply the king made was to take hold of Fouquet's hand with such an expression of feeling, that it was very easy to perceive how strongly he had, until that remark, maintained his suspicions of the minister, notwithstanding the latter's intervention. "And with these troops," he said, "we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels who by this time will have established and intrenched themselves therein." "I should be surprised if that were the case," replied Fouquet. "Why?" "Because their chief--the very soul of the enterprise--having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried." "You have unmasked this false prince also?" "No, I have not seen him." "Whom have you seen, then?" "The leader of the enterprise, not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive." "Most certainly." "It is M. l'Abbe d'Herblay, Eveque de Vannes." "Your friend?" "He was my friend, sire," replied Fouquet, nobly. "An unfortunate circumstance for you," said the king, in a less generous tone of voice. "Such friendships, sire, had nothing dishonorable in them so long as I was ignorant of the crime." "You should have foreseen it." "If I am guilty, I place myself in your majesty's hands." "Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, it was not that I meant," returned the king, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought in such a manner. "Well! I assure you that, notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that he was the very man. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength, the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean; what is he?" "It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the musketeers." "The friend of D'Artagnan? the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!" exclaimed the king, as he paused at the name of the latter, "we must not forget the connection that existed between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne." "Sire, sire, do not go too far. M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you." "With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me." "What does your majesty understand by that?" inquired Fouquet. "I understand," replied the king, "that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape." "Your majesty will put these men to death!" cried Fouquet. "To the very meanest of them." "Oh! sire." "Let us understand one another, Monsieur Fouquet," said the king, haughtily. "We no longer live in times when assassination was the only and the last resource kings held in reservation at extremity. No, Heaven be praised! I have parliaments who sit and judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which supreme authority is carried out." Fouquet turned pale. "I will take the liberty of observing to your majesty, that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile." "Justice must be done, however, monsieur." "Good, sire; but royal blood must not be shed upon a scaffold." "The royal blood! you believe that!" cried the king with fury in his voice, stamping his foot on the ground. "This double birth is an invention; and in that invention, particularly, do I see M. d'Herblay's crime. It is the crime I wish to punish rather than the violence, or the insult." "And punish it with death, sire?" "With death; yes, monsieur, I have said it." "Sire," said the surintendant, with firmness, as he raised his head proudly, "your majesty will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the queen-mother upon the subject. Whatever she may command will be perfectly correct. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not even for the honor of your crown, but I have a favor to ask of you, and I beg to submit it to you." "Speak," said the king, in no little degree agitated by his minister's last words. "What do you require?" "The pardon of M. d'Herblay and of M. du Vallon." "My assassins?" "Two rebels, sire, that is all." "Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends." "My friends!" said Fouquet, deeply wounded. "Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the state requires that an exemplary punishment should be inflicted on the guilty." "I will not permit myself to remind your majesty that I have just restored you to liberty, and have saved your life." "Monsieur!" "I will not allow myself to remind your majesty that had M. d'Herblay wished to carry out his character of an assassin, he could very easily have assassinated your majesty this morning in the forest of Senart, and all would have been over." The king started. "A pistol-bullet through the head," pursued Fouquet, "and the disfigured features of Louis XIV., which no one could have recognized, would be M. d'Herblay's complete and entire justification." The king turned pale and giddy at the bare idea of the danger he had escaped. "If M. d'Herblay," continued Fouquet, "had been an assassin, he had no occasion to inform me of his plan in order to succeed. Freed from the real king, it would have been impossible in all futurity to guess the false. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of Austria, he would still have been--her son. The usurper, as far as Monsieur d'Herblay's conscience was concerned, was still a king of the blood of Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator, in that course, would have had security, secrecy, impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured him all that. For the sake of Heaven, sire, grant me his forgiveness." The king, instead of being touched by the picture, so faithfully drawn in all details, of Aramis's generosity, felt himself most painfully and cruelly humiliated. His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea that a man had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal life. Every word that fell from Fouquet's lips, and which he thought most efficacious in procuring his friend's pardon, seemed to pour another drop of poison into the already ulcerated heart of Louis XIV. Nothing could bend or soften him. Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, "I really don't know, monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men. What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation?" "I do not understand you, sire." "It is not difficult, either. Where am I now?" "In the Bastile, sire." "Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?" "Yes, sire." "And no one is known here but Marchiali?" "Certainly." "Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the poor madman rot between the slimy walls of the Bastile, and M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon will stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new king will absolve them." "Your majesty does me a great injustice, sire; and you are wrong," replied Fouquet, dryly; "I am not child enough, nor is M. d'Herblay silly enough, to have omitted to make all these reflections; and if I had wished to make a new king, as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to force open the gates and doors of the Bastile, to free you from this place. That would show a want of even common sense. Your majesty's mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you would be far from offending, groundlessly, the very one of your servants who has rendered you the most important service of all." Louis perceived that he had gone too far; that the gates of the Bastile were still closed upon him, whilst, by degrees, the floodgates were gradually being opened, behind which the generous-hearted Fouquet had restrained his anger. "I did not say that to humiliate you, Heaven knows, monsieur," he replied. "Only you are addressing yourself to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer according to my conscience. And so, judging by my conscience, the criminals we speak of are not worthy of consideration or forgiveness." Fouquet was silent. "What I do is as generous," added the king, "as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will even say it is more generous, inasmuch as you place before me certain conditions upon which my liberty, my life, may depend; and to reject which is to make a sacrifice of both." "I was wrong, certainly," replied Fouquet. "Yes,--I had the appearance of extorting a favor; I regret it, and entreat your majesty's forgiveness." "And you are forgiven, my dear Monsieur Fouquet," said the king, with a smile, which restored the serene expression of his features, which so many circumstances had altered since the preceding evening. "I have my own forgiveness," replied the minister, with some degree of persistence; "but M. d'Herblay, and M. du Vallon?" "They will never obtain theirs, as long as I live," replied the inflexible king. "Do me the kindness not to speak of it again." "Your majesty shall be obeyed." "And you will bear me no ill-will for it?" "Oh! no, sire; for I anticipated the event." "You had 'anticipated' that I should refuse to forgive those gentlemen?" "Certainly; and all my measures were taken in consequence." "What do you mean to say?" cried the king, surprised. "M. d'Herblay came, as may be said, to deliver himself into my hands. M. d'Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my king and my country. I could not condemn M. d'Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other hand, expose him to your majesty's justifiable wrath; it would have been just the same as if I had killed him myself." "Well! and what have you done?" "Sire, I gave M. d'Herblay the best horses in my stables and four hours' start over all those your majesty might, probably, dispatch after him." "Be it so!" murmured the king. "But still, the world is wide enough and large enough for those whom I may send to overtake your horses, notwithstanding the 'four hours' start' which you have given to M. d'Herblay." "In giving him these four hours, sire, I knew I was giving him his life, and he will save his life." "In what way?" "After having galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours' start, before your musketeers, he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle, where I have given him a safe asylum." "That may be! But you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle." "But not for you to arrest my friends." "You take it back again, then?" "As far as that goes--yes, sire." "My musketeers shall capture it, and the affair will be at an end." "Neither your musketeers, nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle," said Fouquet, coldly. "Belle-Isle is impregnable." The king became perfectly livid; a lightning flash seemed to dart from his eyes. Fouquet felt that he was lost, but he as not one to shrink when the voice of honor spoke loudly within him. He bore the king's wrathful gaze; the latter swallowed his rage, and after a few moments' silence, said, "Are we going to return to Vaux?" "I am at your majesty's orders," replied Fouquet, with a low bow; "but I think that your majesty can hardly dispense with changing your clothes previous to appearing before your court." "We shall pass by the Louvre," said the king. "Come." And they left the prison, passing before Baisemeaux, who looked completely bewildered as he saw Marchiali once more leave; and, in his helplessness, tore out the major portion of his few remaining hairs. It was perfectly true, however, that Fouquet wrote and gave him an authority for the prisoner's release, and that the king wrote beneath it, "Seen and approved, Louis"; a piece of madness that Baisemeaux, incapable of putting two ideas together, acknowledged by giving himself a terrible blow on the forehead with his own fist.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The King's Gratitude

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-three-the-kings-gratitude

When Fouquet walks in, the King is "the most complete picture of despair, hunger, and fear that could possibly be united in one figure." The King believes Fouquet is there to assassinate him. Fouquet corrects him - he's there to free the King. The King knows he will never forgive Fouquet for having seen him in this state. Fouquet brings the King up to speed on the situation. The King refuses to believe the existence of a twin brother. The King plans to kill Aramis, Porthos, and the imposter twin brother. Fouquet points out that they cannot spill royal blood on the scaffold. The King continues to disbelieve that he has a twin. Fouquet begs the King's forgiveness on behalf of Porthos and Aramis. The King resists, and Fouquet reminds him of the situation. Fouquet is the King's rescuer. He also reminds the King that Aramis could easily have shot him in the forest, and asks that Aramis be pardoned on those grounds. Instead of feeling grateful, the King feels humiliated. He refuses to pardon the two conspirators. As Fouquet and the King leave, Baisemeaux remains completely baffled, even though Fouquet handed him an order showing the King approved the release.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_23_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 24

chapter 24: the false king

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Four: The False King", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-four-the-false-king", "summary": "Philippe is worried when Aramis fails to show up, but he continues acting like the King throughout all the morning rituals. He is nervous about seeing his mother. His mother, Anne of Austria, arrives with other members of the royal court, including the King's younger brother. Anne of Austria tries to prejudice her son against Monsieur Fouquet. Philippe is not pleased. He threatens to have Madame de Chevreuse thrown out of France. Mother and son have a little tiff. Philippe continues to anxiously await the arrival of Aramis, but D'Artagnan walks in the door instead. Philippe demands to know Aramis's whereabouts, which completely throws D'Artagnan off. D'Artagnan believes the King sent Aramis on a secret mission. Anne of Austria whispers to her son in Spanish. The poor Philippe doesn't understand Spanish, but he's saved from having to respond by the arrival of his twin brother. For five minutes, everyone is shocked. Anne of Austria is confused and disturbed. Philippe Louis next appeals to D'Artagnan, who promptly arrests Philippe. Before he leaves, Philippe stares down his twin brother and mother, trying to shame them for what they've done to him. Colbert hands D'Artagnan an order instructing him to cover Philippe's head with an iron mask and take him to the island of Ste. Marguerite. Before he leaves, D'Artagnan tells Fouquet that Philippe would have made at least an equal, if not better, king to his brother.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXIV. The False King. In the meantime, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his _petit lever_ the _grandes entrees_, already prepared to appear before the king, should be introduced. He determined to give this order notwithstanding the absence of M. d'Herblay, who did not return--our readers know the reason. But the prince, not believing that absence could be prolonged, wished, as all rash spirits do, to try his valor and his fortune far from all protection and instruction. Another reason urged him to this--Anne of Austria was about to appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her sacrificed son. Philippe was not willing, if he had a weakness, to render the man a witness of it before whom he was bound thenceforth to display so much strength. Philippe opened his folding doors, and several persons entered silently. Philippe did not stir whilst his _valets de chambre_ dressed him. He had watched, the evening before, all the habits of his brother, and played the king in such a manner as to awaken no suspicion. He was thus completely dressed in hunting costume when he received his visitors. His own memory and the notes of Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all Anne of Austria, to whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled on recognizing his mother. That still so noble and imposing figure, ravaged by pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of the famous queen who had immolated a child to reasons of state. He found his mother still handsome. He knew that Louis XIV. loved her, and he promised himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a scourge to her old age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness easily to be understood. The latter had usurped nothing, had cast no shades athwart his life. A separate tree, he allowed the stem to rise without heeding its elevation or majestic life. Philippe promised himself to be a kind brother to this prince, who required nothing but gold to minister to his pleasures. He bowed with a friendly air to Saint-Aignan, who was all reverences and smiles, and trembling held out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him; but he saw in the eyes of that princess an expression of coldness which would facilitate, as he thought, their future relations. "How much more easy," thought he, "it will be to be the brother of that woman than her gallant, if she evinces towards me a coldness that my brother could not have for her, but which is imposed upon me as a duty." The only visit he dreaded at this moment was that of the queen; his heart--his mind--had just been shaken by so violent a trial, that, in spite of their firm temperament, they would not, perhaps, support another shock. Happily the queen did not come. Then commenced, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation upon the welcome M. Fouquet had given to the house of France. She mixed up hostilities with compliments addressed to the king, and questions as to his health, with little maternal flatteries and diplomatic artifices. "Well, my son," said she, "are you convinced with regard to M. Fouquet?" "Saint-Aignan," said Philippe, "have the goodness to go and inquire after the queen." At these words, the first Philippe had pronounced aloud, the slight difference that there was between his voice and that of the king was sensible to maternal ears, and Anne of Austria looked earnestly at her son. Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued: "Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of, you know I do not--and you have even spoken well of him yourself." "That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your sentiments with respect to him." "Sire," said Henrietta, "I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He is a man of good taste,--a superior man." "A superintendent who is never sordid or niggardly," added Monsieur; "and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him." "Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the state," said the old queen. "M. Fouquet, it is a fact, M. Fouquet is ruining the state." "Well, mother!" replied Philippe, in rather a lower key, "do you likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?" "How is that?" replied the old queen, rather surprised. "Why, in truth," replied Philippe, "you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak." "Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me?" said she, "and what sort of humor are you in to-day towards me?" Philippe continued: "Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, mother?" "Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy I am listening to your father." "My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and had good reason for not liking her," said the prince. "For my part, I like her no better than _he_ did, and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money--why--" "Well! what?" said Anne of Austria, proudly, herself provoking the storm. "Well!" replied the young man firmly, "I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom--and with her all who meddle with its secrets and mysteries." He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps he wished to judge the effect of it, like those who, suffering from a chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of that suffering, touch their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria was nearly fainting; her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several seconds; she stretched out her arms towards her other son, who supported and embraced her without fear of irritating the king. "Sire," murmured she, "you are treating your mother very cruelly." "In what respect, madame?" replied he. "I am only speaking of Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security of the state and of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell you Madame de Chevreuse has returned to France to borrow money, and that she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret." "A certain secret!" cried Anne of Austria. "Concerning pretended robberies that monsieur le surintendant had committed, which is false," added Philippe. "M. Fouquet rejected her offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the king to complicity with such intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to M. Colbert, and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having extorted a hundred thousand crowns from a servant of the state, she has taken a still bolder flight, in search of surer sources of supply. Is that true, madame?" "You know all, sire," said the queen, more uneasy than irritated. "Now," continued Philippe, "I have good reason to dislike this fury, who comes to my court to plan the shame of some and the ruin of others. If Heaven has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed them in the shadow of its clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to counteract the just designs of fate." The latter part of this speech had so agitated the queen-mother, that her son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly; she did not feel that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsion and bitterness of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to swallow the emotions that had just developed themselves. Then, with a cheerful smile: "We will not go to-day," said he, "I have a plan." And, turning towards the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence began to alarm him. The queen-mother wished to leave the room. "Remain where you are, mother," said he, "I wish you to make your peace with M. Fouquet." "I bear M. Fouquet no ill-will; I only dreaded his prodigalities." "We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the superintendent but his good qualities." "What is your majesty looking for?" said Henrietta, seeing the king's eyes constantly turned towards the door, and wishing to let fly a little poisoned arrow at his heart, supposing he was so anxiously expecting either La Valliere or a letter from her. "My sister," said the young man, who had divined her thought, thanks to that marvelous perspicuity of which fortune was from that time about to allow him the exercise, "my sister, I am expecting a most distinguished man, a most able counselor, whom I wish to present to you all, recommending him to your good graces. Ah! come in, then, D'Artagnan." "What does your majesty wish?" said D'Artagnan, appearing. "Where is monsieur the bishop of Vannes, your friend?" "Why, sire--" "I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for." D'Artagnan remained for an instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting that Aramis had left Vaux privately on a mission from the king, he concluded that the king wished to preserve the secret. "Sire," replied he, "does your majesty absolutely require M. d'Herblay to be brought to you?" "Absolutely is not the word," said Philippe; "I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found--" "I thought so," said D'Artagnan to himself. "Is this M. d'Herblay the bishop of Vannes?" "Yes, madame." "A friend of M. Fouquet?" "Yes, madame; an old musketeer." Anne of Austria blushed. "One of the four braves who formerly performed such prodigies." The old queen repented of having wished to bite; she broke off the conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her teeth. "Whatever may be your choice, sire," said she, "I have no doubt it will be excellent." All bowed in support of that sentiment. "You will find in him," continued Philippe, "the depth and penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin!" "A prime minister, sire?" said Monsieur, in a fright. "I will tell you all about that, brother; but it is strange that M. d'Herblay is not here!" He called out: "Let M. Fouquet be informed that I wish to speak to him--oh! before you, before you; do not retire!" M. de Saint-Aignan returned, bringing satisfactory news of the queen, who only kept her bed from precaution, and to have strength to carry out the king's wishes. Whilst everybody was seeking M. Fouquet and Aramis, the new king quietly continued his experiments, and everybody, family, officers, servants, had not the least suspicion of his identity, his air, his voice, and manners were so like the king's. On his side, Philippe, applying to all countenances the accurate descriptions and key-notes of character supplied by his accomplice Aramis, conducted himself so as not to give birth to a doubt in the minds of those who surrounded him. Nothing from that time could disturb the usurper. With what strange facility had Providence just reversed the loftiest fortune of the world to substitute the lowliest in its stead! Philippe admired the goodness of God with regard to himself, and seconded it with all the resources of his admirable nature. But he felt, at times, something like a specter gliding between him and the rays of his new glory. Aramis did not appear. The conversation had languished in the royal family; Philippe, preoccupied, forgot to dismiss his brother and Madame Henrietta. The latter were astonished, and began, by degrees, to lose all patience. Anne of Austria stooped towards her son's ear and addressed some words to him in Spanish. Philippe was completely ignorant of that language, and grew pale at this unexpected obstacle. But, as if the spirit of the imperturbable Aramis had covered him with his infallibility, instead of appearing disconcerted, Philippe rose. "Well! what?" said Anne of Austria. "What is all that noise?" said Philippe, turning round towards the door of the second staircase. And a voice was heard saying, "This way, this way! A few steps more, sire!" "The voice of M. Fouquet," said D'Artagnan, who was standing close to the queen-mother. "Then M. d'Herblay cannot be far off," added Philippe. But he then saw what he little thought to have beheld so near to him. All eyes were turned towards the door at which M. Fouquet was expected to enter; but it was not M. Fouquet who entered. A terrible cry resounded from all corners of the chamber, a painful cry uttered by the king and all present. It is given to but few men, even those whose destiny contains the strangest elements, and accidents the most wonderful, to contemplate such a spectacle similar to that which presented itself in the royal chamber at that moment. The half-closed shutters only admitted the entrance of an uncertain light passing through thick violet velvet curtains lined with silk. In this soft shade, the eyes were by degrees dilated, and every one present saw others rather with imagination than with actual sight. There could not, however, escape, in these circumstances, one of the surrounding details; and the new object which presented itself appeared as luminous as though it shone out in full sunlight. So it happened with Louis XIV., when he showed himself, pale and frowning, in the doorway of the secret stairs. The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, stamped with sorrow and determination. The queen-mother, who perceived Louis XIV., and who held the hand of Philippe, uttered a cry of which we have spoken, as if she beheld a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and kept turning his head in astonishment from one to the other. Madame made a step forward, thinking she was looking at the form of her brother-in-law reflected in a mirror. And, in fact, the illusion was possible. The two princes, both pale as death--for we renounce the hope of being able to describe the fearful state of Philippe--trembling, clenching their hands convulsively, measured each other with looks, and darted their glances, sharp as poniards, at each other. Silent, panting, bending forward, they appeared as if about to spring upon an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of countenance, gesture, shape, height, even to the resemblance of costume, produced by chance--for Louis XIV. had been to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored dress--the perfect analogy of the two princes, completed the consternation of Anne of Austria. And yet she did not at once guess the truth. There are misfortunes in life so truly dreadful that no one will at first accept them; people rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible. Louis had not reckoned on these obstacles. He expected that he had only to appear to be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not endure the suspicion of equality with any one. He did not admit that every torch should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with his conquering ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more terrified than any one round him, and his silence, his immobility were, this time, a concentration and a calm which precede the violent explosions of concentrated passion. But Fouquet! who shall paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right, that this newly-arrived was a king as pure in his race as the other, and that, for having repudiated all participation in this _coup d'etat_, so skillfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad enthusiast, unworthy of ever dipping his hands in political grand strategy work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII. which Fouquet was sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII.; it was to a selfish ambition he was sacrificing a noble ambition; to the right of keeping he sacrificed the right of having. The whole extent of his fault was revealed to him at simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five minutes to focus meditation on this point of conscience; five minutes, that is to say five ages, during which the two kings and their family scarcely found energy to breathe after so terrible a shock. D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall, in front of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he knew assuredly that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two Louis XIV.s lay all the doubt and difficulty that during late days had rendered the conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, enveloped in a haze, a veil of mystery. The actors in this assembly seemed to swim in the vapors of a confused waking. Suddenly Louis XIV., more impatient and more accustomed to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, tearing the curtains in his eagerness. A flood of living light entered the chamber, and made Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement with eagerness, and addressing himself to the queen: "My mother," said he, "do you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has forgotten his king!" Anne of Austria started, and raised her arms towards Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word. "My mother," said Philippe, with a calm voice, "do you not acknowledge your son?" And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back. As to Anne of Austria, struck suddenly in head and heart with fell remorse, she lost her equilibrium. No one aiding her, for all were petrified, she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling sigh. Louis could not endure the spectacle and the affront. He bounded towards D'Artagnan, over whose brain a vertigo was stealing and who staggered as he caught at the door for support. "_A moi! mousquetaire!_" said he. "Look us in the face and say which is the paler, he or I!" This cry roused D'Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fibers of obedience. He shook his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked straight up to Philippe, on whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying, "Monsieur, you are my prisoner!" Philippe did not raise his eyes towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot, where he seemed nailed to the floor, his eye intently fixed upon the king his brother. He reproached him with a sublime silence for all misfortunes past, all tortures to come. Against this language of the soul the king felt he had no power; he cast down his eyes, dragging away precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his mother, sitting motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a second time to be condemned to death. Philippe approached Anne of Austria, and said to her, in a soft and nobly agitated voice: "If I were not your son, I should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so unhappy." D'Artagnan felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones. He bowed respectfully to the young prince, and said as he bent, "Excuse me, monseigneur, I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left the chamber." "Thank you, M. d'Artagnan.... What has become of M. d'Herblay?" "M. d'Herblay is in safety, monseigneur," said a voice behind them; "and no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to fall from his head." "Monsieur Fouquet!" said the prince, smiling sadly. "Pardon me, monseigneur," said Fouquet, kneeling, "but he who is just gone out from hence was my guest." "Here are," murmured Philippe, with a sigh, "brave friends and good hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M. d'Artagnan, I follow you." At the moment the captain of the musketeers was about to leave the room with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and, after remitting an order from the king to D'Artagnan, retired. D'Artagnan read the paper, and then crushed it in his hand with rage. "What is it?" asked the prince. "Read, monseigneur," replied the musketeer. Philippe read the following words, hastily traced by the hand of the king: "M. d'Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the Ile Sainte-Marguerite. He will cover his face with an iron vizor, which the prisoner shall never raise except at peril of his life." "That is just," said Philippe, with resignation; "I am ready." "Aramis was right," said Fouquet, in a low voice, to the musketeer, "this one is every whit as much a king as the other." "More so!" replied D'Artagnan. "He wanted only you and me."

Chapter Twenty-Four: The False King

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-four-the-false-king

Philippe is worried when Aramis fails to show up, but he continues acting like the King throughout all the morning rituals. He is nervous about seeing his mother. His mother, Anne of Austria, arrives with other members of the royal court, including the King's younger brother. Anne of Austria tries to prejudice her son against Monsieur Fouquet. Philippe is not pleased. He threatens to have Madame de Chevreuse thrown out of France. Mother and son have a little tiff. Philippe continues to anxiously await the arrival of Aramis, but D'Artagnan walks in the door instead. Philippe demands to know Aramis's whereabouts, which completely throws D'Artagnan off. D'Artagnan believes the King sent Aramis on a secret mission. Anne of Austria whispers to her son in Spanish. The poor Philippe doesn't understand Spanish, but he's saved from having to respond by the arrival of his twin brother. For five minutes, everyone is shocked. Anne of Austria is confused and disturbed. Philippe Louis next appeals to D'Artagnan, who promptly arrests Philippe. Before he leaves, Philippe stares down his twin brother and mother, trying to shame them for what they've done to him. Colbert hands D'Artagnan an order instructing him to cover Philippe's head with an iron mask and take him to the island of Ste. Marguerite. Before he leaves, D'Artagnan tells Fouquet that Philippe would have made at least an equal, if not better, king to his brother.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_24_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 25

chapter 25: in which porthos thinks he is pursuing a dukedom

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Five: In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Dukedom", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-five-in-which-porthos-thinks-he-is-pursuing-a-dukedom", "summary": "Porthos and Aramis get away from Vaux as fast as possible. Eventually, Porthos asks his friend what the deal is. Aramis responds that their fortune depends on their speed, and Porthos naturally assumes he will be receiving a dukedom. Aramis is on edge and freaking out, as might be expected from a man who got caught trying to lock the King up in prison. He pushes the two of them forward and away from Vaux. The two men change for fresh horses at every post. At the next post, there are no fresh horses available. Aramis starts freaking out again, convinced that the King is somehow behind this, when he remembers that Athos lives nearby. Aramis asks the postmaster for transportation to Athos's house. Porthos is now convinced they are on a secret mission for the King. Athos and his son, Raoul have become closer since La Valliere left Raoul for King Louis. Father and son now spend their time talking about La Valliere, King Louis XIV, and the institution of the monarchy. They are engaged in talking about one of these topics when a bell rings, signaling the arrival of visitors.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXV. In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Duchy. Aramis and Porthos, having profited by the time granted them by Fouquet, did honor to the French cavalry by their speed. Porthos did not clearly understand on what kind of mission he was forced to display so much velocity; but as he saw Aramis spurring on furiously, he, Porthos, spurred on in the same way. They had soon, in this manner, placed twelve leagues between them and Vaux; they were then obliged to change horses, and organize a sort of post arrangement. It was during a relay that Porthos ventured to interrogate Aramis discreetly. "Hush!" replied the latter, "know only that our fortune depends on our speed." As if Porthos had still been the musketeer, without a sou or a _maille_ of 1626, he pushed forward. That magic word "fortune" always means something in the human ear. It means _enough_ for those who have nothing; it means _too much_ for those who have enough. "I shall be made a duke!" said Porthos, aloud. He was speaking to himself. "That is possible," replied Aramis, smiling after his own fashion, as Porthos's horse passed him. Aramis felt, notwithstanding, as though his brain were on fire; the activity of the body had not yet succeeded in subduing that of the mind. All there is of raging passion, mental toothache or mortal threat, raged, gnawed and grumbled in the thoughts of the unhappy prelate. His countenance exhibited visible traces of this rude combat. Free on the highway to abandon himself to every impression of the moment, Aramis did not fail to swear at every start of his horse, at every inequality in the road. Pale, at times inundated with boiling sweats, then again dry and icy, he flogged his horses till the blood streamed from their sides. Porthos, whose dominant fault was not sensibility, groaned at this. Thus traveled they on for eight long hours, and then arrived at Orleans. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Aramis, on observing this, judged that nothing showed pursuit to be a possibility. It would be without example that a troop capable of taking him and Porthos should be furnished with relays sufficient to perform forty leagues in eight hours. Thus, admitting pursuit, which was not at all manifest, the fugitives were five hours in advance of their pursuers. Aramis thought that there might be no imprudence in taking a little rest, but that to continue would make the matter more certain. Twenty leagues more, performed with the same rapidity, twenty more leagues devoured, and no one, not even D'Artagnan, could overtake the enemies of the king. Aramis felt obliged, therefore, to inflict upon Porthos the pain of mounting on horseback again. They rode on till seven o'clock in the evening, and had only one post more between them and Blois. But here a diabolical accident alarmed Aramis greatly. There were no horses at the post. The prelate asked himself by what infernal machination his enemies had succeeded in depriving him of the means of going further,--he who never recognized chance as a deity, who found a cause for every accident, preferred believing that the refusal of the postmaster, at such an hour, in such a country, was the consequence of an order emanating from above: an order given with a view of stopping short the king-maker in the midst of his flight. But at the moment he was about to fly into a passion, so as to procure either a horse or an explanation, he was struck with the recollection that the Comte de la Fere lived in the neighborhood. "I am not traveling," said he; "I do not want horses for a whole stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my acquaintance who resides near this place." "What nobleman?" asked the postmaster. "M. le Comte de la Fere." "Oh!" replied the postmaster, uncovering with respect, "a very worthy nobleman. But, whatever may be my desire to make myself agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort." "Indeed!" said Aramis, much disappointed. "Only," continued the postmaster, "if you will put up with a little carriage I have, I will harness an old blind horse who has still his legs left, and peradventure will draw you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere." "It is worth a louis," said Aramis. "No, monsieur, such a ride is worth no more than a crown; that is what M. Grimaud, the comte's intendant, always pays me when he makes use of that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends." "As you please," said Aramis, "particularly as regards disobliging the Comte de la Fere; only I think I have a right to give you a louis for your idea." "Oh! doubtless," replied the postmaster with delight. And he himself harnessed the ancient horse to the creaking carriage. In the meantime Porthos was curious to behold. He imagined he had discovered a clew to the secret, and he felt pleased, because a visit to Athos, in the first place, promised him much satisfaction, and, in the next, gave him the hope of finding at the same time a good bed and good supper. The master, having got the carriage ready, ordered one of his men to drive the strangers to La Fere. Porthos took his seat by the side of Aramis, whispering in his ear, "I understand." "Aha!" said Aramis, "and what do you understand, my friend?" "We are going, on the part of the king, to make some great proposal to Athos." "Pooh!" said Aramis. "You need tell me nothing about it," added the worthy Porthos, endeavoring to reseat himself so as to avoid the jolting, "you need tell me nothing, I shall guess." "Well! do, my friend; guess away." They arrived at Athos's dwelling about nine o'clock in the evening, favored by a splendid moon. This cheerful light rejoiced Porthos beyond expression; but Aramis appeared annoyed by it in an equal degree. He could not help showing something of this to Porthos, who replied--"Ay! ay! I guess how it is! the mission is a secret one." These were his last words in the carriage. The driver interrupted him by saying, "Gentlemen, we have arrived." Porthos and his companion alighted before the gate of the little chateau, where we are about to meet again our old acquaintances Athos and Bragelonne, the latter of whom had disappeared since the discovery of the infidelity of La Valliere. If there be one saying truer than another, it is this: great griefs contain within themselves the germ of consolation. This painful wound, inflicted upon Raoul, had drawn him nearer to his father again; and God knows how sweet were the consolations which flowed from the eloquent mouth and generous heart of Athos. The wound was not cicatrized, but Athos, by dint of conversing with his son and mixing a little more of his life with that of the young man, had brought him to understand that this pang of a first infidelity is necessary to every human existence; and that no one has loved without encountering it. Raoul listened, again and again, but never understood. Nothing replaces in the deeply afflicted heart the remembrance and thought of the beloved object. Raoul then replied to the reasoning of his father: "Monsieur, all that you tell me is true; I believe that no one has suffered in the affections of the heart so much as you have; but you are a man too great by reason of intelligence, and too severely tried by adverse fortune not to allow for the weakness of the soldier who suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute that will not be paid a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief that I may forget myself in it, that I may drown even my reason in it." "Raoul! Raoul!" "Listen, monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that Louise, the chastest and most innocent of women, has been able to so basely deceive a man so honest and so true a lover as myself. Never can I persuade myself that I see that sweet and noble mask change into a hypocritical lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous! Ah! monseigneur, that idea is much more cruel to me than Raoul abandoned--Raoul unhappy!" Athos then employed the heroic remedy. He defended Louise against Raoul, and justified her perfidy by her love. "A woman who would have yielded to a king because he is a king," said he, "would deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise loves Louis. Young, both, they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love absolves everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with sincerity." And when he had dealt this severe poniard-thrust, Athos, with a sigh, saw Raoul bound away beneath the rankling wound, and fly to the thickest recesses of the wood, or the solitude of his chamber, whence, an hour after, he would return, pale, trembling, but subdued. Then, coming up to Athos with a smile, he would kiss his hand, like the dog who, having been beaten, caresses a respected master, to redeem his fault. Raoul redeemed nothing but his weakness, and only confessed his grief. Thus passed away the days that followed that scene in which Athos had so violently shaken the indomitable pride of the king. Never, when conversing with his son, did he make any allusion to that scene; never did he give him the details of that vigorous lecture, which might, perhaps, have consoled the young man, by showing him his rival humbled. Athos did not wish that the offended lover should forget the respect due to his king. And when Bragelonne, ardent, angry, and melancholy, spoke with contempt of royal words, of the equivocal faith which certain madmen draw from promises that emanate from thrones, when, passing over two centuries, with that rapidity of a bird that traverses a narrow strait to go from one continent to the other, Raoul ventured to predict the time in which kings would be esteemed as less than other men, Athos said to him, in his serene, persuasive voice, "You are right, Raoul; all that you say will happen; kings will lose their privileges, as stars which have survived their aeons lose their splendor. But when that moment comes, Raoul, we shall be dead. And remember well what I say to you. In this world, all, men, women, and kings, must live for the present. We can only live for the future for God." This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were, as usual, conversing, and walking backwards and forwards in the long alley of limes in the park, when the bell which served to announce to the comte either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung; and, without attaching any importance to it, he turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley they found themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos.

Chapter Twenty-Five: In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Dukedom

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-five-in-which-porthos-thinks-he-is-pursuing-a-dukedom

Porthos and Aramis get away from Vaux as fast as possible. Eventually, Porthos asks his friend what the deal is. Aramis responds that their fortune depends on their speed, and Porthos naturally assumes he will be receiving a dukedom. Aramis is on edge and freaking out, as might be expected from a man who got caught trying to lock the King up in prison. He pushes the two of them forward and away from Vaux. The two men change for fresh horses at every post. At the next post, there are no fresh horses available. Aramis starts freaking out again, convinced that the King is somehow behind this, when he remembers that Athos lives nearby. Aramis asks the postmaster for transportation to Athos's house. Porthos is now convinced they are on a secret mission for the King. Athos and his son, Raoul have become closer since La Valliere left Raoul for King Louis. Father and son now spend their time talking about La Valliere, King Louis XIV, and the institution of the monarchy. They are engaged in talking about one of these topics when a bell rings, signaling the arrival of visitors.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_25_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 26

chapter 26: the last adieus

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Six: The Last Adieus", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-six-the-last-adieus", "summary": "Porthos is cheerful and Aramis looks stressed. Porthos brags that he will soon be a duke. Aramis asks to speak to Athos in private, then tells him the whole story. Aramis is convinced that he can salvage the situation through his allies in Spain. He invites Athos to join them. Athos refuses. He asks Aramis to promise to look after Porthos, and loans his two best horses to his friends. As Aramis and Porthos saddle up for their departure, Athos is overcome with grief and hugs his two friends good-bye. He tells Raoul he believes it will be the last time he will see his friends. Raoul replies that he had the same thought. The two men are sad. Athos's friend the Duke de Beaufort shows up for a welcome visit.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXVI. The Last Adieux. Raoul uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself being a question for Aramis, he immediately said, "My friend, we have not long to remain with you." "Ah!" said the comte. "Only time to tell you of my good fortune," interrupted Porthos. "Ah!" said Raoul. Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose somber air had already appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news Porthos hinted. "What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it," said Raoul, with a smile. "The king has made me a duke," said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, "a duke by _brevet_." But the _asides_ of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos's permission to say a word to his friend in private, "My dear Athos," he began, "you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble." "With grief and trouble, my dear friend?" cried the comte; "oh, what?" "In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued." "You are pursued!--a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?" "The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined." "Well, but Porthos--this title of duke--what does all that mean?" "That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He threw himself into it, as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself--as completely ruined as I am." "Good God!" And Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling complacently. "I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me," continued Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. "It was a great idea," said he, "but a great error." "For which I am punished, Athos." "Therefore, I will not tell you my entire thought." "Tell it, nevertheless." "It is a crime." "A capital crime; I know it is. _Lese majeste_." "Porthos! poor Porthos!" "What would you advise me to do? Success, as I have told you, was certain." "M. Fouquet is an honest man." "And I a fool for having so ill-judged him," said Aramis. "Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, millstone that grinds the world! and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, between its wheels." "Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of acting?" "I am taking away Porthos. The king will never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought he was serving the king, whilst acting as he has done. His head would pay my fault. It shall not, must not, be so." "You are taking him away, whither?" "To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then, I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have many relations." "You? in England?" "Yes, or else in Spain, where I have still more." "But, our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the king will confiscate all his property." "All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV., and restore Porthos to favor." "You have credit, seemingly, Aramis!" said Athos, with a discreet air. "Much; and at the service of my friends." These words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand. "Thank you," replied the comte. "And while we are on this head," said Aramis, "you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the king. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see, I guarantee upon my honor, that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII., who is an Infante likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV. would have no inclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for an arrangement, the result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a duchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?" "No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the king with; it is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority over royal races. Doing what you propose, I should become the obliged of the king; I should certainly be the gainer on that ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience.--No, thank you!" "Then give me two things, Athos,--your absolution." "Oh! I give it you if you really wished to avenge the weak and oppressed against the oppressor." "That is sufficient for me," said Aramis, with a blush which was lost in the obscurity of the night. "And now, give me your two best horses to gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of the Duc de Beaufort being traveling in this country." "You shall have the two best horses, Aramis; and again I recommend poor Porthos strongly to your care." "Oh! I have no fear on that score. One word more: do you think I am maneuvering for him as I ought?" "The evil being committed, yes; for the king would not pardon him, and you have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not abandon you, he being himself compromised, notwithstanding his heroic action." "You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once, which would proclaim my fear and guilt, that is why I remain upon French ground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be, English, Spanish, or Roman; all will depend, with me, on the standard I shall think proper to unfurl." "How so?" "It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and, so long as I defend it, nobody can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M. Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature of M. Fouquet." "That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The king is both cunning and strong." Aramis smiled. "I again recommend Porthos to you," repeated the count, with a sort of cold persistence. "Whatever becomes of me, count," replied Aramis, in the same tone, "our brother Porthos will fare as I do--or _better_." Athos bowed whilst pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace Porthos with emotion. "I was born lucky, was I not?" murmured the latter, transported with happiness, as he folded his cloak round him. "Come, my dear friend," said Aramis. Raoul had gone out to give orders for the saddling of the horses. The group was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the point of departure, and something like a mist passed before his eyes and weighed upon his heart. "It is strange," thought he, "whence comes the inclination I feel to embrace Porthos once more?" At that moment Porthos turned round, and he came towards his old friend with open arms. This last endearment was tender as in youth, as in times when hearts were warm--life happy. And then Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once more to throw his arms round the neck of Athos. The latter watched them along the high-road, elongated by the shade, in their white cloaks. Like phantoms they seemed to enlarge on their departure from the earth, and it was not in the mist, but in the declivity of the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the perspective, both seemed to have given a spring with their feet, which made them vanish as if evaporated into cloud-land. Then Athos, with a very heavy heart, returned towards the house, saying to Bragelonne, "Raoul, I don't know what it is that has just told me that I have seen those two for the last time." "It does not astonish me, monsieur, that you should have such a thought," replied the young man, "for I have at this moment the same, and think also that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon and d'Herblay again." "Oh! you," replied the count, "you speak like a man rendered sad by a different cause; you see everything in black; you are young, and if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will because they no longer exist in the world in which you have yet many years to pass. But I--" Raoul shook his head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the count, without either of them finding another word in their hearts, which were ready to overflow. All at once a noise of horses and voices, from the extremity of the road to Blois, attracted their attention that way. Flambeaux-bearers shook their torches merrily among the trees of their route, and turned round, from time to time, to avoid distancing the horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust of a dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the middle of the night with the melancholy and almost funereal disappearance of the two shadows of Aramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but he had hardly reached the parterre, when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all the flambeaux stopped and appeared to enflame the road. A cry was heard of "M. le Duc de Beaufort"--and Athos sprang towards the door of his house. But the duke had already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him. "I am here, monseigneur," said Athos. "Ah! good evening, dear count," said the prince, with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. "Is it too late for a friend?" "Ah! my dear prince, come in!" said the count. And, M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Last Adieus

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-six-the-last-adieus

Porthos is cheerful and Aramis looks stressed. Porthos brags that he will soon be a duke. Aramis asks to speak to Athos in private, then tells him the whole story. Aramis is convinced that he can salvage the situation through his allies in Spain. He invites Athos to join them. Athos refuses. He asks Aramis to promise to look after Porthos, and loans his two best horses to his friends. As Aramis and Porthos saddle up for their departure, Athos is overcome with grief and hugs his two friends good-bye. He tells Raoul he believes it will be the last time he will see his friends. Raoul replies that he had the same thought. The two men are sad. Athos's friend the Duke de Beaufort shows up for a welcome visit.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_26_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 27

chapter 27: m. de beaufort

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Seven: M. de Beaufort", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-seven-m-de-beaufort", "summary": "Beaufort is about to speak privately with Athos when he catches sight of Raoul and invites him to join the conversation. Beaufort explains that he is on his way to fight Arabs in Africa, then asks Raoul to fetch some wine. While Raoul is gone, Beaufort asks Athos to detail his plans for Raoul's future. The two men gossip a bit about La Valliere, then Athos admits that he wants to keep Raoul close to home, since Athos cares about him. Raoul enters the room with Grimaud, Athos's servant, who is bearing a bottle of wine. Beaufort takes a sip, then offers his glass to Raoul, saying that his glass bears good luck. He asks Raoul to make a wish. Raoul tells Beaufort that he wishes to accompany him to Africa. Athos is upset, but respects his son's decision. Beaufort says that Raoul will be his aide-de-camp and will be treated like his son. Beaufort mentions that if he is chastised for taking too much time, he will reply that he gained a recruit. Raoul tells Beaufort that if he is planning on having this exchange with the King, it will be untrue, for Raoul will not serve the King. Beaufort points out that these days everyone serves the King. Athos is momentarily optimistic that the prospect of serving the King will deter Raoul from service. But Raoul reveals his plan to become a Knight of Malta and serve God instead of the King. Beaufort prepares to leave, and tells Athos to meet him in Paris. Father and son are left staring at each other. They are not prone to emotional displays. Raoul finally points out that he is going to die soon, and it might as well be far from home. Athos says Raoul is a free man and can make his final decision when they meet Beaufort in Paris .", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXVII. Monsieur de Beaufort. The prince turned round at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave him alone with Athos, was shutting the door, and preparing to go with the other officers into an adjoining apartment. "Is that the young man I have heard M. le Prince speak so highly of?" asked M. de Beaufort. "It is, monseigneur." "He is quite the soldier; let him stay, count, we cannot spare him." "Remain, Raoul, since monseigneur permits it," said Athos. "_Ma foi!_ he is tall and handsome!" continued the duke. "Will you give him to me, monseigneur, if I ask him of you?" "How am I to understand you, monseigneur?" said Athos. "Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell." "Farewell!" "Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to become?" "Why, I suppose, what you have always been, monseigneur,--a valiant prince, and an excellent gentleman." "I am going to become an African prince,--a Bedouin gentleman. The king is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs." "What is this you tell me, monseigneur?" "Strange, is it not? I, the Parisian _par essence_, I who have reigned in the faubourgs, and have been called King of the Halles,--I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the minarets of Gigelli; from a Frondeur I am becoming an adventurer!" "Oh, monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that--" "It would not be credible, would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and we have but to bid each other farewell. This is what comes of getting into favor again." "Into favor?" "Yes. You smile. Ah, my dear count, do you know why I have accepted this enterprise, can you guess?" "Because your highness loves glory above--everything." "Oh! no; there is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no glory in that, for my part, and it is more probable that I shall there meet with something else. But I have wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear count, that my life should have that last _facet_, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have seen myself make during fifty years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have been reckoned among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV. within me, to be great admiral of France--and then to go and get killed at Gigelli, among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors." "Monseigneur, you harp with strange persistence on that theme," said Athos, in an agitated voice. "How can you suppose that so brilliant a destiny will be extinguished in that remote and miserable scene?" "And can you believe, upright and simple as you are, that if I go into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavor to come out of it without ridicule? Shall I not give the world cause to speak of me? And to be spoken of, nowadays, when there are Monsieur le Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others, my contemporaries, I, admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV., king of Paris, have I anything left but to get myself killed? _Cordieu!_ I will be talked of, I tell you; I shall be killed whether or not; if not there, somewhere else." "Why, monseigneur, this is mere exaggeration; and hitherto you have shown nothing exaggerated save in bravery." "_Peste!_ my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, poisoned arrows, as my ancestor St. Louis did. Do you know those fellows still use poisoned arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy, and you know that when I once make up my mind to a thing, I perform it in grim earnest." "Yes, you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes." "Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, _a propos_, I turn this way and that, without seeing my old friend, M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?" "M. Vaugrimaud is still your highness's most respectful servant," said Athos, smiling. "I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, count." "Ah! monseigneur! monseigneur!" "And you may understand that if Grimaud's name were to appear in my will--" The duke began to laugh; then addressing Raoul, who, from the commencement of this conversation, had sunk into a profound reverie, "Young man," said he, "I know there is to be found here a certain De Vouvray wine, and I believe--" Raoul left the room precipitately to order the wine. In the meantime M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos. "What do you mean to do with him?" asked he. "Nothing at present, monseigneur." "Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the king for La Valliere." "Yes, monseigneur." "That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La Valliere. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?" "No, monseigneur," said Athos. "Do you know whom she reminds me of?" "Does she remind your highness of any one?" "She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the Halles." "Ah! ah!" said Athos, smiling. "Oh! the good old times," added M. de Beaufort. "Yes, La Valliere reminds me of that girl." "Who had a son, had she not?" [3] "I believe she had," replied the duke, with careless _naivete_ and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. "Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe." "Yes, he is my son, monseigneur." "And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets." "Still better, monseigneur, he abstains." "You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come, give him to me." "My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he likes to remain--" "Well, well," replied the duke. "I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the stuff of which marechals of France are made; I have seen more than one produced from less likely rough material." "That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the king who makes marechals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the king." Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the plateau with one glass and a bottle of the duke's favorite wine. On seeing his old _protege_, the duke uttered an exclamation of pleasure. "Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!" said he; "how goes it?" The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble interlocutor. "Two old friends!" said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud's shoulder after a vigorous fashion; which was followed by another still more profound and delighted bow from Grimaud. "But what is this, count, only one glass?" "I should not think of drinking with your highness, unless your highness permitted me," replied Athos, with noble humility. "_Cordieu!_ you were right to bring only one glass, we will both drink out of it, like two brothers in arms. Begin, count." "Do me the honor," said Athos, gently putting back the glass. "You are a charming friend," replied the Duc de Beaufort, who drank, and passed the goblet to his companion. "But that is not all," continued he, "I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me, vicomte," said he to Raoul; "wish for something while drinking out of my glass, and may the black plague grab me if what you wish does not come to pass!" He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily moistened his lips, and replied with the same promptitude: "I have wished for something, monseigneur." His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile. "And what have you wished for?" replied the duke, sinking back into his fauteuil, whilst with one hand he returned the bottle to Grimaud, and with the other gave him a purse. "Will you promise me, monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?" "_Pardieu!_ That is agreed upon." "I wished, monsieur le duc, to go with you to Gigelli." Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The duke looked at his friend, as if desirous to assist him to parry this unexpected blow. "That is difficult, my dear vicomte, very difficult," added he, in a lower tone of voice. "Pardon me, monseigneur, I have been indiscreet," replied Raoul, in a firm voice; "but as you yourself invited me to wish--" "To wish to leave me?" said Athos. "Oh! monsieur--can you imagine--" "Well, _mordieu!_" cried the duke, "the young vicomte is right! What can he do here? He will go moldy with grief." Raoul blushed, and the excitable prince continued: "War is a distraction: we gain everything by it; we can only lose one thing by it--life--then so much the worse!" "That is to say, memory," said Raoul, eagerly; "and that is to say, so much the better!" He repented of having spoken so warmly when he saw Athos rise and open the window; which was, doubtless, to conceal his emotion. Raoul sprang towards the comte, but the latter had already overcome his emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and impassible countenance. "Well, come," said the duke, "let us see! Shall he go, or shall he not? If he goes, comte, he shall be my aide-de-camp, my son." "Monseigneur!" cried Raoul, bending his knee. "Monseigneur!" cried Athos, taking the hand of the duke; "Raoul shall do just as he likes." "Oh! no, monsieur, just as you like," interrupted the young man. "_Par la corbleu!_" said the prince in his turn, "it is neither the comte nor the vicomte that shall have his way, it is I. I will take him away. The marine offers a superb fortune, my friend." Raoul smiled again so sadly, that this time Athos felt his heart penetrated by it, and replied to him by a severe look. Raoul comprehended it all; he recovered his calmness, and was so guarded, that not another word escaped him. The duke at length rose, on observing the advanced hour, and said, with animation, "I am in great haste, but if I am told I have lost time in talking with a friend, I will reply I have gained--on the balance--a most excellent recruit." "Pardon me, monsieur le duc," interrupted Raoul, "do not tell the king so, for it is not the king I wish to serve." "Eh! my friend, whom, then, will you serve? The times are past when you might have said, 'I belong to M. de Beaufort.' No, nowadays, we all belong to the king, great or small. Therefore, if you serve on board my vessels, there can be nothing equivocal about it, my dear vicomte; it will be the king you will serve." Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for the reply about to be made to this embarrassing question by Raoul, the intractable enemy of the king, his rival. The father hoped that the obstacle would overcome the desire. He was thankful to M. de Beaufort, whose lightness or generous reflection had thrown an impediment in the way of the departure of a son, now his only joy. But Raoul, still firm and tranquil, replied: "Monsieur le duc, the objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honor to take me with you; but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the king: I shall serve God!" "God! how so?" said the duke and Athos together. "My intention is to make profession, and become a knight of Malta," added Bragelonne, letting fall, one by one, words more icy than the drops which fall from the bare trees after the tempests of winter. [4] Under this blow Athos staggered and the prince himself was moved. Grimaud uttered a heavy groan, and let fall the bottle, which was broken without anybody paying attention. M. de Beaufort looked the young man in the face, and read plainly, though his eyes were cast down, the fire of resolution before which everything must give way. As to Athos, he was too well acquainted with that tender, but inflexible soul; he could not hope to make it deviate from the fatal road it had just chosen. He could only press the hand the duke held out to him. "Comte, I shall set off in two days for Toulon," said M. de Beaufort. "Will you meet me at Paris, in order that I may know your determination?" "I will have the honor of thanking you there, _mon prince_, for all your kindness," replied the comte. "And be sure to bring the vicomte with you, whether he follows me or does not follow me," added the duke; "he has my word, and I only ask yours." Having thrown a little balm upon the wound of the paternal heart, he pulled the ear of Grimaud, whose eyes sparkled more than usual, and regained his escort in the parterre. The horses, rested and refreshed, set off with spirit through the lovely night, and soon placed a considerable distance between their master and the chateau. Athos and Bragelonne were again face to face. Eleven o'clock was striking. The father and son preserved a profound silence towards each other, where an intelligent observer would have expected cries and tears. But these two men were of such a nature that all emotion following their final resolutions plunged itself so deep into their hearts that it was lost forever. They passed, then, silently and almost breathlessly, the hour that preceded midnight. The clock, by striking, alone pointed out to them how many minutes had lasted the painful journey made by their souls in the immensity of their remembrances of the past and fear of the future. Athos rose first, saying, "it is late, then.... Till to-morrow." Raoul rose, and in his turn embraced his father. The latter held him clasped to his breast, and said, in a tremulous voice, "In two days, you will have left me, my son--left me forever, Raoul!" "Monsieur," replied the young man, "I had formed a determination, that of piercing my heart with my sword; but you would have thought that cowardly. I have renounced that determination, and _therefore_ we must part." "You leave me desolate by going, Raoul." "Listen to me again, monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to live thus. Send me away quickly, monsieur, or you will see me basely die before your eyes--in your house--this is stronger than my will--stronger than my strength--you may plainly see that within one month I have lived thirty years, and that I approach the end of my life." "Then," said Athos, coldly, "you go with the intention of getting killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not lie!" Raoul grew deadly pale, and remained silent for two seconds, which were to his father two hours of agony. Then, all at once: "Monsieur," said he, "I have promised to devote myself to God. In exchange for the sacrifice I make of my youth and liberty, I will only ask of Him one thing, and that is, to preserve me for you, because you are the only tie which attaches me to this world. God alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you everything, and that nothing ought to stand in my esteem before you." Athos embraced his son tenderly, and said: "You have just replied to me on the word of honor of an honest man; in two days we shall be with M. de Beaufort at Paris, and you will then do what will be proper for you to do. You are free, Raoul; adieu." And he slowly gained his bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and passed the night in the alley of limes.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: M. de Beaufort

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-seven-m-de-beaufort

Beaufort is about to speak privately with Athos when he catches sight of Raoul and invites him to join the conversation. Beaufort explains that he is on his way to fight Arabs in Africa, then asks Raoul to fetch some wine. While Raoul is gone, Beaufort asks Athos to detail his plans for Raoul's future. The two men gossip a bit about La Valliere, then Athos admits that he wants to keep Raoul close to home, since Athos cares about him. Raoul enters the room with Grimaud, Athos's servant, who is bearing a bottle of wine. Beaufort takes a sip, then offers his glass to Raoul, saying that his glass bears good luck. He asks Raoul to make a wish. Raoul tells Beaufort that he wishes to accompany him to Africa. Athos is upset, but respects his son's decision. Beaufort says that Raoul will be his aide-de-camp and will be treated like his son. Beaufort mentions that if he is chastised for taking too much time, he will reply that he gained a recruit. Raoul tells Beaufort that if he is planning on having this exchange with the King, it will be untrue, for Raoul will not serve the King. Beaufort points out that these days everyone serves the King. Athos is momentarily optimistic that the prospect of serving the King will deter Raoul from service. But Raoul reveals his plan to become a Knight of Malta and serve God instead of the King. Beaufort prepares to leave, and tells Athos to meet him in Paris. Father and son are left staring at each other. They are not prone to emotional displays. Raoul finally points out that he is going to die soon, and it might as well be far from home. Athos says Raoul is a free man and can make his final decision when they meet Beaufort in Paris .

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_28_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 29

chapter 29: planchet's inventory

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Nine: Planchet's Inventory", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-twenty-nine-planchets-inventory", "summary": "We learn that Planchet, who once served as D'Artagnan's valet, now works as a grocer. Athos shows up at Planchet's grocery to find all the employees in the midst of taking an inventory. Athos learns that Planchet is packing his bags; he asks to speak with the former valet. Raoul arrives. Planchet tells Athos that he is selling his business and moving to the country. Planchet points out that they should talk in better quarters. Athos and Raoul begin to ascend the staircase to Planchet's lodgings. Planchet hesitates, but Athos assumes it is because his lodgings are humble. When Raoul opens the door, he surprises a woman getting dressed. The subsequent interaction on the stairs is even more awkward, as Planchet tries to explain and the gentlemen don't really want to hear it. Once the woman, whose name is Truchen, has had time to get dressed, the men go back inside. She curtsies to them and leaves. Planchet plans to marry the woman. Athos then directs the conversation to D'Artagnan, and learns that his friend has disappeared. After a little coaxing, Planchet confesses that D'Artagnan did visit the grocery the other day and spent some time consulting a map. He shows the map to Athos and Raoul, who discern from the pinpricks in the paper that D'Artagnan is heading in the direction of Cannes. The two men are pleased, as D'Artagnan seems to be traveling along the same road they will shortly be taking. They leave Planchet and head to meet M. de Beaufort.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXIX. Planchet's Inventory. Athos, during the visit made to the Luxembourg by Raoul, had gone to Planchet's residence to inquire after D'Artagnan. The comte, on arriving at the Rue des Lombards, found the shop of the grocer in great confusion; but it was not the encumberment of a lucky sale, or that of an arrival of goods. Planchet was not enthroned, as usual, on sacks and barrels. No. A young man with a pen behind his ear, and another with an account-book in his hand, were setting down a number of figures, whilst a third counted and weighed. An inventory was being taken. Athos, who had no knowledge of commercial matters, felt himself a little embarrassed by material obstacles and the majesty of those who were thus employed. He saw several customers sent away, and asked himself whether he, who came to buy nothing, would not be more properly deemed importunate. He therefore asked very politely if he could see M. Planchet. The reply, quite carelessly given, was that M. Planchet was packing his trunks. These words surprised Athos. "What! his trunks?" said he; "is M. Planchet going away?" "Yes, monsieur, directly." "Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte de la Fere desires to speak to him for a moment." At the mention of the comte's name, one of the young men, no doubt accustomed to hear it pronounced with respect, immediately went to inform Planchet. It was at this moment that Raoul, after his painful scene with Montalais and De Guiche, arrived at the grocer's house. Planchet left his job directly he received the comte's message. "Ah! monsieur le comte!" exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! What good star brings you here?" "My dear Planchet," said Athos, pressing the hand of his son, whose sad look he silently observed,--"we are come to learn of you--But in what confusion do I find you! You are as white as a miller; where have you been rummaging?" "Ah, _diable!_ take care, monsieur; don't come near me till I have well shaken myself." "What for? Flour or dust only whiten." "No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic." "Arsenic?" "Yes; I am taking my precautions against rats." "Ay, I suppose in an establishment like this, rats play a conspicuous part." "It is not with this establishment I concern myself, monsieur le comte. The rats have robbed me of more here than they will ever rob me of again." "What do you mean?" "Why, you may have observed, monsieur, my inventory is being taken." "Are you leaving trade, then?" "Eh! _mon Dieu!_ yes. I have disposed of my business to one of my young men." "Bah! you are rich, then, I suppose?" "Monsieur, I have taken a dislike to the city; I don't know whether it is because I am growing old, and as M. d'Artagnan one day said, when we grow old we more often think of the adventures of our youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted towards the country and gardening. I was a countryman formerly." And Planchet marked this confession with a rather pretentious laugh for a man making profession of humility. Athos made a gesture of approval, and then added: "You are going to buy an estate, then?" "I have bought one, monsieur." "Ah! that is still better." "A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty acres of land round it." "Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your acquisition." "But, monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust makes you cough. _Corbleu!_ I do not wish to poison the most worthy gentleman in the kingdom." Athos did not smile at this little pleasantry which Planchet had aimed at him, in order to try his strength in mundane facetiousness. "Yes," said Athos, "let us have a little talk by ourselves--in your own room, for example. You have a room, have you not?" "Certainly, monsieur le comte." "Upstairs, perhaps?" And Athos, seeing Planchet a little embarrassed, wished to relieve him by going first. "It is--but--" said Planchet, hesitating. Athos was mistaken in the cause of this hesitation, and, attributing it to a fear the grocer might have of offering humble hospitality, "Never mind, never mind," said he, still going up, "the dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not expected to be a palace. Come on." Raoul nimbly preceded him, and entered first. Two cries were heard simultaneously--we may say three. One of these cries dominated the others; it emanated from a woman. Another proceeded from the mouth of Raoul; it was an exclamation of surprise. He had no sooner uttered it than he shut the door sharply. The third was from fright; it came from Planchet. "I ask your pardon!" added he; "madame is dressing." Raoul had, no doubt, seen that what Planchet said was true, for he turned round to go downstairs again. "Madame--" said Athos. "Oh! pardon me, Planchet, I did not know that you had upstairs--" "It is Truchen," added Planchet, blushing a little. "It is whoever you please, my good Planchet; but pardon my rudeness." "No, no; go up now, gentlemen." "We will do no such thing," said Athos. "Oh! madame, having notice, has had time--" "No, Planchet; farewell!" "Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the staircase, or by going away without having sat down." "If we had known you had a lady upstairs," replied Athos, with his customary coolness, "we would have asked permission to pay our respects to her." Planchet was so disconcerted by this little extravagance, that he forced the passage, and himself opened the door to admit the comte and his son. Truchen was quite dressed: in the costume of the shopkeeper's wife, rich yet coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes. She left the apartment after two courtesies, and went down into the shop--but not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet's gentlemen visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and therefore turned the conversation accordingly. Planchet, on his part, was burning to give explanations, which Athos avoided. But, as certain tenacities are stronger than others, Athos was forced to hear Planchet recite his idyls of felicity, translated into a language more chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Truchen had charmed the years of his advancing age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth did to Boaz. "You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property." "If I had one he would have three hundred thousand livres," said Planchet. "Humph! you must have one, then," said Athos, phlegmatically, "if only to prevent your little fortune being lost." This word _little fortune_ placed Planchet in his rank, like the voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a _piqueur_ in the regiment of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos perceived that the grocer would marry Truchen, and, in spite of fate, establish a family. This appeared the more evident to him when he learned that the young man to whom Planchet was selling the business was her cousin. Having heard all that was necessary of the happy prospects of the retiring grocer, "What is M. d'Artagnan about?" said he; "he is not at the Louvre." "Ah! monsieur le comte, Monsieur d'Artagnan has disappeared." "Disappeared!" said Athos, in surprise. "Oh! monsieur, we know what that means." "But _I_ do not know." "Whenever M. d'Artagnan disappears it is always for some mission or some great affair." "Has he said anything to you about it?" "Never." "You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were you not?" "On account of the speculation." said Planchet, heedlessly. "The speculation!" "I mean--" interrupted Planchet, quite confused. "Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of your master are in question; the interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the musketeers is not here, and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d'Artagnan, we will take our leave of you. _Au revoir_, Planchet, _au revoir_. Let us be gone, Raoul." "Monsieur le comte, I wish I were able to tell you--" "Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with discretion." This word "servant" struck rudely on the ears of the _demi-millionnaire_ Planchet, but natural respect and _bonhomie_ prevailed over pride. "There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, monsieur le comte, M. d'Artagnan came here the other day--" "Aha?" "And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart." "You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it." "And the chart is there as a proof," added Planchet, who went to fetch from the neighboring wall, where it was suspended by a twist, forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which it was fastened, the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the comte, was a map of France, upon which the practiced eye of that gentleman discovered an itinerary, marked out with small pins; wherever a pin was missing, a hole denoted its having been there. Athos, by following with his eye the pins and holes, saw that D'Artagnan had taken the direction of the south, and gone as far as the Mediterranean, towards Toulon. It was near Cannes that the marks and the punctured places ceased. The Comte de la Fere puzzled his brains for some time, to divine what the musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive could have led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos suggested nothing. His accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul's researches were not more successful than his father's. "Never mind," said the young man to the comte, who silently, and with his finger, had made him understand the route of D'Artagnan; "we must confess that there is a Providence always occupied in connecting our destiny with that of M. d'Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes, and you, monsieur, will, at least, conduct me as far as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route than on this map." Then, taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shopmen, even the cousin of Truchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer's shop, they saw a coach, the future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen and Planchet's bags of crowns. "Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses," said Raoul, in a melancholy tone. "Road to Fontainebleau!" cried Planchet to his coachman.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Planchet's Inventory

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

We learn that Planchet, who once served as D'Artagnan's valet, now works as a grocer. Athos shows up at Planchet's grocery to find all the employees in the midst of taking an inventory. Athos learns that Planchet is packing his bags; he asks to speak with the former valet. Raoul arrives. Planchet tells Athos that he is selling his business and moving to the country. Planchet points out that they should talk in better quarters. Athos and Raoul begin to ascend the staircase to Planchet's lodgings. Planchet hesitates, but Athos assumes it is because his lodgings are humble. When Raoul opens the door, he surprises a woman getting dressed. The subsequent interaction on the stairs is even more awkward, as Planchet tries to explain and the gentlemen don't really want to hear it. Once the woman, whose name is Truchen, has had time to get dressed, the men go back inside. She curtsies to them and leaves. Planchet plans to marry the woman. Athos then directs the conversation to D'Artagnan, and learns that his friend has disappeared. After a little coaxing, Planchet confesses that D'Artagnan did visit the grocery the other day and spent some time consulting a map. He shows the map to Athos and Raoul, who discern from the pinpricks in the paper that D'Artagnan is heading in the direction of Cannes. The two men are pleased, as D'Artagnan seems to be traveling along the same road they will shortly be taking. They leave Planchet and head to meet M. de Beaufort.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_29_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 30

chapter 30: the inventory of m. de beaufort

{"name": "Chapter Thirty: The Inventory of M. de Beaufort", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-the-inventory-of-m-de-beaufort", "summary": "The narrator notes that saying good-bye to Planchet was like saying good-bye to Paris for both Raoul and Athos. Their only remaining errand is to visit M. de Beaufort's palatial residence and sort out all the details for departure. Like Planchet, M. de Beaufort, , is making an inventory of all his belongings. It turns out that he owes almost two million, so he is trying to sell off and give away all of his belongings, and then borrow even more money so he can finance the expedition to Africa. M. de Beaufort welcomes his two visitors, and hands Raoul his commission. Raoul will leave before M. de Beaufort as far as Antibes. Raoul will need to prepare the army for deployment in two weeks) M. de Beaufort gives Raoul an order allowing him to search all the isles along the coast recruiting soldiers. Father and son head out, deciding that the whole expedition is really just to satisfy the vanity of M. de Beaufort.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXX. The Inventory of M. de Beaufort. To have talked of D'Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet quit Paris to bury himself in his country retreat, had been for Athos and his son like a last farewell to the noise of the capital--to their life of former days. What, in fact, did these men leave behind them--one of whom had exhausted the past age in glory, and the other, the present age in misfortune? Evidently neither of them had anything to ask of his contemporaries. They had only to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort, and arrange with him the particulars of departure. The duke was lodged magnificently in Paris. He had one of those superb establishments pertaining to great fortunes, the like of which certain old men remembered to have seen in all their glory in the times of wasteful liberality of Henry III.'s reign. Then, really, several great nobles were richer than the king. They knew it, used it, and never deprived themselves of the pleasure of humiliating his royal majesty when they had an opportunity. It was this egotistical aristocracy Richelieu had constrained to contribute, with its blood, its purse, and its duties, to what was from his time styled the king's service. From Louis XI.--that terrible mower-down of the great--to Richelieu, how many families had raised their heads! How many, from Richelieu to Louis XIV., had bowed their heads, never to raise them again! But M. de Beaufort was born a prince, and of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds, unless by the decree of peoples,--a prince who had kept up a grand style of living. How did he maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody knew; himself less than others. Only there were then privileges for the sons of kings, to whom nobody refused to become a creditor, whether from respect or the persuasion that they would some day be paid. Athos and Raoul found the mansion of the duke in as much confusion as that of Planchet. The duke, likewise, was making his inventory; that is to say, he was distributing to his friends everything of value he had in his house. Owing nearly two millions--an enormous amount in those days--M. de Beaufort had calculated that he could not set out for Africa without a good round sum, and, in order to find that sum, he was distributing to his old creditors plate, arms, jewels, and furniture, which was more magnificent in selling it, and brought him back double. In fact, how could a man to whom ten thousand livres were owing, refuse to carry away a present worth six thousand, enhanced in estimation from having belonged to a descendant of Henry IV.? And how, after having carried away that present, could he refuse ten thousand livres more to this generous noble? This, then, was what had happened. The duke had no longer a dwelling-house--that had become useless to an admiral whose place of residence is his ship; he had no longer need of superfluous arms, when he was placed amidst his cannons; no more jewels, which the sea might rob him of; but he had three or four hundred thousand crowns fresh in his coffers. And throughout the house there was a joyous movement of people who believed they were plundering monseigneur. The prince had, in a supreme degree, the art of making happy the creditors most to be pitied. Every distressed man, every empty purse, found in him patience and sympathy for his position. To some he said, "I wish I had what _you_ have; I would give it you." And to others, "I have but this silver ewer; it is worth at least five hundred livres,--take it." The effect of which was--so truly is courtesy a current payment--that the prince constantly found means to renew his creditors. This time he used no ceremony; it might be called a general pillage. He gave up everything. The Oriental fable of the poor Arab who carried away from the pillage of palace a kettle at the bottom of which was concealed a bag of gold, and whom everybody allowed to pass without jealousy,--this fable had become a truth in the prince's mansion. Many contractors paid themselves upon the offices of the duke. Thus, the provision department, who plundered the clothes-presses and the harness-rooms, attached very little value to things which tailors and saddlers set great store by. Anxious to carry home to their wives presents given them by monseigneur, many were seen bounding joyously along, under the weight of earthen jars and bottles, gloriously stamped with the arms of the prince. M. de Beaufort finished by giving away his horses and the hay from his lofts. He made more than thirty happy with kitchen utensils; and thirty more with the contents of his cellar. Still further; all these people went away with the conviction that M. de Beaufort only acted in this manner to prepare for a new fortune concealed beneath the Arabs' tents. They repeated to each other, while pillaging his hotel, that he was sent to Gigelli by the king to reconstruct his lost fortunes; that the treasures of Africa would be equally divided between the admiral and the king of France; that these treasures consisted in mines of diamonds, or other fabulous stones; the gold and silver mines of Mount Atlas did not even obtain the honor of being named. In addition to the mines to be worked--which could not be begun till after the campaign--there would be the booty made by the army. M. de Beaufort would lay his hands on all the riches pirates had robbed Christendom of since the battle of Lepanto. The number of millions from these sources defied calculation. Why, then, should he, who was going in quest of such treasure, set any store by the poor utensils of his past life? And reciprocally, why should they spare the property of him who spared it so little himself? Such was the position of affairs. Athos, with his piercing practiced glance, saw what was going on at once. He found the admiral of France a little exalted, for he was rising from a table of fifty covers, at which the guests had drunk long and deeply to the prosperity of the expedition; at the conclusion of which repast, the remains, with the dessert, had been given to the servants, and the empty dishes and plates to the curious. The prince was intoxicated with his ruin and his popularity at one and the same time. He had drunk his old wine to the health of his wine of the future. When he saw Athos and Raoul: "There is my aide-de-camp being brought to me!" he cried. "Come hither, comte; come hither, vicomte." Athos tried to find a passage through the heaps of linen and plate. "Ah! step over, step over!" said the duke, offering a full glass to Athos. The latter drank it; Raoul scarcely moistened his lips. "Here is your commission," said the prince to Raoul. "I had prepared it, reckoning upon you. You will go before me as far as Antibes." "Yes, monseigneur." "Here is the order." And De Beaufort gave Raoul the order. "Do you know anything of the sea?" "Yes, monseigneur; I have traveled with M. le Prince." "That is well. All these barges and lighters must be in attendance to form an escort and carry my provisions. The army must be prepared to embark in a fortnight at the very latest." "That shall be done, monseigneur." "The present order gives you the right to visit and search all the isles along the coast; you will there make the enrolments and levies you may want for me." "Yes, monsieur le duc." "And you are an active man, and will work freely, you will spend much money." "I hope not, monseigneur." "But I am sure you will. My intendant has prepared the orders of a thousand livres, drawn upon the cities of the south; he will give you a hundred of them. Now, dear vicomte, be gone." Athos interrupted the prince. "Keep your money, monseigneur; war is to be waged among the Arabs with gold as well as lead." "I wish to try the contrary," replied the duke; "and then you are acquainted with my ideas upon the expedition--plenty of noise, plenty of fire, and, if so it must be, I shall disappear in the smoke." Having spoken thus, M. de Beaufort began to laugh; but his mirth was not reciprocated by Athos and Raoul. He perceived this at once. "Ah," said he, with the courteous egotism of his rank and age, "you are such people as a man should not see after dinner; you are cold, stiff, and dry when I am all fire, suppleness, and wine. No, devil take me! I should always see you fasting, vicomte, and you, comte, if you wear such a face as that, you shall see me no more." He said this, pressing the hand of Athos, who replied with a smile, "Monseigneur, do not talk so grandly because you happen to have plenty of money. I predict that within a month you will be dry, stiff, and cold, in presence of your strong-box, and that then, having Raoul at your elbow, fasting, you will be surprised to see him gay, animated, and generous, because he will have some new crowns to offer you." "God grant it may be so!" cried the delighted duke. "Comte, stay with me!" "No, I shall go with Raoul; the mission with which you charge him is a troublesome and difficult one. Alone it would be too much for him to execute. You do not observe, monseigneur, you have given him command of the first order." "Bah!" "And in your naval arrangements, too." "That may be true. But one finds that such fine young fellows as your son generally do all that is required of them." "Monseigneur, I believe you will find nowhere so much zeal and intelligence, so much real bravery, as in Raoul; but if he failed to arrange your embarkation, you would only meet the fate that you deserve." "Humph! you are scolding me, then." "Monseigneur, to provision a fleet, to assemble a flotilla, to enroll your maritime force, would take an admiral a year. Raoul is a cavalry officer, and you allow him a fortnight!" "I tell you he will do it." "He may; but I will go and help him." "To be sure you will; I reckoned upon you, and still further believe that when we are once at Toulon you will not let him depart alone." "Oh!" said Athos, shaking his head. "Patience! patience!" "Monseigneur, permit us to take our leave." "Begone, then, and may my good luck attend you." "Adieu! monseigneur; and may your own good luck attend you likewise." "Here is an expedition admirably commenced!" said Athos to his son. "No provisions--no store flotilla! What can be done, thus?" "Humph!" murmured Raoul; "if all are going to do as I am, provisions will not be wanted." "Monsieur," replied Athos, sternly, "do not be unjust and senseless in your egotism, or your grief, whichever you please to call it. If you set out for this war solely with the intention of getting killed therein, you stand in need of nobody, and it was scarcely worth while to recommend you to M. de Beaufort. But when you have been introduced to the prime commandant--when you have accepted the responsibility of a post in his army, the question is no longer about _you_, but about all those poor soldiers, who, as well as you, have hearts and bodies, who will weep for their country and endure all the necessities of their condition. Remember, Raoul, that officers are ministers as useful to the world as priests, and that they ought to have more charity." "Monsieur, I know it and have practiced it; I would have continued to do so still, but--" "You forget also that you are of a country that is proud of its military glory; go and die if you like, but do not die without honor and without advantage to France. Cheer up, Raoul! do not let my words grieve you; I love you, and wish to see you perfect." "I love your reproaches, monsieur," said the young man, mildly; "they alone may cure me, because they prove to me that some one loves me still." "And now, Raoul, let us be off; the weather is so fine, the heavens so clear, those heavens which we always find above our heads, which you will see more clear still at Gigelli, and which will speak to you of me there, as they speak to me here of God." The two gentlemen, after having agreed on this point, talked over the wild freaks of the duke, convinced that France would be served in a very incomplete manner, as regarded both spirit and practice, in the ensuing expedition; and having summed up the ducal policy under the one word vanity, they set forward, in obedience rather to their will than destiny. The sacrifice was half accomplished.

Chapter Thirty: The Inventory of M. de Beaufort

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-the-inventory-of-m-de-beaufort

The narrator notes that saying good-bye to Planchet was like saying good-bye to Paris for both Raoul and Athos. Their only remaining errand is to visit M. de Beaufort's palatial residence and sort out all the details for departure. Like Planchet, M. de Beaufort, , is making an inventory of all his belongings. It turns out that he owes almost two million, so he is trying to sell off and give away all of his belongings, and then borrow even more money so he can finance the expedition to Africa. M. de Beaufort welcomes his two visitors, and hands Raoul his commission. Raoul will leave before M. de Beaufort as far as Antibes. Raoul will need to prepare the army for deployment in two weeks) M. de Beaufort gives Raoul an order allowing him to search all the isles along the coast recruiting soldiers. Father and son head out, deciding that the whole expedition is really just to satisfy the vanity of M. de Beaufort.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_32_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 33

chapter 33: promises

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Three: Promises", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-three-promises", "summary": "D'Artagnan receives a letter from the King ordering him back to Paris. The three men leave the isle together, as Raoul and Athos must return to military responsibilities. D'Artagnan bids his friends good-bye, but within moments is back. He embraces the two men for a long time without saying anything, then leaves. Athos and Raoul return to Toulon and meet with M. de Beaufort, who is busy inspecting everything. The fleet is due to leave the next morning. Athos and Raoul spend the evening talking. Athos confesses that he has not been a friend to Raoul, but will be a friend from here on. Athos gives his son some military advice, and makes his son promise to think of him if he is in trouble. Athos tells his son that the two of them love each other so dearly that when they part, parts of their souls must also part. Dawn is breaking when Grimaud tracks the two men down. Athos tells Raoul that he must not leave alone, and gives him the services of Grimaud. Raoul protests, but Athos insists. The drums begin to roll and an officer comes looking for Raoul to tell him he is expected with M. de Beaufort. Athos prepares himself to part with his son. He gives him two hundred pistoles. The two men finally embrace and bid each other farewell. Raoul joins M. de Beaufort. Grimaud kisses Athos on the hand and follows Raoul. Athos watches Raoul's ship until it disappears on the horizon.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXIII. Promises. Scarcely had D'Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Sainte-Marguerite with an important dispatch for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it, D'Artagnan recognized the writing of the king: "I should think," said Louis XIV., "you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur d'Artagnan; return, then, immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre." "There is the end of my exile!" cried the musketeer with joy; "God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!" And he showed the letter to Athos. "So, then, you must leave us?" replied the latter, in a melancholy tone. "Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer his father going back in company with M. d'Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?" "Certainly," stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret. "No, no, my friend," interrupted Athos, "I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel disappears on the horizon. As long as he remains in France he shall not be separated from me." "As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte-Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark that will convey me back to Antibes." "With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle that shocked us so just now." The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D'Artagnan parted from his friend that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage upon the shore by the orders of Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos: "My friends," said he, "you bear too much resemblance to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me." "Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, "thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either monsieur le comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and fatigue of body; monsieur le comte wants the profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you are holding both our souls in your hands." "I must go; my horse is all in a fret," said D'Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in conversation. "Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?" "Three days at most." "And how long will it take you to reach home?" "Oh! a considerable time," replied Athos. "I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages." "And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you." "My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day." "Where is Grimaud?" "He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul's appointments; and I have left him to sleep." "That is, never to come back again," D'Artagnan suffered to escape him. "Till we meet again, then, dear Athos--and if you are diligent, I shall embrace you the sooner." So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held. "Farewell!" said the young man, embracing him. "Farewell!" said D'Artagnan, as he got into his saddle. His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends. This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither D'Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began to branch off there, white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly respired the salt, sharp perfume of the marshes. D'Artagnan put him to a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse's steps, and first believed it to be one of those singular repercussions which deceive the ear at every turn in a road. But it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse. "Alas!" said the comte, in a low voice, "alas! alas!" "An evil omen!" on his side, said D'Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. "I could not smile upon them. An evil omen!" The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells, almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers put in requisition for the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for father and son to live together, appeared to go by with double rapidity, like some swift stream that flows towards eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which began to be filled with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain. He encouraged the humblest of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage, he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, egotistical, in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again--the high noble, a captain--in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet, it must be admitted that, whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution that make the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was ordered the next morning at daybreak. He invited the comte had his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great Place, they took their repast in haste, and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which dominate the city, vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climes. The moon, rising behind the rocks, unrolled a silver sheet on the cerulean carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads maneuvered silently the vessels which had just taken their rank to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls of the barks that transported the baggage and munitions; every dip of the prow plowed up this gulf of white flames; from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. Such harmonies, such a spectacle, oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along by the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were over the edge of the cliff, bathed in that void which is peopled by vertigo, and provokes to self-annihilation. When the moon had risen to its fullest height, caressing with light the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos, collecting all his ideas and all his courage, said: "God has made all these things that we see, Raoul; He has made us also,--poor atoms mixed up with this monstrous universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in plowing the waves, in obeying the wind that urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything seems beautiful to living things." "Monsieur," said Raoul, "we have before us a beautiful spectacle!" "How good D'Artagnan is!" interrupted Athos, suddenly, "and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul." "A friend!" cried Raoul, "I have wanted a friend!" "M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion," resumed the comte, coldly, "but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in ours. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength thereby. We four, more weaned from those delicate abstractions that constitute your joy, furnished much more resistance when misfortune presented itself." "I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. de Guiche. _Certes_, he is good and generous, and moreover he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship of another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak, since it is yours." "I have not been a friend for you, Raoul," said Athos. "Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?" "Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds that spring incessantly from the fair tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent of not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man." "I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but habit. I believed that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite clear, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had ever watching over me your vigilance and strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness--in my future but hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently." "My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time to come." "I shall only act for you, monsieur." "Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?" "Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot last long." "Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately on my income, I will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct." "I will do all you may command," said Raoul, much agitated. "It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be a true man under fire. Remember that war with Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations." "So it is said, monsieur." "There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in one meets with but little pity. Those who are not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters." "I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune," said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; "for," the young man hastened to add, "in twenty combats through which I have been, I have only received one scratch." "There is in addition," said Athos, "the climate to be dreaded: that is an ugly end, to die of fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever." "Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with reasonable exercise--" "I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aide-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me." "No, monsieur," said Raoul, almost choked with emotion. "Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and His guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you, on any occasion, you will think of me at once." "First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur." "And will call upon me?" "Instantly." "You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?" "Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was which made me sleep so soundly--formerly." "We love each other too dearly," said the comte, "that from this moment, in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be dissolved in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a vital scintillation of your joy." "I will not promise you to be joyous," replied the young man; "but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead." Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band surrounded the horizon, announcing the approach of the day. Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, like a vast ant-hill. At the extremity of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark shadow moving uneasily backwards and forwards, as if in indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his master, and was there awaiting him. "Oh! my good Grimaud," cried Raoul, "what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?" "Alone?" said Grimaud, addressing Athos and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled. "Oh! you are right!" cried the comte. "No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!" "I?" said Grimaud. "You, yes, you!" cried Raoul, touched to the inmost heart. "Alas!" said Athos, "you are very old, my good Grimaud." "So much the better," replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence. "But the embarkation is begun," said Raoul, "and you are not prepared." "Yes," said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his young master. "But," again objected Raoul, "you cannot leave monsieur le comte thus alone; monsieur le comte, whom you have never quitted?" Grimaud turned his diamond eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the strength of both. The comte uttered not a word. "Monsieur le comte prefers my going," said Grimaud. "I do," said Athos, by an inclination of the head. At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the expedition began to debouch from the city. They advanced to the number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished by their white uniform, faced with blue. The _ordonnance_ colors, quartered cross-wise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden _fleurs-de-lis_, left the white-colored flag, with its _fleur-de-lised_ cross, to dominate the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks and their muskets on their shoulders; pikemen in the center, with their lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march with his staff--it would take a full hour before he could reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud, boiling with the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul's baggage in the admiral's vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation, was deaf to every noise around him. An officer came quickly towards them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was anxious to have him by his side. "Have the kindness to tell the prince," said Raoul, "that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father." "No, no," said Athos, "an aide-de-camp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join him immediately." The officer set off at a gallop. "Whether we part here or part there," added the comte, "it is no less a separation." He carefully brushed the dust from his son's coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. "But, Raoul," said he, "you want money. M. de Beaufort's train will be splendid, and I am certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesse. But I should not like you to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them." Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted on a magnificent white _genet_, which responded by graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the city. The duke called Raoul, and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke to him for some time, with such a kindly expression that the heart of the poor father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to both father and son that their walk amounted to nothing less than a punishment. There was a terrible moment--that at which, on quitting the sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which, notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins, everything appeared black, everything bitter, everything created doubts of Providence, nay, at the most, of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark last; the cannon waited to announce, with its formidable voice, that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his heart. "Accompany us on board," said the duke, very much affected; "you will gain a good half-hour." "No," said Athos, "my farewell has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a second." "Then, vicomte, embark--embark quickly!" added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat, the oars of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot. "Adieu!" cried Raoul. Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand: it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud--the last farewell of the faithful dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a _chaland_ served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul--in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea, by degrees, carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points,--loves, nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral's ship, he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ship sounded the long and lordly tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, the smoke obscured the cherished object of his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos--disappeared very long after, to all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails. Towards midday, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent limit of the sea, Athos perceived a soft aerial shadow rise, and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned with slow and painful step to his deserted hostelry.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Promises

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-three-promises

D'Artagnan receives a letter from the King ordering him back to Paris. The three men leave the isle together, as Raoul and Athos must return to military responsibilities. D'Artagnan bids his friends good-bye, but within moments is back. He embraces the two men for a long time without saying anything, then leaves. Athos and Raoul return to Toulon and meet with M. de Beaufort, who is busy inspecting everything. The fleet is due to leave the next morning. Athos and Raoul spend the evening talking. Athos confesses that he has not been a friend to Raoul, but will be a friend from here on. Athos gives his son some military advice, and makes his son promise to think of him if he is in trouble. Athos tells his son that the two of them love each other so dearly that when they part, parts of their souls must also part. Dawn is breaking when Grimaud tracks the two men down. Athos tells Raoul that he must not leave alone, and gives him the services of Grimaud. Raoul protests, but Athos insists. The drums begin to roll and an officer comes looking for Raoul to tell him he is expected with M. de Beaufort. Athos prepares himself to part with his son. He gives him two hundred pistoles. The two men finally embrace and bid each other farewell. Raoul joins M. de Beaufort. Grimaud kisses Athos on the hand and follows Raoul. Athos watches Raoul's ship until it disappears on the horizon.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_34_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 35

chapter 35: the last supper

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Five: The Last Supper", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-five-the-last-supper", "summary": "Fouquet is giving a farewell supper. D'Artagnan has some difficulty being received, but eventually he gains entrance to the dining room, where all the Epicureans are assembled with Fouquet. They have remained loyal to their patron. Everyone is scared to see D'Artagnan, convinced he has come to arrest Fouquet. D'Artagnan puts them at ease, saying he is there only to collect money. It's clear that Fouquet is really ill and his friends blame the King. D'Artagnan receives his money and leaves. After his departure, Fouquet confesses he thought D'Artagnan was there to arrest him. His friends protest and Fouquet compares their current meal to Jesus' last supper. Fouquet is quite sad. He points out that he no longer has very much - only powerless friends and powerful enemies. Pelisson tells Fouquet to think clearly. How much money does he have left? Fouquet has only seven hundred thousand pounds. Pelisson suggests that he flee to someplace like Switzerland. Fouquet decides to stay. He is consoled by the thought of Belle-Isle. He must first go to Nantes with the King, however, and his friends suggest that he depart immediately and with all haste. He can justify his trip to Nantes with the King's impending trip to the city. Everyone is happy with this plan when a courier knocks on the door with a note saying that the King has taken the seven hundred thousand pounds to prepare for his departure to Nantes. Fouquet is ruined. His friends toss various valuable jewelry in a hat so he can have some type of funds.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXV. The Last Supper. The superintendent had no doubt received advice of the approaching departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants bearing dishes, and the diligence of the _registres_, denoted an approaching change in offices and kitchen. D'Artagnan, with his order in his hand, presented himself at the offices, when he was told it was too late to pay cash, the chest was closed. He only replied: "On the king's service." The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied, that "that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the bearer to call again next day." D'Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that M. le surintendant did not interfere with such details, and rudely closed the outer door in the captain's face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door-case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still nose to nose with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say, with terrified politeness, "If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le surintendant, he must go to the ante-chambers; these are the offices, where monseigneur never comes." "Oh! very well! Where are they?" replied D'Artagnan. "On the other side of the court," said the clerk, delighted to be free. D'Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants. "Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour," he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve quails. "Tell him," said the captain, laying hold of the servant by the end of his dish, "that I am M. d'Artagnan, captain of his majesty's musketeers." The fellow uttered a cry of surprise, and disappeared; D'Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pelisson in the ante-chamber: the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of the dining-room to learn what was the matter. D'Artagnan smiled. "There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pelisson; only a little order to receive the money for." "Ah!" said Fouquet's friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by the hand, and, dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the surintendant, placed in the center, and buried in the cushions of a _fauteuil_. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux had done the honors of the mansion of wit and money in aid of M. Fouquet. Joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled their protector at the approach of the storm, and, in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted in misfortune as they had been in prosperity. On the left of the surintendant sat Madame de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer, at the moment of the crisis, the support of their twined arms. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of respectful attentions for madame la surintendante, who, with one hand on her husband's, was looking anxiously towards the door by which Pelisson had gone out to bring D'Artagnan. The captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had divined as well as taken in the expression of every face. Fouquet raised himself up in his chair. "Pardon me, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he, "if I did not myself receive you when coming in the king's name." And he pronounced the last words with a sort of melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of all his friends with terror. "Monseigneur," replied D'Artagnan, "I only come to you in the king's name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles." The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained overcast. "Ah! then," said he, "perhaps you also are setting out for Nantes?" "I do not know whither I am setting out, monseigneur." "But," said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, "you are not going so soon, monsieur le capitaine, as not to do us the honor to take a seat with us?" "Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done me, but I am so pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note." "The reply to which shall be gold," said Fouquet, making a sign to his intendant, who went out with the order D'Artagnan handed him. "Oh!" said the latter, "I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good." A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet. "Are you in pain?" asked Madame de Belliere. "Do you feel your attack coming on?" asked Madame Fouquet. "Neither, thank you both," said Fouquet. "Your attack?" said D'Artagnan, in his turn; "are you unwell, monseigneur?" "I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the _fete_ at Vaux." "Caught cold in the grottos, at night, perhaps?" "No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all." "The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the king," said La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege. "We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our king," said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet. "Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor," interrupted D'Artagnan, with perfect frankness and much amenity. "The fact is, monseigneur, that hospitality was never practiced as at Vaux." Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the king, the king had hardly done the like to the minister. But D'Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to D'Artagnan. "Monsieur," said he, "to the health of the king, _whatever may happen_." "And to your health, monseigneur, _whatever may happen_," said D'Artagnan. He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs. "I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted," said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh. "You!" cried his friends; "and what for, in the name of Heaven!" "Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus," said the superintendent; "I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth, and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment." A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table. "Shut the doors," said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. "My friends," continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, "what was I formerly? What am I now? Consult among yourselves and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies, and powerless friends." "Quick!" cried Pelisson. "Since you explain yourself with such frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are ruined--yes, you are hastening to your ruin--stop. And, in the first place, what money have we left?" "Seven hundred thousand livres," said the intendant. "Bread," murmured Madame Fouquet. "Relays," said Pelisson, "relays, and fly!" "Whither?" "To Switzerland--to Savoy--but fly!" "If monseigneur flies," said Madame Belliere, "it will be said that he was guilty--was afraid." "More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me." "We will draw up memoirs to justify you," said La Fontaine. "Fly!" "I will remain," said Fouquet. "And, besides, does not everything serve me?" "You have Belle-Isle," cried the Abbe Fouquet. "And I am naturally going there, when going to Nantes," replied the superintendent. "Patience, then, patience!" "Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!" said Madame Fouquet. "Yes, I know that well," replied Fouquet. "But what is to be done there? The king summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness." "Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything," cried Pelisson. "You are going to set out for Nantes." Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise. "But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your own barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are attacked; to escape, if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money against all chances; and, whilst flying, you will only have obeyed the king; then, reaching the sea, when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out wherever it may please you, like the eagle that leaps into space when it has been driven from its eyrie." A general assent followed Pelisson's words. "Yes, do so," said Madame Fouquet to her husband. "Do so," said Madame de Belliere. "Do it! do it!" cried all his friends. "I will do so," replied Fouquet. "This very evening?" "In an hour?" "Instantly." "With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune," said the Abbe Fouquet. "What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?" "And, if necessary, we will go and discover a new world," added La Fontaine, intoxicated with fresh projects and enthusiasm. A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. "A courier from the king," said the master of the ceremonies. A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was nothing but a reply to all the projects given birth to a moment before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet, to receive the king's message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers, and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet, saying, "That is well, monsieur." This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, and trembled with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amidst the universal expectation. At length, he himself re-appeared among his guests; but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid; and from spiritless, annihilated. A breathing, living specter, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute the friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere. "Well," said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it. "What has happened, my God!" said some one to him. Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, but glistening with perspiration, and displayed a paper, upon which Pelisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following lines, written by the king's hand: "'DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED MONSIEUR FOUQUET,--Give us, upon that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure. "'And, as we know your health is not good, we pray God to restore you, and to have you in His holy keeping. "'LOUIS. "'The present letter is to serve as a receipt.'" A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment. "Well," cried Pelisson, in his turn, "you have received that letter?" "Received it, yes!" "What will you do, then?" "Nothing, since I have received it." "But--" "If I have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it," said the surintendant, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present. "You have paid it!" cried Madame Fouquet. "Then we are ruined!" "Come, no useless words," interrupted Pelisson. "Next to money, life. Monseigneur, to horse! to horse!" "What, leave us!" at once cried both the women, wild with grief. "Eh! monseigneur, in saving yourself, you save us all. To horse!" "But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him." "Oh! if he takes time to reflect--" said the intrepid Pelisson. "He is right," murmured Fouquet. "Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs, four steps at once. "Monseigneur!" "Well! what?" "I escorted, as you desired, the king's courier with the money." "Yes." "Well! when I arrived at the Palais Royal, I saw--" "Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating." "What did you see?" cried the impatient friends. "I saw the musketeers mounting on horseback," said Gourville. "There, then!" cried every voice at once; "there, then! is there an instant to be lost?" Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Belliere flew after her, catching her in her arms, and saying: "Madame, in the name of his safety, do not betray anything, do not manifest alarm." Pelisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages. And, in the meantime, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping friends were able to throw into it of gold and silver--the last offering, the pious alms made to misery by poverty. The surintendant, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his carriage. Gourville took the reins, and mounted the box. Pelisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength, and was well paid for it; she received Fouquet's last kiss. Pelisson easily explained this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the king had summoned the minister to Nantes.

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Last Supper

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-five-the-last-supper

Fouquet is giving a farewell supper. D'Artagnan has some difficulty being received, but eventually he gains entrance to the dining room, where all the Epicureans are assembled with Fouquet. They have remained loyal to their patron. Everyone is scared to see D'Artagnan, convinced he has come to arrest Fouquet. D'Artagnan puts them at ease, saying he is there only to collect money. It's clear that Fouquet is really ill and his friends blame the King. D'Artagnan receives his money and leaves. After his departure, Fouquet confesses he thought D'Artagnan was there to arrest him. His friends protest and Fouquet compares their current meal to Jesus' last supper. Fouquet is quite sad. He points out that he no longer has very much - only powerless friends and powerful enemies. Pelisson tells Fouquet to think clearly. How much money does he have left? Fouquet has only seven hundred thousand pounds. Pelisson suggests that he flee to someplace like Switzerland. Fouquet decides to stay. He is consoled by the thought of Belle-Isle. He must first go to Nantes with the King, however, and his friends suggest that he depart immediately and with all haste. He can justify his trip to Nantes with the King's impending trip to the city. Everyone is happy with this plan when a courier knocks on the door with a note saying that the King has taken the seven hundred thousand pounds to prepare for his departure to Nantes. Fouquet is ruined. His friends toss various valuable jewelry in a hat so he can have some type of funds.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_35_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 36

chapter 36: in the carriage of m. colbert

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Six: In the Carriage of M. Colbert", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-six-in-the-carriage-of-m-colbert", "summary": "D'Artagnan is riding at the head of all the assembled Musketeers when he spies Colbert getting into a carriage occupied by two women. D'Artagnan is curious as to the women's identity and so runs his horse right next to the carriage to frighten them. They are revealed as Madame Vanel and Madame de Chevreuse. We learn that Madame Vanel is Colbert's mistress. Clearly Madame de Chevreuse is now on Colbert's side in the game of political alliances. Madame Vanel is dropped off at her husband's house, and Madame de Chevreuse then has time to chat with Colbert. She begins by flattering him and assuring him of her support. We learn that the papers incriminating Fouquet come from Madame de Chevreuse. She asks Colbert what his ambitions are. We next learn that the Queen mother will no longer come to Fouquet's defense if he is in danger, because he learned of her terrible secret. The Queen mother is also out for blood with regard to Aramis. Colbert can make no promises on that front. Madame de Chevreuse is angry that Colbert seems to underestimate Aramis's capabilities. She reveals that he the General of the Jesuits. The two allies decide it is time to return to Paris. The narrator reminds us that Madame de Chevreuse was once a devoted ally of the Musketeers'.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXVI. In M. Colbert's Carriage. As Gourville had seen, the king's musketeers were mounting and following their captain. The latter, who did not like to be confined in his proceedings, left his brigade under the orders of a lieutenant, and set off on post horses, recommending his men to use all diligence. However rapidly they might travel, they could not arrive before him. He had time, in passing along the Rue des Petits-Champs, to see something which afforded him plenty of food for thought and conjecture. He saw M. Colbert coming out from his house to get into his carriage, which was stationed before the door. In this carriage D'Artagnan perceived the hoods of two women, and being rather curious, he wished to know the names of the ladies hid beneath these hoods. To get a glimpse at them, for they kept themselves closely covered up, he urged his horse so near the carriage, that he drove him against the step with such force as to shake everything containing and contained. The terrified women uttered, the one a faint cry, by which D'Artagnan recognized a young woman, the other an imprecation, in which he recognized the vigor and _aplomb_ that half a century bestows. The hoods were thrown back: one of the women was Madame Vanel, the other the Duchesse de Chevreuse. D'Artagnan's eyes were quicker than those of the ladies; he had seen and known them, whilst they did not recognize him; and as they laughed at their fright, pressing each other's hands,-- "Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "the old duchesse is no more inaccessible to friendship than formerly. _She_ paying her court to the mistress of M. Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!" He rode on. M. Colbert got into his carriage and the distinguished trio commenced a sufficiently slow pilgrimage toward the wood of Vincennes. Madame de Chevreuse set down Madame Vanel at her husband's house, and, left alone with M. Colbert, chatted upon affairs whilst continuing her ride. She had an inexhaustible fund of conversation, that dear duchesse, and as she always talked for the ill of others, though ever with a view to her own good, her conversation amused her interlocutor, and did not fail to leave a favorable impression. She taught Colbert, who, poor man! was ignorant of the fact, how great a minister he was, and how Fouquet would soon become a cipher. She promised to rally around him, when he should become surintendant, all the old nobility of the kingdom, and questioned him as to the preponderance it would be proper to allow La Valliere. She praised him, she blamed him, she bewildered him. She showed him the secret of so many secrets that, for a moment, Colbert thought he was doing business with the devil. She proved to him that she held in her hand the Colbert of to-day, as she had held the Fouquet of yesterday; and as he asked her very simply the reason of her hatred for the surintendant: "Why do you yourself hate him?" said she. "Madame, in politics," replied he, "the differences of system oft bring about dissentions between men. M. Fouquet always appeared to me to practice a system opposed to the true interests of the king." She interrupted him.--"I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet. The journey the king is about to take to Nantes will give a good account of him. M. Fouquet, for me, is a man gone by--and for you also." Colbert made no reply. "On his return from Nantes," continued the duchesse, "the king, who is only anxious for a pretext, will find that the States have not behaved well--that they have made too few sacrifices. The States will say that the imposts are too heavy, and that the surintendant has ruined them. The king will lay all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then--" "And then?" said Colbert. "Oh! he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion?" Colbert darted a glance at the duchesse, which plainly said: "If M. Fouquet be only disgraced, you will not be the cause of it." "Your place, M. Colbert," the duchesse hastened to say, "must be a high place. Do you perceive any one between the king and yourself, after the fall of M. Fouquet?" "I do not understand," said he. "You _will_ understand. To what does your ambition aspire?" "I have none." "It was useless, then, to overthrow the superintendent, Monsieur Colbert. It was idle." "I had the honor to tell you, madame--" "Oh! yes, I know, all about the interest of the king--but, if you please, we will speak of your own." "Mine! that is to say, the affairs of his majesty." "In short, are you, or are you not endeavoring to ruin M. Fouquet? Answer without evasion." "Madame, I ruin nobody." "I am endeavoring to comprehend, then, why you purchased from me the letters of M. Mazarin concerning M. Fouquet. Neither can I conceive why you have laid those letters before the king." Colbert, half stupefied, looked at the duchesse with an air of constraint. "Madame," said he, "I can less easily conceive how you, who received the money, can reproach me on that head--" "That is," said the old duchesse, "because we must will that which we wish for, unless we are not able to obtain what we wish." "_Will!_" said Colbert, quite confounded by such coarse logic. "You are not able, _hein!_ Speak." "I am not able, I allow, to destroy certain influences near the king." "That fight in favor of M. Fouquet? What are they? Stop, let me help you." "Do, madame." "La Valliere?" "Oh! very little influence; no knowledge of business, and small means. M. Fouquet has paid his court to her." "To defend him would be to accuse herself, would it not?" "I think it would." "There is still another influence, what do you say to that?" "Is it considerable?" "The queen-mother, perhaps?" "Her majesty, the queen-mother, has a weakness for M. Fouquet very prejudicial to her son." "Never believe that," said the old duchesse, smiling. "Oh!" said Colbert, with incredulity, "I have often experienced it." "Formerly?" "Very recently, madame, at Vaux. It was she who prevented the king from having M. Fouquet arrested." "People do not forever entertain the same opinions, my dear monsieur. That which the queen may have wished recently, she would not wish, perhaps, to-day." "And why not?" said Colbert, astonished. "Oh! the reason is of very little consequence." "On the contrary, I think it is of great consequence; for, if I were certain of not displeasing her majesty, the queen-mother, my scruples would be all removed." "Well! have you never heard talk of a certain secret?" "A secret?" "Call it what you like. In short, the queen-mother has conceived a bitter hatred for all those who have participated, in one fashion or another, in the discovery of this secret, and M. Fouquet I believe is one of these." "Then," said Colbert, "we may be sure of the assent of the queen-mother?" "I have just left her majesty, and she assures me so." "So be it, then, madame." "But there is something further; do you happen to know a man who was the intimate friend of M. Fouquet, M. d'Herblay, a bishop, I believe?" "Bishop of Vannes." "Well! this M. d'Herblay, who also knew the secret, the queen-mother is pursuing with the utmost rancor." "Indeed!" "So hotly pursued, that if he were dead, she would not be satisfied with anything less than his head, to satisfy her he would never speak again." "And is that the desire of the queen-mother?" "An order is given for it." "This Monsieur d'Herblay shall be sought for, madame." "Oh! it is well known where he is." Colbert looked at the duchesse. "Say where, madame." "He is at Belle-Ile-en-Mer." "At the residence of M. Fouquet?" "At the residence of M. Fouquet." "He shall be taken." It was now the duchesse's turn to smile. "Do not fancy the capture so easy," said she; "do not promise it so lightly." "Why not, madame?" "Because M. d'Herblay is not one of those people who can be taken when and where you please." "He is a rebel, then?" "Oh! Monsieur Colbert, we have passed all our lives in making rebels, and yet you see plainly, that so far from being taken, we take others." Colbert fixed upon the old duchesse one of those fierce looks of which no words can convey the expression, accompanied by a firmness not altogether wanting in grandeur. "The times are gone," said he, "in which subjects gained duchies by making war against the king of France. If M. d'Herblay conspires, he will perish on the scaffold. That will give, or will not give, pleasure to his enemies,--a matter, by the way, of little importance to _us_." And this _us_, a strange word in the mouth of Colbert, made the duchesse thoughtful for a moment. She caught herself reckoning inwardly with this man--Colbert had regained his superiority in the conversation, and he meant to keep it. "You ask me, madame," he said, "to have this M. d'Herblay arrested?" "I?--I ask you nothing of the kind!" "I thought you did, madame. But as I have been mistaken, we will leave him alone; the king has said nothing about him." The duchesse bit her nails. "Besides," continued Colbert, "what a poor capture would this bishop be! A bishop game for a king! Oh! no, no; I will not even take the slightest notice of him." The hatred of the duchesse now discovered itself. "Game for a woman!" said she. "Is not the queen a woman? If she wishes M. d'Herblay arrested, she has her reasons. Besides, is not M. d'Herblay the friend of him who is doomed to fall?" "Oh! never mind that," said Colbert. "This man shall be spared, if he is not the enemy of the king. Is that displeasing to you?" "I say nothing." "Yes--you wish to see him in prison, in the Bastile, for instance." "I believe a secret better concealed behind the walls of the Bastile than behind those of Belle-Isle." "I will speak to the king about it; he will clear up the point." "And whilst waiting for that enlightenment, Monsieur l'Eveque de Vannes will have escaped. I would do so." "Escaped! he! and whither should he escape? Europe is ours, in will, if not in fact." "He will always find an asylum, monsieur. It is evident you know nothing of the man you have to do with. You do not know D'Herblay; you do not know Aramis. He was one of those four musketeers who, under the late king, made Cardinal de Richelieu tremble, and who, during the regency, gave so much trouble to Monseigneur Mazarin." "But, madame, what can he do, unless he has a kingdom to back him?" "He has one, monsieur." "A kingdom, he! what, Monsieur d'Herblay?" "I repeat to you, monsieur, that if he wants a kingdom, he either has it or will have it." "Well, as you are so earnest that this rebel should not escape, madame, I promise you he shall not escape." "Belle-Isle is fortified, M. Colbert, and fortified by him." "If Belle-Isle were also defended by him, Belle-Isle is not impregnable; and if Monsieur l'Eveque de Vannes is shut up in Belle-Isle, well, madame, the place shall be besieged, and he will be taken." "You may be very certain, monsieur, that the zeal you display in the interest of the queen-mother will please her majesty mightily, and you will be magnificently rewarded; but what shall I tell her of your projects respecting this man?" "That when once taken, he shall be shut up in a fortress from which her secret shall never escape." "Very well, Monsieur Colbert, and we may say, that, dating from this instant, we have formed a solid alliance, that is, you and I, and that I am absolutely at your service." "It is I, madame, who place myself at yours. This Chevalier d'Herblay is a kind of Spanish spy, is he not?" "Much more." "A secret ambassador?" "Higher still." "Stop--King Phillip III. of Spain is a bigot. He is, perhaps, the confessor of Phillip III." "You must go higher even than that." "_Mordieu!_" cried Colbert, who forgot himself so far as to swear in the presence of this great lady, of this old friend of the queen-mother. "He must then be the general of the Jesuits." "I believe you have guessed it at last," replied the duchesse. "Ah! then, madame, this man will ruin us all if we do not ruin him; and we must make haste, too." "Such was my opinion, monsieur, but I did not dare to give it you." "And it was lucky for us he has attacked the throne, and not us." "But, mark this well, M. Colbert. M. d'Herblay is never discouraged; if he has missed one blow, he will be sure to make another; he will begin again. If he has allowed an opportunity to escape of making a king for himself, sooner or later, he will make another, of whom, to a certainty, you will not be prime minister." Colbert knitted his brow with a menacing expression. "I feel assured that a prison will settle this affair for us, madame, in a manner satisfactory for both." The duchesse smiled again. "Oh! if you knew," said she, "how many times Aramis has got out of prison!" "Oh!" replied Colbert, "we will take care that he shall not get out _this_ time." "But you were not attending to what I said to you just now. Do you remember that Aramis was one of the four invincibles whom Richelieu so dreaded? And at that period the four musketeers were not in possession of that which they have now--money and experience." Colbert bit his lips. "We will renounce the idea of the prison," said he, in a lower tone: "we will find a little retreat from which the invincible cannot possibly escape." "That was well spoken, our ally!" replied the duchesse. "But it is getting late; had we not better return?" "The more willingly, madame, from my having my preparations to make for setting out with the king." "To Paris!" cried the duchesse to the coachman. And the carriage returned towards the Faubourg Saint Antoine, after the conclusion of the treaty that gave to death the last friend of Fouquet, the last defender of Belle-Isle, the former friend of Marie Michon, the new foe of the old duchesse.

Chapter Thirty-Six: In the Carriage of M. Colbert

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-six-in-the-carriage-of-m-colbert

D'Artagnan is riding at the head of all the assembled Musketeers when he spies Colbert getting into a carriage occupied by two women. D'Artagnan is curious as to the women's identity and so runs his horse right next to the carriage to frighten them. They are revealed as Madame Vanel and Madame de Chevreuse. We learn that Madame Vanel is Colbert's mistress. Clearly Madame de Chevreuse is now on Colbert's side in the game of political alliances. Madame Vanel is dropped off at her husband's house, and Madame de Chevreuse then has time to chat with Colbert. She begins by flattering him and assuring him of her support. We learn that the papers incriminating Fouquet come from Madame de Chevreuse. She asks Colbert what his ambitions are. We next learn that the Queen mother will no longer come to Fouquet's defense if he is in danger, because he learned of her terrible secret. The Queen mother is also out for blood with regard to Aramis. Colbert can make no promises on that front. Madame de Chevreuse is angry that Colbert seems to underestimate Aramis's capabilities. She reveals that he the General of the Jesuits. The two allies decide it is time to return to Paris. The narrator reminds us that Madame de Chevreuse was once a devoted ally of the Musketeers'.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_36_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 37

chapter 37: the two lighters

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Two Lighters", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-seven-the-two-lighters", "summary": "Fouquet travels rapidly to Orleans, convinced that he is not being pursued. At Orleans, he hires a boat with eight rowers to take him down the Loire River. Fouquet hopes to be the first dignitary at Nantes. The rowers let out an exclamation, for behind them, and rapidly gaining ground, is a boat with twelve rowers. Fouquet and his friend Gourville are astonished; no one, not even the King, travels on a lighter with more than eight rowers. The rowers tell Fouquet that the boat is certainly from Orleans. Gourville and Fouquet are worried. Fouquet commands the rowers to stop so he can get a better look at the boat pursuing them. Fouquet spies Colbert. They wonder why he does not announce himself or draw up next to Fouquet's boat. The boat is also clearly filled with armed men. Fouquet orders his men to begin rowing again. The other boat follows, maintaining a regular distance all day between the two. Towards the evening, Fouquet tries an experiment. He orders the rowers to row closer to shore and pretend that Fouquet will disembark. By chance, a stableman was walking on the banks with three horses. The other boat stops and a handful of men with muskets disembark. Fouquet is pleased that he forced Colbert to show his hand. The two boats continue down the river. Colbert is careful to have his boat remain behind Fouquet's. When they reach Nantes, Fouquet jumps down and gives Colbert a public and ostentatious salute. Fouquet asks, irritated, why Colbert refused to join him or pass him. Colbert says it is out of respect. Fouquet hops into a carriage and makes his way to Nantes. He hears rumors that the King is coming with all speed and is expected in ten or twelve hours. As soon as D'Artagnan arrives, he asks to speak with Fouquet.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXVII. The Two Lighters. D'Artagnan had set off; Fouquet likewise was gone, and with a rapidity which doubled the tender interest of his friends. The first moments of this journey, or better say, this flight, were troubled by a ceaseless dread of every horse and carriage to be seen behind the fugitive. It was not natural, in fact, if Louis XIV. was determined to seize this prey, that he should allow it to escape; the young lion was already accustomed to the chase, and he had bloodhounds sufficiently clever to be trusted. But insensibly all fears were dispersed; the surintendant, by hard traveling, placed such a distance between himself and his persecutors, that no one of them could reasonably be expected to overtake him. As to his position, his friends had made it excellent for him. Was he not traveling to join the king at Nantes, and what did the rapidity prove but his zeal to obey? He arrived, fatigued, but reassured, at Orleans, where he found, thanks to the care of a courier who had preceded him, a handsome lighter of eight oars. These lighters, in the shape of gondolas, somewhat wide and heavy, containing a small chamber, covered by the deck, and a chamber in the poop, formed by a tent, then acted as passage-boats from Orleans to Nantes, by the Loire, and this passage, a long one in our days, appeared then more easy and convenient than the high-road, with its post-hacks and its ill-hung carriages. Fouquet went on board this lighter, which set out immediately. The rowers, knowing they had the honor of conveying the surintendant of the finances, pulled with all their strength, and that magic word, the _finances_, promised them a liberal gratification, of which they wished to prove themselves worthy. The lighter seemed to leap the mimic waves of the Loire. Magnificent weather, a sunrise that empurpled all the landscape, displayed the river in all its limpid serenity. The current and the rowers carried Fouquet along as wings carry a bird, and he arrived before Beaugency without the slightest accident having signalized the voyage. Fouquet hoped to be the first to arrive at Nantes; there he would see the notables and gain support among the principal members of the States; he would make himself a necessity, a thing very easy for a man of his merit, and would delay the catastrophe, if he did not succeed in avoiding it entirely. "Besides," said Gourville to him, "at Nantes, you will make out, or we will make out, the intentions of your enemies; we will have horses always ready to convey you to Poitou, a bark in which to gain the sea, and when once upon the open sea, Belle-Isle is your inviolable port. You see, besides, that no one is watching you, no one is following." He had scarcely finished when they discovered at a distance, behind an elbow formed by the river, the masts of a huge lighter coming down. The rowers of Fouquet's boat uttered a cry of surprise on seeing this galley. "What is the matter?" asked Fouquet. "The matter is, monseigneur," replied the patron of the bark, "that it is a truly remarkable thing--that lighter comes along like a hurricane." Gourville started, and mounted to the deck, in order to obtain a better view. Fouquet did not go up with him, but said to Gourville, with restrained mistrust: "See what it is, dear friend." The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast, that behind it might be plainly seen the white wake illumined with the fires of the day. "How they go," repeated the skipper, "how they go! They must be well paid! I did not think," he added, "that oars of wood could behave better than ours, but yonder oarsmen prove the contrary." "Well they may," said one of the rowers, "they are twelve, and we but eight." "Twelve rowers!" replied Gourville, "twelve! impossible." The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the king. This honor had been paid to monsieur le surintendant, more for the sake of haste than of respect. "What does it mean?" said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the tent, which was already apparent, travelers which the most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering. "They must be in a hurry, for it is not the king," said the patron. Fouquet shuddered. "By what sign do you know that it is not the king?" said Gourville. "In the first place, because there is no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries." "And then," said Fouquet, "because it is impossible it should be the king, Gourville, as the king was still in Paris yesterday." Gourville replied to the surintendant by a look which said: "You were there yourself yesterday." "And by what sign do you make out they are in such haste?" added he, for the sake of gaining time. "By this, monsieur," said the patron; "these people must have set out a long while after us, and they have already nearly overtaken us." "Bah!" said Gourville, "who told you that they do not come from Beaugency or from Moit even?" "We have seen no lighter of that shape, except at Orleans. It comes from Orleans, monsieur, and makes great haste." Fouquet and Gourville exchanged a glance. The captain remarked their uneasiness, and, to mislead him, Gourville immediately said: "Some friend, who has laid a wager he would catch us; let us win the wager, and not allow him to come up with us." The patron opened his mouth to say that it was quite impossible, but Fouquet said with much _hauteur_,--"If it is any one who wishes to overtake us, let him come." "We can try, monseigneur," said the man, timidly. "Come, you fellows, put out your strength; row, row!" "No," said Fouquet, "on the contrary; stop short." "Monseigneur! what folly!" interrupted Gourville, stooping towards his ear. "Pull up!" repeated Fouquet. The eight oars stopped, and resisting the water, created a retrograde motion. It stopped. The twelve rowers in the other did not, at first, perceive this maneuver, for they continued to urge on their boat so vigorously that it arrived quickly within musket-shot. Fouquet was short-sighted, Gourville was annoyed by the sun, now full in his eyes; the skipper alone, with that habit and clearness which are acquired by a constant struggle with the elements, perceived distinctly the travelers in the neighboring lighter. "I can see them!" cried he; "there are two." "I can see nothing," said Gourville. "You will not be long before you distinguish them; in twenty strokes of their oars they will be within ten paces of us." But what the patron announced was not realized; the lighter imitated the movement commanded by Fouquet, and instead of coming to join its pretended friends, it stopped short in the middle of the river. "I cannot comprehend this," said the captain. "Nor I," cried Gourville. "You who can see so plainly the people in that lighter," resumed Fouquet, "try to describe them to us, before we are too far off." "I thought I saw two," replied the boatman. "I can only see one now, under the tent." "What sort of man is he?" "He is a dark man, broad-shouldered, bull-necked." A little cloud at that moment passed across the azure, darkening the sun. Gourville, who was still looking, with one hand over his eyes, became able to see what he sought, and all at once, jumping from the deck into the chamber where Fouquet awaited him: "Colbert!" said he, in a voice broken by emotion. "Colbert!" repeated Fouquet. "Too strange! but no, it is impossible!" "I tell you I recognized him, and he, at the same time, so plainly recognized me, that he is just gone into the chamber on the poop. Perhaps the king has sent him on our track." "In that case he would join us, instead of lying by. What is he doing there?" "He is watching us, without a doubt." "I do not like uncertainty," said Fouquet; "let us go straight up to him." "Oh! monseigneur, do not do that, the lighter is full of armed men." "He wishes to arrest me, then, Gourville? Why does he not come on?" "Monseigneur, it is not consistent with your dignity to go to meet even your ruin." "But to allow them to watch me like a malefactor!" "Nothing yet proves that they are watching you, monseigneur; be patient!" "What is to be done, then?" "Do not stop; you were only going so fast to appear to obey the king's order with zeal. Redouble the speed. He who lives will see!" "That is better. Come!" cried Fouquet; "since they remain stock-still yonder, let us go on." The captain gave the signal, and Fouquet's rowers resumed their task with all the success that could be looked for from men who had rested. Scarcely had the lighter made a hundred fathoms, than the other, that with the twelve rowers, resumed its rapid course. This position lasted all day, without any increase or diminution of distance between the two vessels. Towards evening Fouquet wished to try the intentions of his persecutor. He ordered his rowers to pull towards the shore, as if to effect a landing. Colbert's lighter imitated this maneuver, and steered towards the shore in a slanting direction. By the merest chance, at the spot where Fouquet pretended to wish to land, a stableman, from the chateau of Langeais, was following the flowery banks leading three horses in halters. Without doubt the people of the twelve-oared lighter fancied that Fouquet was directing his course to these horses ready for flight, for four or five men, armed with muskets, jumped from the lighter on to the shore, and marched along the banks, as if to gain ground on the horseman. Fouquet, satisfied of having forced the enemy to a demonstration, considered his intention evident, and put his boat in motion again. Colbert's people returned likewise to theirs, and the course of the two vessels was resumed with fresh perseverance. Upon seeing this, Fouquet felt himself threatened closely, and in a prophetic voice--"Well, Gourville," said he, whisperingly, "what did I say at our last repast, at my house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?" "Oh! monseigneur!" "These two boats, which follow each other with so much emulation, as if we were disputing, M. Colbert and I, a prize for swiftness on the Loire, do they not aptly represent our fortunes; and do you not believe, Gourville, that one of the two will be wrecked at Nantes?" "At least," objected Gourville, "there is still uncertainty; you are about to appear at the States; you are about to show what sort of man you are; your eloquence and genius for business are the buckler and sword that will serve to defend you, if not to conquer with. The Bretons do not know you; and when they become acquainted with you your cause is won! Oh! let M. Colbert look to it well, for his lighter is as much exposed as yours to being upset. Both go quickly, his faster than yours, it is true; we shall see which will be wrecked first." Fouquet, taking Gourville's hand--"My friend," said he, "everything considered, remember the proverb, 'First come, first served!' Well! M. Colbert takes care not to pass me. He is a prudent man is M. Colbert." He was right; the two lighters held their course as far as Nantes, watching each other. When the surintendant landed, Gourville hoped he should be able to seek refuge at once, and have the relays prepared. But, at the landing, the second lighter joined the first, and Colbert, approaching Fouquet, saluted him on the quay with marks of the profoundest respect--marks so significant, so public, that their result was the bringing of the whole population upon La Fosse. Fouquet was completely self-possessed; he felt that in his last moments of greatness he had obligations towards himself. He wished to fall from such a height that his fall should crush some of his enemies. Colbert was there--so much the worse for Colbert. The surintendant, therefore, coming up to him, replied, with that arrogant semi-closure of the eyes peculiar to him--"What! is that you, M. Colbert?" "To offer you my respects, monseigneur," said the latter. "Were you in that lighter?"--pointing to the one with twelve rowers. "Yes, monseigneur." "Of twelve rowers?" said Fouquet; "what luxury, M. Colbert. For a moment I thought it was the queen-mother." "Monseigneur!"--and Colbert blushed. "This is a voyage that will cost those who have to pay for it dear, Monsieur l'Intendant!" said Fouquet. "But you have, happily, arrived!--You see, however," added he, a moment after, "that I, who had but eight rowers, arrived before you." And he turned his back towards him, leaving him uncertain whether the maneuvers of the second lighter had escaped the notice of the first. At least he did not give him the satisfaction of showing that he had been frightened. Colbert, so annoyingly attacked, did not give way. "I have not been quick, monseigneur," he replied, "because I followed your example whenever you stopped." "And why did you do that, Monsieur Colbert?" cried Fouquet, irritated by the base audacity; "as you had a superior crew to mine, why did you not either join me or pass me?" "Out of respect," said the intendant, bowing to the ground. Fouquet got into a carriage which the city had sent to him, we know not why or how, and he repaired to _la Maison de Nantes_, escorted by a vast crowd of people, who for several days had been agog with expectation of a convocation of the States. Scarcely was he installed when Gourville went out to order horses on the route to Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboef. He performed these various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity, that never was Fouquet, then laboring under an attack of fever, more nearly saved, except for the counteraction of that immense disturber of human projects,--chance. A report was spread during the night, that the king was coming in great haste on post horses, and would arrive in ten or twelve hours at the latest. The people, while waiting for the king, were greatly rejoiced to see the musketeers, newly arrived, with Monsieur d'Artagnan, their captain, and quartered in the castle, of which they occupied all the posts, in quality of guard of honor. M. d'Artagnan, who was very polite, presented himself, about ten o'clock, at the lodgings of the surintendant to pay his respectful compliments; and although the minister suffered from fever, although he was in such pain as to be bathed in sweat, he would receive M. d'Artagnan, who was delighted with that honor, as will be seen by the conversation they had together.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Two Lighters

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-seven-the-two-lighters

Fouquet travels rapidly to Orleans, convinced that he is not being pursued. At Orleans, he hires a boat with eight rowers to take him down the Loire River. Fouquet hopes to be the first dignitary at Nantes. The rowers let out an exclamation, for behind them, and rapidly gaining ground, is a boat with twelve rowers. Fouquet and his friend Gourville are astonished; no one, not even the King, travels on a lighter with more than eight rowers. The rowers tell Fouquet that the boat is certainly from Orleans. Gourville and Fouquet are worried. Fouquet commands the rowers to stop so he can get a better look at the boat pursuing them. Fouquet spies Colbert. They wonder why he does not announce himself or draw up next to Fouquet's boat. The boat is also clearly filled with armed men. Fouquet orders his men to begin rowing again. The other boat follows, maintaining a regular distance all day between the two. Towards the evening, Fouquet tries an experiment. He orders the rowers to row closer to shore and pretend that Fouquet will disembark. By chance, a stableman was walking on the banks with three horses. The other boat stops and a handful of men with muskets disembark. Fouquet is pleased that he forced Colbert to show his hand. The two boats continue down the river. Colbert is careful to have his boat remain behind Fouquet's. When they reach Nantes, Fouquet jumps down and gives Colbert a public and ostentatious salute. Fouquet asks, irritated, why Colbert refused to join him or pass him. Colbert says it is out of respect. Fouquet hops into a carriage and makes his way to Nantes. He hears rumors that the King is coming with all speed and is expected in ten or twelve hours. As soon as D'Artagnan arrives, he asks to speak with Fouquet.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_37_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 38

chapter 38: friendly advice

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Eight: Friendly Advice", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-eight-friendly-advice", "summary": "Fouquet is not well. When D'Artagnan shows up at his door, he asks if it is now time for the arrest. D'Artagnan reassures Fouquet and tells him that when the time comes, he will announce his intentions loudly. Fouquet compliments D'Artagnan on his intelligence and heart. He then tells the captain about the race between the two boats. D'Artagnan agrees that does not bode well. D'Artagnan fills Fouquet in on the King's latest orders. They include forbidding any person, horse, or vehicle to leave Nantes without royal permission. Using very careful language, D'Artagnan tells Fouquet that this order goes into effect only once the King has arrived, and that Fouquet should bolt immediately and make for Belle-Isle. As soon as D'Artagnan leaves, Fouquet flies into action and attempts to flee. It is too late, however. Trumpets announce the arrival of the King. D'Artagnan comes by again, saying that the King is inquiring after Fouquet's health. D'Artagnan points out that now that the King has arrived no one can leave.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXVIII. Friendly Advice. Fouquet had gone to bed, like a man who clings to life, and wishes to economize, as much as possible, that slender tissue of existence, of which the shocks and frictions of this world so quickly wear out the tenuity. D'Artagnan appeared at the door of this chamber, and was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable "Good day." "_Bon jour!_ monseigneur," replied the musketeer; "how did you get through the journey?" "Tolerably well, thank you." "And the fever?" "But poorly. I drink, as you perceive. I am scarcely arrived, and I have already levied a contribution of _tisane_ upon Nantes." "You should sleep first, monseigneur." "Eh! _corbleu!_ my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, I should be very glad to sleep." "Who hinders you?" "Why, _you_ in the first place." "I? Oh, monseigneur!" "No doubt you do. Is it at Nantes as at Paris? Do you not come in the king's name?" "For Heaven's sake, monseigneur," replied the captain, "leave the king alone! The day on which I shall come on the part of the king, for the purpose you mean, take my word for it, I will not leave you long in doubt. You will see me place my hand on my sword, according to the _ordonnance_, and you will hear my say at once, in ceremonial voice, 'Monseigneur, in the name of the king, I arrest you!'" "You promise me that frankness?" said the superintendent. "Upon my honor! But we have not come to that, believe me." "What makes you think that, M. d'Artagnan? For my part, I think quite the contrary." "I have heard speak of nothing of the kind," replied D'Artagnan. "Eh! eh!" said Fouquet. "Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The king should not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart." Fouquet's expression implied doubt. "But M. Colbert?" said he; "does M. Colbert love me as much as you say?" "I am not speaking of M. Colbert," replied D'Artagnan. "He is an exceptional man. He does not love you; so much is very possible; but, _mordioux!_ the squirrel can guard himself against the adder with very little trouble." "Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a friend?" replied Fouquet; "and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man of your intelligence, and heart?" "You are pleased to say so," replied D'Artagnan. "Why did you wait till to-day to pay me such a compliment?" "Blind that we are!" murmured Fouquet. "Your voice is getting hoarse," said D'Artagnan; "drink, monseigneur, drink!" And he offered him a cup of _tisane_, with the most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a gentle smile. "Such things only happen to me," said the musketeer. "I have passed ten years under your very beard, while you were rolling about tons of gold. You were clearing an annual pension of four millions; you never observed me; and you find out there is such a person in the world, just at the moment you--" "Just at the moment I am about to fall," interrupted Fouquet. "That is true, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan." "I did not say so." "But you thought so; and that is the same thing. Well! if I fall, take my word as truth, I shall not pass a single day without saying to myself, as I strike my brow, 'Fool! fool!--stupid mortal! You had a Monsieur d'Artagnan under your eye and hand, and you did not employ him, you did not enrich him!'" "You overwhelm me," said the captain. "I esteem you greatly." "There exists another man, then, who does not think as M. Colbert thinks," said the surintendant. "How this M. Colbert looms up in your imagination! He is worse than fever!" "Oh! I have good cause," said Fouquet. "Judge for yourself." And he related the details of the course of the lighters, and the hypocritical persecution of Colbert. "Is not this a clear sign of my ruin?" D'Artagnan became very serious. "That is true," he said. "Yes; it has an unsavory odor, as M. de Treville used to say." And he fixed on M. Fouquet his intelligent and significant look. "Am I not clearly designated in that, captain? Is not the king bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have so many creatures, and to possess himself of Belle-Isle?" "Where M. d'Herblay is," added D'Artagnan. Fouquet raised his head. "As for me, monseigneur," continued D'Artagnan, "I can assure you the king has said nothing to me against you." "Indeed!" "The king commanded me to set out for Nantes, it is true; and to say nothing about it to M. de Gesvres." "My friend." "To M. de Gesvres, yes, monseigneur," continued the musketeer, whose eye s did not cease to speak a language different from the language of his lips. "The king, moreover, commanded me to take a brigade of musketeers, which is apparently superfluous, as the country is quite quiet." "A brigade!" said Fouquet, raising himself upon his elbow. "Ninety-six horsemen, yes, monseigneur. The same number as were employed in arresting MM. de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars, and Montmorency." Fouquet pricked up his ears at these words, pronounced without apparent value. "And what else?" said he. "Oh! nothing but insignificant orders; such as guarding the castle, guarding every lodging, allowing none of M. de Gesvres's guards to occupy a single post." "And as to myself," cried Fouquet, "what orders had you?" "As to you, monseigneur?--not the smallest word." "Monsieur d'Artagnan, my safety, my honor, perhaps my life are at stake. You would not deceive me?" "I?--to what end? Are you threatened? Only there really is an order with respect to carriages and boats--" "An order?" "Yes; but it cannot concern you--a simple measure of police." "What is it, captain?--what is it?" "To forbid all horses or boats to leave Nantes, without a pass, signed by the king." "Great God! but--" D'Artagnan began to laugh. "All that is not to be put into execution before the arrival of the king at Nantes. So that you see plainly, monseigneur, the order in nowise concerns you." Fouquet became thoughtful, and D'Artagnan feigned not to observe his preoccupation. "It is evident, by my thus confiding to you the orders which have been given to me, that I am friendly towards you, and that I am trying to prove to you that none of them are directed against you." "Without doubt!--without doubt!" said Fouquet, still absent. "Let us recapitulate," said the captain, his glance beaming with earnestness. "A special guard about the castle, in which your lodging is to be, is it not?" "Do you know the castle?" "Ah! monseigneur, a regular prison! The absence of M. de Gesvres, who has the honor of being one of your friends. The closing of the gates of the city, and of the river without a pass; but, only when the king shall have arrived. Please to observe, Monsieur Fouquet, that if, instead of speaking to man like you, who are one of the first in the kingdom, I were speaking to a troubled, uneasy conscience--I should compromise myself forever. What a fine opportunity for any one who wished to be free! No police, no guards, no orders; the water free, the roads free, Monsieur d'Artagnan obliged to lend his horses, if required. All this ought to reassure you, Monsieur Fouquet, for the king would not have left me thus independent, if he had any sinister designs. In truth, Monsieur Fouquet, ask me whatever you like, I am at your service; and, in return, if you will consent to do it, do me a service, that of giving my compliments to Aramis and Porthos, in case you embark for Belle-Isle, as you have a right to do without changing your dress, immediately, in your _robe de chambre_--just as you are." Saying these words, and with a profound bow, the musketeer, whose looks had lost none of their intelligent kindness, left the apartment. He had not reached the steps of the vestibule, when Fouquet, quite beside himself, hung to the bell-rope, and shouted, "My horses!--my lighter!" But nobody answered. The surintendant dressed himself with everything that came to hand. "Gourville!--Gourville!" cried he, while slipping his watch into his pocket. And the bell sounded again, whilst Fouquet repeated, "Gourville!--Gourville!" Gourville at length appeared, breathless and pale. "Let us be gone! Let us be gone!" cried Fouquet, as soon as he saw him. "It is too late!" said the surintendant's poor friend. "Too late!--why?" "Listen!" And they heard the sounds of trumpets and drums in front of the castle. "What does that mean, Gourville?" "It means the king is come, monseigneur." "The king!" "The king, who has ridden double stages, who has killed horses, and who is eight hours in advance of all our calculations." "We are lost!" murmured Fouquet. "Brave D'Artagnan, all is over, thou has spoken to me too late!" The king, in fact, was entering the city, which soon resounded with the cannon from the ramparts, and from a vessel which replied from the lower parts of the river. Fouquet's brow darkened; he called his _valets de chambre_ and dressed in ceremonial costume. From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the eagerness of the people, and the movement of a large troop, which had followed the prince. The king was conducted to the castle with great pomp, and Fouquet saw him dismount under the portcullis, and say something in the ear of D'Artagnan, who held his stirrup. D'Artagnan, when the king had passed under the arch, directed his steps towards the house Fouquet was in; but so slowly, and stopping so frequently to speak to his musketeers, drawn up like a hedge, that it might be said he was counting the seconds, or the steps, before accomplishing his object. Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the court. "Ah!" cried D'Artagnan, on perceiving him, "are you still there, monseigneur?" And that word _still_ completed the proof to Fouquet of how much information and how many useful counsels were contained in the first visit the musketeer had paid him. The surintendant sighed deeply. "Good heavens! yes, monsieur," replied he. "The arrival of the king has interrupted me in the projects I had formed." "Oh, then you know that the king has arrived?" "Yes, monsieur, I have seen him; and this time you come from him--" "To inquire after you, monseigneur; and, if your health is not too bad, to beg you to have the kindness to repair to the castle." "Directly, Monsieur d'Artagnan, directly!" "Ah, _mordioux!_" said the captain, "now the king is come, there is no more walking for anybody--no more free will; the password governs all now, you as much as me, me as much as you." Fouquet heaved a last sigh, climbed with difficulty into his carriage, so great was his weakness, and went to the castle, escorted by D'Artagnan, whose politeness was not less terrifying this time than it had just before been consoling and cheerful.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Friendly Advice

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-eight-friendly-advice

Fouquet is not well. When D'Artagnan shows up at his door, he asks if it is now time for the arrest. D'Artagnan reassures Fouquet and tells him that when the time comes, he will announce his intentions loudly. Fouquet compliments D'Artagnan on his intelligence and heart. He then tells the captain about the race between the two boats. D'Artagnan agrees that does not bode well. D'Artagnan fills Fouquet in on the King's latest orders. They include forbidding any person, horse, or vehicle to leave Nantes without royal permission. Using very careful language, D'Artagnan tells Fouquet that this order goes into effect only once the King has arrived, and that Fouquet should bolt immediately and make for Belle-Isle. As soon as D'Artagnan leaves, Fouquet flies into action and attempts to flee. It is too late, however. Trumpets announce the arrival of the King. D'Artagnan comes by again, saying that the King is inquiring after Fouquet's health. D'Artagnan points out that now that the King has arrived no one can leave.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_38_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 39

chapter 39: how king louis xiv played his little part

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Nine: How King Louis XIV Played His Little Part", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-how-king-louis-xiv-played-his-little-part", "summary": "As Fouquet accompanies D'Artagnan to see the King, a man shoves a piece of paper in his hand. While D'Artagnan is talking with the King, Fouquet reads the letter. In Gourville's handwriting, the letter informs Fouquet that a white horse is ready to bear him to safety. The Fouquet destroys the note. Fouquet goes in to see the King. The King asks after his health. Fouquet makes one last attempt to clear his name and defend himself. A little while into their conversation, it is clear Fouquet needs to go to bed. The King summons D'Artagnan to escort the man. Fouquet refuses, saying that a simple footman would do. Once Fouquet leaves, the King orders that D'Artagnan follow him. He asks D'Artagnan to arrest Fouquet, then orders a bunch of draconian measures like a special carriage to prevent notes being thrown out the window. D'Artagnan admits to the King that he tried to save Fouquet, but says that now he will execute his orders. D'Artagnan leaves the King. As he leaves, he sees a very cheerful Gourville heading to Fouquet's lodgings.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXIX. How the King, Louis XIV., Played His Little Part. As Fouquet was alighting from his carriage, to enter the castle of Nantes, a man of mean appearance went up to him with marks of the greatest respect, and gave him a letter. D'Artagnan endeavored to prevent this man from speaking to Fouquet, and pushed him away, but the message had been given to the surintendant. Fouquet opened the letter and read it, and instantly a vague terror, which D'Artagnan did not fail to penetrate, was painted on the countenance of the first minister. Fouquet put the paper into the portfolio which he had under his arm, and passed on towards the king's apartments. D'Artagnan, through the small windows made at every landing of the donjon stairs, saw, as he went up behind Fouquet, the man who had delivered the note, looking round him on the place and making signs to several persons, who disappeared in the adjacent streets, after having themselves repeated the signals. Fouquet was made to wait for a moment on the terrace of which we have spoken,--a terrace which abutted on the little corridor, at the end of which the cabinet of the king was located. Here D'Artagnan passed on before the surintendant, whom, till that time, he had respectfully accompanied, and entered the royal cabinet. "Well?" asked Louis XIV., who, on perceiving him, threw on to the table covered with papers a large green cloth. "The order is executed, sire." "And Fouquet?" "Monsieur le surintendant follows me," said D'Artagnan. "In ten minutes let him be introduced," said the king, dismissing D'Artagnan again with a gesture. The latter retired; but had scarcely reached the corridor at the extremity of which Fouquet was waiting for him, when he was recalled by the king's bell. "Did he not appear astonished?" asked the king. "Who, sire?" "_Fouquet_," replied the king, without saying monsieur, a peculiarity which confirmed the captain of the musketeers in his suspicions. "No, sire," replied he. "That's well!" And a second time Louis dismissed D'Artagnan. Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been left by his guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus: "Something is being contrived against you. Perhaps they will not dare to carry it out at the castle; it will be on your return home. The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Do not enter. A white horse is in waiting for you behind the esplanade!" Fouquet recognized the writing and zeal of Gourville. Not being willing that, if any evil happened to himself, this paper should compromise a faithful friend, the surintendant was busy tearing it into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace. D'Artagnan found him watching the snowflake fluttering of the last scraps in space. "Monsieur," said he, "the king awaits you." Fouquet walked with a deliberate step along the little corridor, where MM. de Brienne and Rose were at work, whilst the Duc de Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in the corridor, appeared to be waiting for orders, with feverish impatience, his sword between his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that MM. Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious, should scarcely take the least notice, as he, the surintendant, passed. But how could he expect to find it otherwise among courtiers, he whom the king no longer called anything but _Fouquet?_ He raised his head, determined to look every one and everything bravely in the face, and entered the king's apartment, where a little bell, which we already know, had already announced him to his majesty. The king, without rising, nodded to him, and with interest: "Well! how are you, Monsieur Fouquet?" said he. "I am in a high fever," replied the surintendant; "but I am at the king's service." "That is well; the States assemble to-morrow; have you a speech ready?" Fouquet looked at the king with astonishment. "I have not, sire," replied he; "but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question to ask; will your majesty permit me?" "Certainly. Ask it." "Why did not your majesty do his first minister the honor of giving him notice of this in Paris?" "You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you." "Never did a labor--never did an explanation fatigue me, sire; and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation of my king--" "Oh, Monsieur Fouquet! an explanation? An explanation, pray, of what?" "Of your majesty's intentions with respect to myself." The king blushed. "I have been calumniated," continued Fouquet, warmly, "and I feel called upon to adjure the justice of the king to make inquiries." "You say all this to me very uselessly, Monsieur Fouquet; I know what I know." "Your majesty can only know the things that have been told to you; and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, whilst others have spoken many, many times--" "What do you wish to say?" said the king, impatient to put an end to this embarrassing conversation. "I will go straight to the facts, sire; and I accuse a certain man of having injured me in your majesty's opinion." "Nobody has injured you, Monsieur Fouquet." "That reply proves to me, sire, that I am right." "Monsieur Fouquet, I do not like people to be accused." "Not when one is accused?" "We have already spoken too much about this affair." "Your majesty will not allow me to justify myself?" "I repeat that I do not accuse you." Fouquet, with a half-bow, made a step backward. "It is certain," thought he, "that he has made up his mind. He alone who cannot go back can show such obstinacy. Not to see the danger now would be to be blind indeed; not to shun it would be stupid." He resumed aloud, "Did your majesty send for me on business?" "No, Monsieur Fouquet, but for some advice I wish to give you." "I respectfully await it, sire." "Rest yourself, Monsieur Fouquet, do not throw away your strength; the session of the States will be short, and when my secretaries shall have closed it, I do not wish business to be talked of in France for a fortnight." "Has the king nothing to say to me on the subject of this assembly of the States?" "No, Monsieur Fouquet." "Not to me, the surintendant of the finances?" "Rest yourself, I beg you; that is all I have to say to you." Fouquet bit his lips and hung his head. He was evidently busy with some uneasy thought. This uneasiness struck the king. "Are you angry at having to rest yourself, M. Fouquet?" said he. "Yes, sire, I am not accustomed to take rest." "But you are ill; you must take care of yourself." "Your majesty spoke just now of a speech to be pronounced to-morrow." His majesty made no reply; this unexpected stroke embarrassed him. Fouquet felt the weight of this hesitation. He thought he could read danger in the eyes of the young prince, which fear would but precipitate. "If I appear frightened, I am lost," thought he. The king, on his part, was only uneasy at the alarm of Fouquet. "Has he a suspicion of anything?" murmured he. "If his first word is severe," again thought Fouquet; "if he becomes angry, or feigns to be angry for the sake of a pretext, how shall I extricate myself? Let us smooth the declivity a little. Gourville was right." "Sire," said he, suddenly, "since the goodness of the king watches over my health to the point of dispensing with my labor, may I not be allowed to be absent from the council of to-morrow? I could pass the day in bed, and will entreat the king to grant me his physician, that we may endeavor to find a remedy against this fearful fever." "So be it, Monsieur Fouquet, it shall be as you desire; you shall have a holiday to-morrow, you shall have the physician, and shall be restored to health." "Thanks!" said Fouquet, bowing. Then, opening his game: "Shall I not have the happiness of conducting your majesty to my residence of Belle-Isle?" And he looked Louis full in the face, to judge of the effect of such a proposal. The king blushed again. "Do you know," replied he, endeavoring to smile, "that you have just said, 'My residence of Belle-Isle'?" "Yes, sire." "Well! do you not remember," continued the king in the same cheerful tone, "that you gave me Belle-Isle?" "That is true again, sire. Only, as you have not taken it, you will doubtless come with me and take possession of it." "I mean to do so." "That was, besides, your majesty's intention as well as mine; and I cannot express to your majesty how happy and proud I have been to see all the king's regiments from Paris to help take possession." The king stammered out that he did not bring the musketeers for that alone. "Oh, I am convinced of that," said Fouquet, warmly; "your majesty knows very well that you have nothing to do but to come alone with a cane in your hand, to bring to the ground all the fortifications of Belle-Isle." "_Peste!_" cried the king; "I do not wish those fine fortifications, which cost so much to build, to fall at all. No, let them stand against the Dutch and English. You would not guess what I want to see at Belle-Isle, Monsieur Fouquet; it is the pretty peasants and women of the lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well, and are so seducing with their scarlet petticoats! I have heard great boast of your pretty tenants, monsieur le surintendant; well, let me have a sight of them." "Whenever your majesty pleases." "Have you any means of transport? It shall be to-morrow, if you like." The surintendant felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and replied, "No, sire; I was ignorant of your majesty's wish; above all, I was ignorant of your haste to see Belle-Isle, and I am prepared with nothing." "You have a boat of your own, nevertheless?" "I have five; but they are all in port, or at Paimboeuf; and to join them, or bring them hither, would require at least twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do so?" "Wait a little, put an end to the fever,--wait till to-morrow." "That is true. Who knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a hundred other ideas?" replied Fouquet, now perfectly convinced and very pale. The king started, and stretched his hand out towards his little bell, but Fouquet prevented his ringing. "Sire," said he, "I have an ague--I am trembling with cold. If I remain a moment longer, I shall most likely faint. I request your majesty's permission to go and fling myself beneath the bedclothes." "Indeed, you are in a shiver; it is painful to behold! Come, Monsieur Fouquet, begone! I will send to inquire after you." "Your majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be better." "I will call some one to reconduct you," said the king. "As you please, sire; I would gladly take the arm of any one." "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the king, ringing his little bell. "Oh, sire," interrupted Fouquet, laughing in such a manner as made the prince feel cold, "would you give me the captain of your musketeers to take me to my lodgings? An equivocal honor that, sire! A simple footman, I beg." "And why, M. Fouquet? M. d'Artagnan conducts me often, and extremely well!" "Yes, but when he conducts you, sire, it is to obey you; whilst me--" "Go on!" "If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested." "Arrested!" replied the king, who became paler than Fouquet himself,--"arrested! oh!" "And why should they not say so?" continued Fouquet, still laughing; "and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough to laugh at it." This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV. recoil before the appearance of the deed he meditated. M. d'Artagnan, when he appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the surintendant. "Quite unnecessary," said the latter; "sword for sword; I prefer Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent me enjoying the society of M. d'Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he is so good a judge of fortifications." D'Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, "I am saved!" said he. "Oh! yes, disloyal king, you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be when I am no longer there." He disappeared, leaving D'Artagnan with the king. "Captain," said the king, "you will follow M. Fouquet at the distance of a hundred paces." "Yes, sire." "He is going to his lodgings again. You will go with him." "Yes, sire." "You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up in a carriage." "In a carriage. Well, sire?" "In such a fashion that he may not, on the road, either converse with any one or throw notes to people he may meet." "That will be rather difficult, sire." "Not at all." "Pardon me, sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet, and if he asks for liberty to breathe, I cannot prevent him by closing both the windows and the blinds. He will throw out at the doors all the cries and notes possible." "The case is provided for, Monsieur d'Artagnan; a carriage with a trellis will obviate both the difficulties you point out." "A carriage with an iron trellis!" cried D'Artagnan; "but a carriage with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour, and your majesty commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet's lodgings." "The carriage in question is already made." "Ah! that is quite a different thing," said the captain; "if the carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have only to set it in motion." "It is ready--and the horses harnessed." "Ah!" "And the coachman, with the outriders, is waiting in the lower court of the castle." D'Artagnan bowed. "There only remains for me to ask your majesty whither I shall conduct M. Fouquet." "To the castle of Angers, at first." "Very well, sire." "Afterwards we will see." "Yes, sire." "Monsieur d'Artagnan, one last word: you have remarked that, for making this capture of M. Fouquet, I have not employed my guards, on which account M. de Gesvres will be furious." "Your majesty does not employ your guards," said the captain, a little humiliated, "because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all." "That is to say, monsieur, that I have more confidence in you." "I know that very well, sire! and it is of no use to make so much of it." "It is only for the sake of arriving at this, monsieur, that if, from this moment, it should happen that by any chance whatever M. Fouquet should escape--such chances have been, monsieur--" "Oh! very often, sire; but for others, not for me." "And why not with you?" "Because I, sire, have, for an instant, wished to save M. Fouquet." The king started. "Because," continued the captain, "I had then a right to do so, having guessed your majesty's plan, without you having spoken to me of it, and that I took an interest in M. Fouquet. Now, was I not at liberty to show my interest in this man?" "In truth, monsieur, you do not reassure me with regard to your services." "If I had saved him then, I should have been perfectly innocent; I will say more, I should have done well, for M. Fouquet is not a bad man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he let the hour of liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders, I will obey those orders, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at the castle of Angers, this very M. Fouquet." "Oh! you have not got him yet, captain." "That concerns me; every one to his trade, sire; only, once more, reflect! Do you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, sire?" "Yes, a thousand times, yes!" "In writing, sire, then." "Here is the order." D'Artagnan read it, bowed to the king, and left the room. From the height of the terrace he perceived Gourville, who went by with a joyous air towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: How King Louis XIV Played His Little Part

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-how-king-louis-xiv-played-his-little-part

As Fouquet accompanies D'Artagnan to see the King, a man shoves a piece of paper in his hand. While D'Artagnan is talking with the King, Fouquet reads the letter. In Gourville's handwriting, the letter informs Fouquet that a white horse is ready to bear him to safety. The Fouquet destroys the note. Fouquet goes in to see the King. The King asks after his health. Fouquet makes one last attempt to clear his name and defend himself. A little while into their conversation, it is clear Fouquet needs to go to bed. The King summons D'Artagnan to escort the man. Fouquet refuses, saying that a simple footman would do. Once Fouquet leaves, the King orders that D'Artagnan follow him. He asks D'Artagnan to arrest Fouquet, then orders a bunch of draconian measures like a special carriage to prevent notes being thrown out the window. D'Artagnan admits to the King that he tried to save Fouquet, but says that now he will execute his orders. D'Artagnan leaves the King. As he leaves, he sees a very cheerful Gourville heading to Fouquet's lodgings.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_43_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 44

chapter 44: result of the ideas of the king and the ideas of d'artagnan

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Four: Result of the Ideas of the King and the Ideas of D'Artagnan", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-four-result-of-the-ideas-of-the-king-and-the-ideas-of-dartagnan", "summary": "D'Artagnan is furious that the King has anticipated him. He decides to go with the fallback plan. D'Artagnan announces his intention to resign, and says that the fleet must return to Nantes with him. With the blockade raised, his friends will have time to escape. When he asks if anyone objects to this plan, an officer stands up and hands D'Artagnan yet another order signed by the King. Should D'Artagnan attempt to resign, says the order, he is to be relieved of command and taken as a prisoner back to France. D'Artagnan is shocked at the King's foresight and wile. He has anticipated D'Artagnan's every move. D'Artagnan's last thought is to simply take the order and hide it in his pocket, but he soon realizes that all the men on the ship have been given a copy of the order. There is no more hope; D'Artagnan allows himself to be taken prisoner by one of his men. D'Artagnan hears canon shots when he reaches the coast of France.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLIV. Result of the Ideas of the King, and the Ideas of D'Artagnan. The blow was direct. It was severe, mortal. D'Artagnan, furious at having been anticipated by an idea of the king's, did not despair, however, even yet; and reflecting upon the idea he had brought back from Belle-Isle, he elicited therefrom novel means of safety for his friends. "Gentlemen," said he, suddenly, "since the king has charged some other than myself with his secret orders, it must be because I no longer possess his confidence, and I should really be unworthy of it if I had the courage to hold a command subject to so many injurious suspicions. Therefore I will go immediately and carry my resignation to the king. I tender it before you all, enjoining you all to fall back with me upon the coast of France, in such a way as not to compromise the safety of the forces his majesty has confided to me. For this purpose, return all to your posts; within an hour, we shall have the ebb of the tide. To your posts, gentlemen! I suppose," added he, on seeing that all prepared to obey him, except the surveillant officer, "you have no orders to object, this time?" And D'Artagnan almost triumphed while speaking these words. This plan would prove the safety of his friends. The blockade once raised, they might embark immediately, and set sail for England or Spain, without fear of being molested. Whilst they were making their escape, D'Artagnan would return to the king; would justify his return by the indignation which the mistrust of Colbert had raised in him; he would be sent back with full powers, and he would take Belle-Isle; that is to say, the cage, after the birds had flown. But to this plan the officer opposed a further order of the king's. It was thus conceived: "From the moment M. d'Artagnan shall have manifested the desire of giving in his resignation, he shall no longer be reckoned leader of the expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be held to no longer obey him. Moreover, the said Monsieur d'Artagnan, having lost that quality of leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, shall set out immediately for France, accompanied by the officer who will have remitted the message to him, and who will consider him a prisoner for whom he is answerable." Brave and careless as he was, D'Artagnan turned pale. Everything had been calculated with a depth of precognition which, for the first time in thirty years, recalled to him the solid foresight and inflexible logic of the great cardinal. He leaned his head on his hand, thoughtful, scarcely breathing. "If I were to put this order in my pocket," thought he, "who would know it, what would prevent my doing it? Before the king had had time to be informed, I should have saved those poor fellows yonder. Let us exercise some small audacity! My head is not one of those the executioner strikes off for disobedience. We will disobey!" But at the moment he was about to adopt this plan, he saw the officers around him reading similar orders, which the passive agent of the thoughts of that infernal Colbert had distributed to them. This contingency of his disobedience had been foreseen--as all the rest had been. "Monsieur," said the officer, coming up to him, "I await your good pleasure to depart." "I am ready, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, grinding his teeth. The officer immediately ordered a canoe to receive M. d'Artagnan and himself. At sight of this he became almost distraught with rage. "How," stammered he, "will you carry on the directions of the different corps?" "When you are gone, monsieur," replied the commander of the fleet, "it is to me the command of the whole is committed." "Then, monsieur," rejoined Colbert's man, addressing the new leader, "it is for you that this last order remitted to me is intended. Let us see your powers." "Here they are," said the officer, exhibiting the royal signature. "Here are your instructions," replied the officer, placing the folded paper in his hands; and turning round towards D'Artagnan, "Come, monsieur," said he, in an agitated voice (such despair did he behold in that man of iron), "do me the favor to depart at once." "Immediately!" articulated D'Artagnan, feebly, subdued, crushed by implacable impossibility. And he painfully subsided into the little boat, which started, favored by wind and tide, for the coast of France. The king's guards embarked with him. The musketeer still preserved the hope of reaching Nantes quickly, and of pleading the cause of his friends eloquently enough to incline the king to mercy. The bark flew like a swallow. D'Artagnan distinctly saw the land of France profiled in black against the white clouds of night. "Ah! monsieur," said he, in a low voice, to the officer to whom, for an hour, he had ceased speaking, "what would I give to know the instructions for the new commander! They are all pacific, are they not? and--" He did not finish; the thunder of a distant cannon rolled athwart the waves, another, and two or three still louder. D'Artagnan shuddered. "They have commenced the siege of Belle-Isle," replied the officer. The canoe had just touched the soil of France.

Chapter Forty-Four: Result of the Ideas of the King and the Ideas of D'Artagnan

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-four-result-of-the-ideas-of-the-king-and-the-ideas-of-dartagnan

D'Artagnan is furious that the King has anticipated him. He decides to go with the fallback plan. D'Artagnan announces his intention to resign, and says that the fleet must return to Nantes with him. With the blockade raised, his friends will have time to escape. When he asks if anyone objects to this plan, an officer stands up and hands D'Artagnan yet another order signed by the King. Should D'Artagnan attempt to resign, says the order, he is to be relieved of command and taken as a prisoner back to France. D'Artagnan is shocked at the King's foresight and wile. He has anticipated D'Artagnan's every move. D'Artagnan's last thought is to simply take the order and hide it in his pocket, but he soon realizes that all the men on the ship have been given a copy of the order. There is no more hope; D'Artagnan allows himself to be taken prisoner by one of his men. D'Artagnan hears canon shots when he reaches the coast of France.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_44_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 45

chapter 45: the ancestors of porthos

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Five: The Ancestors of Porthos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-five-the-ancestors-of-porthos", "summary": "Aramis relates D'Artagnan's plan to Porthos. Aramis tells Porthos that if there is only time for one of them to escape, Porthos should go. Porthos refuses. He tells Aramis that they will either escape together or remain together. Aramis asks for the cause of Porthos's gloom. Porthos says he is drawing up his will. He tells Aramis that he feels tired, and that is a bad sign in his family. Porthos tells Aramis that his grandfather was twice as strong as him, but that one day, when he was about the age Porthos is now, he felt a weakness in his legs as he set out to hunt. He was killed that day by a wild boar. Porthos next tells Aramis about his father, who was just as strong as Porthos. One evening, his legs were weak as he rose from the dinner table. He then insisted upon going down into the garden, but while on the staircase he fell and hit his head. He died. Aramis tells Porthos that these do not mean anything, Porthos is still strong. Porthos tells Aramis that he too has felt a weakness in his legs and he knows his time is coming. He says he has lived a good and rich life. Aramis tells Porthos that they still have years to live. Besides, D'Artagnan is securing their escape right now. Aramis has given instructions to have a boat waiting for them in the grotto of Locmaria. Porthos's legs are fine for the time being. Suddenly there is a great call to arms. The fleet is coming. The fighting begins. Porthos and Aramis lead an impressive charge. Aramis calls for Porthos to seize a prisoner. Porthos does so. Aramis laughs at Porthos, saying that his legs must be better, but Porthos points out that he seized the man with his arms.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLV. The Ancestors of Porthos. When D'Artagnan left Aramis and Porthos, the latter returned to the principal fort, in order to converse with greater liberty. Porthos, still thoughtful, was a restraint on Aramis, whose mind had never felt itself more free. "Dear Porthos," said he, suddenly, "I will explain D'Artagnan's idea to you." "What idea, Aramis?" "An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours." "Ah! indeed!" said Porthos, much astonished. "Let us hear it." "Did you remark, in the scene our friend had with the officer, that certain orders constrained him with regard to us?" "Yes, I did notice that." "Well! D'Artagnan is going to give in his resignation to the king, and during the confusion that will result from his absence, we will get away, or rather you will get away, Porthos, if there is possibility of flight for only one." Here Porthos shook his head and replied: "We will escape together, Aramis, or we will stay together." "Thine is a right, a generous heart," said Aramis, "only your melancholy uneasiness affects me." "I am not uneasy," said Porthos. "Then you are angry with me." "I am not angry with you." "Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal countenance?" "I will tell you; I am making my will." And while saying these words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis. "Your will!" cried the bishop. "What, then! do you think yourself lost?" "I feel fatigued. It is the first time, and there is a custom in our family." "What is it, my friend?" "My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am." "Indeed!" said Aramis; "then your grandfather must have been Samson himself." "No; his name was Antoine. Well! he was about my age, when, setting out one day for the chase, he felt his legs weak, the man who had never known what weakness was before." "What was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?" "Nothing good, as you will see; for having set out, complaining still of weakness of the legs, he met a wild boar, which made head against him; he missed him with his arquebuse, and was ripped up by the beast and died immediately." "There is no reason in that why you should alarm yourself, dear Porthos." "Oh! you will see. My father was as strong again as I am. He was a rough soldier, under Henry III. and Henry IV.; his name was not Antoine, but Gaspard, the same as M. de Coligny. Always on horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he rose from table, his legs failed him." "He had supped heartily, perhaps," said Aramis, "and that was why he staggered." "Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre, nonsense! No, no, he was astonished at this lassitude, and said to my mother, who laughed at him, 'Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father did?'" "Well?" said Aramis. "Well, having this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the garden, instead of going to bed; his foot slipped on the first stair, the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge gashed his temple; and he was stretched out dead upon the spot." Aramis raised his eyes to his friend: "These are two extraordinary circumstances," said he; "let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs known to fail? Never have you stood so firm, so haughtily; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders." "At this moment," said Porthos, "I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate; I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you say, has occurred four times. I will not say this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money; I have fine estates; I have horses that I love; I have also friends that I love: D'Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you." The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to dissimulate in the very presence of Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand: "We will still live many years," said he, "to preserve to the world such specimens of its rarest men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from D'Artagnan, that is a good sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my part I have just issued directions that a bark should be rolled on rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know, where we have so often lain in wait for the foxes." "Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench where we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way." "Precisely. In case of misfortunes, a bark is to be concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait for a favorable moment, and during the night we will go to sea!" "That is a grand idea. What shall we gain by it?" "We shall gain this--nobody knows that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we shall gain this--that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no bark upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will cease to watch." "I understand." "Well! that weakness in the legs?" "Oh! better, much, just now." "You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and hope. D'Artagnan will sweep the sea and leave us free. No royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. _Vive Dieu!_ Porthos, we have still half a century of magnificent adventure before us, and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you," added the bishop with terrible energy, "that your brevet of duke is not such a chance as it is said to be." "We live by hope," said Porthos, enlivened by the warmth of his companion. All at once a cry resounded in their ears: "To arms! to arms!" This cry, repeated by a hundred throats, piercing the chamber where the two friends were conversing, carried surprise to one, and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with flambeaux. Women were seeking places of safety, the armed population were hastening to their posts. "The fleet! the fleet!" cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis. "The fleet?" repeated the latter. "Within half cannon-shot," continued the soldier. "To arms!" cried Aramis. "To arms!" repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the mole to place themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats, laden with soldiers, were seen approaching; and in three directions, for the purpose of landing at three points at once. "What must be done?" said an officer of the guard. "Stop them; and if they persist, fire!" said Aramis. Five minutes later, the cannonade commenced. These were the shots that D'Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too near the mole to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and the combat commenced hand to hand. "What's the matter, Porthos?" said Aramis to his friend. "Nothing! nothing!--only my legs; it is really incomprehensible!--they will be better when we charge." In fact, Porthos and Aramis did charge with such vigor, and so thoroughly animated their men, that the royalists re-embarked precipitately, without gaining anything but the wounds they carried away. "Eh! but Porthos," cried Aramis, "we must have a prisoner, quick! quick!" Porthos bent over the stair of the mole, and seized by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting to embark till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his prey, which served him as a buckler, and he recovered himself without a shot being fired at him. "Here is a prisoner for you," said Porthos coolly to Aramis. "Well!" cried the latter, laughing, "did you not calumniate your legs?" "It was not with my legs I captured him," said Porthos, "it was with my arms!"

Chapter Forty-Five: The Ancestors of Porthos

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

Aramis relates D'Artagnan's plan to Porthos. Aramis tells Porthos that if there is only time for one of them to escape, Porthos should go. Porthos refuses. He tells Aramis that they will either escape together or remain together. Aramis asks for the cause of Porthos's gloom. Porthos says he is drawing up his will. He tells Aramis that he feels tired, and that is a bad sign in his family. Porthos tells Aramis that his grandfather was twice as strong as him, but that one day, when he was about the age Porthos is now, he felt a weakness in his legs as he set out to hunt. He was killed that day by a wild boar. Porthos next tells Aramis about his father, who was just as strong as Porthos. One evening, his legs were weak as he rose from the dinner table. He then insisted upon going down into the garden, but while on the staircase he fell and hit his head. He died. Aramis tells Porthos that these do not mean anything, Porthos is still strong. Porthos tells Aramis that he too has felt a weakness in his legs and he knows his time is coming. He says he has lived a good and rich life. Aramis tells Porthos that they still have years to live. Besides, D'Artagnan is securing their escape right now. Aramis has given instructions to have a boat waiting for them in the grotto of Locmaria. Porthos's legs are fine for the time being. Suddenly there is a great call to arms. The fleet is coming. The fighting begins. Porthos and Aramis lead an impressive charge. Aramis calls for Porthos to seize a prisoner. Porthos does so. Aramis laughs at Porthos, saying that his legs must be better, but Porthos points out that he seized the man with his arms.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/46.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_45_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 46

chapter 46: the son of biscarrat

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Six: The Son of Biscarrat", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-six-the-son-of-biscarrat", "summary": "Aramis and Porthos hope to question their prisoner and learn of their enemy's plans. Porthos suggests inviting the man to supper and giving him lots of alcohol. The prisoner is nervous at first as he tells them that the plan is for killing during the fighting, and, if taken alive, for a hanging afterwards. By the sixth bottle of wine, the prisoner begs permission to ask a question. He asks if Porthos and Aramis were once Musketeers in the King's service. He tells them his name is Biscarrat. The name rings a bell with Porthos and Aramis. It turns out that their prisoner is the son of a man named Biscarrat, one of the four swordsmen who attacked the musketeers on the day they formed their friendship with D'Artagnan. Aramis remembers Biscarrat to be the only one of their enemies who they did not wound. Porthos and Aramis are pleased to meet Biscarrat. They shake hands warmly. Aramis immediately thinks of ways he can put this friendship to use. The noise of gunfire rings through the night. Aramis cries in horror, realizing that the previous battle was nothing more than an attempt to give men on the other side of the island time to land. Porthos begins cleaning and preparing his weapons. A terrified crowd rushes into the fort seeking guidance. Their allegiance is to Fouquet rather than to the King, and Aramis finally tells them all that Fouquet has been taken arrested. Although the crowd is determined to resist the royalists, Aramis counsels them all to surrender and obey the King. He commands them to do so in the name of their former master. The crowd isn't happy, but they listen to Aramis. Biscarrat tells Aramis that he may have saved the inhabitants of the isle, but that the lives of him and Porthos are still at stake. Aramis releases Biscarrat and gives him a horse so he can return to his comrades. Aramis and Porthos head for the grotto of Locmaria. It is their final chance to escape.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat. The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling. "What will happen," said he to Porthos, when everybody was gone home, "will be that the anger of the king will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when they are taken, which cannot fail to take place." "From which it results, then," said Porthos, "that what we have done is of not the slightest use." "For the moment it may be," replied the bishop, "for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do." "Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner," said Porthos, "and the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite him to join us; as he drinks he will talk." This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of D'Artagnan. He explained how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that evinced their despair. No more dependence to be placed now on D'Artagnan's fertile imagination--no further resource in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle. "The orders are," replied he, "to kill _during_ combat, or hang _afterwards_." Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces. "I am too light for the gallows," replied Aramis; "people like me are not hung." "And I am too heavy," said Porthos; "people like me break the cord." "I am sure," said the prisoner, gallantly, "that we could have guaranteed you the exact kind of death you preferred." "A thousand thanks!" said Aramis, seriously. Porthos bowed. "One more cup of wine to your health," said he, drinking himself. From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm of Aramis's wit and Porthos's cordial _bonhomie_. "Pardon me," said he, "if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little." "Address it!" cried Porthos; "address it!" "Speak," said Aramis. "Were you not, gentlemen, both in the musketeers of the late king?" "Yes, monsieur, and amongst the best of them, if you please," said Porthos. "That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father." "Of your father?" cried Aramis. "Do you know what my name is?" "_Ma foi!_ no, monsieur; but you can tell us, and--" "I am called Georges de Biscarrat." "Oh!" cried Porthos, in his turn. "Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?" "Biscarrat!" reflected the bishop. "It seems to me--" "Try to recollect, monsieur," said the officer. "_Pardieu!_ that won't take me long," said Porthos. "Biscarrat--called Cardinal--one of the four who interrupted us on the day on which we formed our friendship with D'Artagnan, sword in hand." "Precisely, gentlemen." "The only one," cried Aramis, eagerly, "we could not scratch." "Consequently, a capital blade?" said the prisoner. "That's true! most true!" exclaimed both friends together. "_Ma foi!_ Monsieur Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave man's son." Biscarrat pressed the hands held out by the two musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, "Here is a man who will help us," and without delay,--"Confess, monsieur," said he, "that it is good to have once been a good man." "My father always said so, monsieur." "Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself, of falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and to learn that these men are old acquaintances, in fact, hereditary friends." "Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, messieurs and friends!" said the young man, warmly. "Bah! you said so yourself." "I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I say--you will evade this dismal fate, if you wish!" "How--if we wish?" echoed Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos. "Provided," continued Porthos, looking, in his turn, with noble intrepidity, at M. Biscarrat and the bishop--"provided nothing disgraceful be required of us." "Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen," replied the officer--"what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill you, that is a predetermined thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you." "I don't think I am mistaken," said Porthos, with dignity; "but it appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and seek us here." "In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend," replied Aramis, constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who had grown silent and constrained. "You wish, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not--is that true?" "Ah! gentlemen and friends! it is because by speaking I betray the watchword. But, hark! I hear a voice that frees mine by dominating it." "Cannon!" said Porthos. "Cannon and musketry, too!" cried the bishop. On hearing at a distance, among the rocks, these sinister reports of a combat which they thought had ceased: "What can that be?" asked Porthos. "Eh! _Pardieu!_" cried Aramis; "that is just what I expected." "What is that?" "That the attack made by you was nothing but a feint; is not that true, monsieur? And whilst your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed, you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of the island." "Oh! several, monsieur." "We are lost, then," said the bishop of Vannes, quietly. "Lost! that is possible," replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, "but we are not taken or hung." And so saying, he rose from the table, went to the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who feels that life, in a great measure, depends upon the excellence and right conditions of his arms. At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might deliver up the island to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed precipitately to the fort to demand assistance and advice from their leaders. Aramis, pale and downcast, between two flambeaux, showed himself at the window which looked into the principal court, full of soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered inhabitants imploring succor. "My friends," said D'Herblay, in a grave and sonorous voice, "M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, you father, has been arrested by an order of the king, and thrown into the Bastile." A sustained yell of vengeful fury came floating up to the window at which the bishop stood, and enveloped him in a magnetic field. "Avenge Monsieur Fouquet!" cried the most excited of his hearers, "death to the royalists!" "No, my friends," replied Aramis, solemnly; "no, my friends; no resistance. The king is master in his kingdom. The king is the mandatory of God. The king and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the king, who have struck M. Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur, do not think of avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain--you, your wives and children, your property, your liberty. Lay down your arms, my friends--lay down your arms! since the king commands you so to do--and retire peaceably to your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do so; it is I who beg you to do so; it is I who now, in the hour of need, command you to do so, in the name of M. Fouquet." The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged roar of anger and terror. "The soldiers of Louis XIV. have reached the island," continued Aramis. "From this time it would no longer be a fight betwixt them and you--it would be a massacre. Begone, then, begone, and forget; this time I command you, in the name of the Lord of Hosts!" The mutineers retired slowly, submissive, silent. "Ah! what have you just been saying, my friend?" said Porthos. "Monsieur," said Biscarrat to the bishop, "you may save all these inhabitants, but thus you will neither save yourself nor your friend." "Monsieur de Biscarrat," said the bishop of Vannes, with a singular accent of nobility and courtesy, "Monsieur de Biscarrat, be kind enough to resume your liberty." "I am very willing to do so, monsieur; but--" "That would render us a service, for when announcing to the king's lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain some grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that submission has been effected." "Grace!" replied Porthos with flashing eyes, "what is the meaning of that word?" Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he had been accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder. Porthos understood him, and was silent immediately. "I will go, messieurs," replied Biscarrat, a little surprised likewise at the word "grace" pronounced by the haughty musketeer, of and to whom, but a few minutes before, he had related with so much enthusiasm the heroic exploits with which his father had delighted him. "Go, then, Monsieur Biscarrat," said Aramis, bowing to him, "and at parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude." "But you, messieurs, you whom I think it an honor to call my friends, since you have been willing to accept that title, what will become of you in the meantime?" replied the officer, very much agitated at taking leave of the two ancient adversaries of his father. "We will wait here." "But, _mon Dieu!_--the order is precise and formal." "I am bishop of Vannes, Monsieur de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a bishop than they hang a gentleman." "Ah! yes, monsieur--yes, monseigneur," replied Biscarrat; "it is true, you are right, there is still that chance for you. Then, I will depart, I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the king's lieutenant. Adieu! then, messieurs, or rather, to meet again, I hope." The worthy officer, jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis, departed in the direction of the sound of cannon, which, by surging the crowd into the fort, had interrupted the conversation of the two friends with their prisoner. Aramis watched the departure, and when left alone with Porthos: "Well, do you comprehend?" said he. "_Ma foi!_ no." "Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you here?" "No; he is a brave fellow." "Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria--is it necessary all the world should know it?" "Ah! that is true, that is true; I comprehend. We are going to escape by the cavern." "If you please," cried Aramis, gayly. "Forward, friend Porthos; our boat awaits us. King Louis has not caught us--_yet_."

Chapter Forty-Six: The Son of Biscarrat

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

Aramis and Porthos hope to question their prisoner and learn of their enemy's plans. Porthos suggests inviting the man to supper and giving him lots of alcohol. The prisoner is nervous at first as he tells them that the plan is for killing during the fighting, and, if taken alive, for a hanging afterwards. By the sixth bottle of wine, the prisoner begs permission to ask a question. He asks if Porthos and Aramis were once Musketeers in the King's service. He tells them his name is Biscarrat. The name rings a bell with Porthos and Aramis. It turns out that their prisoner is the son of a man named Biscarrat, one of the four swordsmen who attacked the musketeers on the day they formed their friendship with D'Artagnan. Aramis remembers Biscarrat to be the only one of their enemies who they did not wound. Porthos and Aramis are pleased to meet Biscarrat. They shake hands warmly. Aramis immediately thinks of ways he can put this friendship to use. The noise of gunfire rings through the night. Aramis cries in horror, realizing that the previous battle was nothing more than an attempt to give men on the other side of the island time to land. Porthos begins cleaning and preparing his weapons. A terrified crowd rushes into the fort seeking guidance. Their allegiance is to Fouquet rather than to the King, and Aramis finally tells them all that Fouquet has been taken arrested. Although the crowd is determined to resist the royalists, Aramis counsels them all to surrender and obey the King. He commands them to do so in the name of their former master. The crowd isn't happy, but they listen to Aramis. Biscarrat tells Aramis that he may have saved the inhabitants of the isle, but that the lives of him and Porthos are still at stake. Aramis releases Biscarrat and gives him a horse so he can return to his comrades. Aramis and Porthos head for the grotto of Locmaria. It is their final chance to escape.