THE EIGHTH INNER SCENE
A place of dappled shine and shadow in the forest. No boughs or trees are visible, but only a luminous glade of color, where falling sunlight filters a swaying glow and gloom from high, wind-stirred branches above. On the edges of the scene, the semi-obscurity half conceals forms of the forest company [Jacques, the Duke, etc.] who, seated about their noon-time meal, sing their chorus:
THE CHORUS Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i’ the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
[Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.]
ORLANDO [Fiercely.] Forbear, and eat no more!
JACQUES Why, I have eat none yet.
ORLANDO Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.
THE DUKE What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
ORLANDO I almost die for food; and let me have it.
THE DUKE Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
ORLANDO Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you: I thought that all things had been savage here; And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are That in this desert inaccessible Under the shade of melancholy boughs Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If ever you have looked on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church, If ever sat at any good man’s feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear And known what ’tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.
THE DUKE True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church, And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d: And therefore sit you down in gentleness And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be minister’d.
ORLANDO Then but forbear your food a little while, Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn And give it food. There is an old poor man, Who after me hath many a weary step Limp’d in pure love: till he be first suffic’d I will not touch a bit.
THE DUKE Go find him out, And we will nothing waste till you return.
ORLANDO I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! [Exit Orlando.]
THE DUKE Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
JACQUES All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players!
[Re-enter Orlando with Adam, whom he helps to support.]
THE DUKE Welcome! Set down your venerable burden And let him feed.
ORLANDO I thank you most for him.
ADAM So had you need: I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
THE DUKE
Welcome: fall to! Give us some music; sing!
[Once more, as the chorus resumes the song “Under the Greenwood Tree,”
THE CLOUDY CURTAINS CLOSE
[The music dies away within. With a strange, dawning reverence, Caliban turns to Miranda and speaks:]
CALIBAN “I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.”— Like him there you have furnish’d me food of pity And a new world with no enemy!
MIRANDA You have none, Save the blind storms of your own nature.
CALIBAN Those Tempests are still now.
PROSPERO [Approaching.] So mine art hath power Once more to calm? Good: now the time is ripe Methinks to rest awhile, for I am happily Weary, and will take rest from thought.—Miranda, Wilt come within? Unhood me for brief slumber, And smooth my couch?
MIRANDA [Rising.] Right gladly.
PROSPERO [To Ariel.] And thou, too, One moment: I’ve more for this tutelage.
[Prospero passes off, right, by the throne exit, accompanied by Ariel. Miranda, about to follow, pauses at Caliban’s entreating voice.]
CALIBAN Stay! What your pity hath made me cries to you— Leave me not! Let me be yours!
MIRANDA [Wonderingly.] How mean you—mine?
CALIBAN Your Caliban, your creature, your bond slave To fetch and bear for you.
MIRANDA I want no bonds ’Twixt me and any friend. Nay, we are friends And free to serve each other.
CALIBAN Yet I yearn For more: I know not what.
MIRANDA What more could be More happy?
CALIBAN Here I crawled upon my belly Brute-stuttering for you, where now I stand And pray—with Prosper’s tongue. His art hath bred Within my blood a kinship with your kindness That cries: “Miranda, thou and I are one!”— I know not how—I know not how.
MIRANDA You love me. ’Tis simple, then: I love you, Caliban.
CALIBAN [In a splendor of amazement.] Lovest me—thou? thou!—Wilt be mine?
MIRANDA Nay, truly You know not how. Love knows not mine and thine, But only ours; and all the world is ours To serve Love in. I am not thine, good friend. [She goes within.]
CALIBAN Stay yet!—She loveth me! Yet Love, she saith, Love knows not mine and thine.
A VOICE FROM BENEATH [Calls deeply.] She shall be thine, Caliban!
CALIBAN [Starting.] Mine! Who saith that word?
THE VOICE She shall Be thine!
CALIBAN How mine?—Say!
THE VOICE Thou shalt fight for her.
CALIBAN [Pointing toward the Cloudy Curtains.] Shall fight? Nay, there—the youth put by his sword, For the other said: “Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.”
THE VOICE Yet thou shalt fight!
CALIBAN [Springing forward above his cell.] What art thou? [From the mouth of the cell a flame-colored Figure strides forth and replies:]
THE FIGURE War: thy father’s Priest.—Caliban, remember Setebos!
CALIBAN Ha, Setebos! Com’st thou once more with priest-craft To lure me back to him?—Begone!
WAR Yet not Without me shalt thou win Miranda.
CALIBAN [Fiercely.] Go!
WAR [Returning within the cell, disappears as his voice dies away.] Remember War! Miranda shall be thine!
CALIBAN [Hoarsely.] Miranda—mine!
ARIEL [Comes running from the throne entrance.] Ho, pupil, now be merry! Great Prosper sleeps, and from his slumber sends thee A dream of fairy laughter.
CALIBAN [Darkly, amazed.] Laughter!
ARIEL Aye, An English make-believe of antic elves And merry wives, to douse the lustful fire Of old John Falstaff, lured to Windsor Forest.— Our Master deems thou hast learned art enough To laugh at apings of it.
CALIBAN [Still amazed, but curious.] Laugh?
ARIEL Aye, list!
[Caliban stands on one side, with arms folded and listens.]
To Windsor’s magic oak now turn: There—his fatty bulk in guise Of the hornèd hunter Herne— Big Sir John in ambush lies Where the counterfeited fays Troop along the forest ways: How his lust will cease to burn For the Merry Wives—now gaze Yonder by the oak, and learn!
[Ariel raises his staff. Parting, the Cloudy Curtains disclose