Tales From Shakespeare [65]
dignity and her lowly fortunes that she would say:
"It were all one that I should love a bright particular star, and think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me."
Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears and her heart with sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face.
Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which, by deep study and long experience in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest there was one set down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at that time languished; and when Helena heard of the king's complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his physicians was of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin if she should offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being Count Rousillon's wife.
Bertram had not been long gone when the countess was informed by her steward that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he understood, from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram and thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess; those days, probably, when her love for Bertram's father first began; and she said to herself:
"Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we are Nature's children, these faults are ours, though then we think not they are faults."
While the countess was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, "Helena, you know I am a mother to you."
Helena replied, "You are my honorable mistress."
"You are my daughter," said the countess again. "I say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at my words?"
With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, "Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; the Count Rousillon cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter."
"Yet, Helena," said the countess, "you might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the words MOTHER and DAUGHTER so disturb you. Helena, do you love my son?"
"Good madam, pardon me," said the affrighted Helena.
Again the countess repeated her question. "Do you love my son?"
"Do not you love him, madam?" said Helena.
The countess replied: "Give me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for your love has to the full appeared."
Helena, on her knees now, owned her love, and with shame and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense she had of the inequality between their fortunes she protested Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble, unaspiring love to a poor Indian who adores the sun that looks upon his worshiper but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she had
"It were all one that I should love a bright particular star, and think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me."
Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears and her heart with sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face.
Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which, by deep study and long experience in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest there was one set down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at that time languished; and when Helena heard of the king's complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his physicians was of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin if she should offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being Count Rousillon's wife.
Bertram had not been long gone when the countess was informed by her steward that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he understood, from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram and thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess; those days, probably, when her love for Bertram's father first began; and she said to herself:
"Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we are Nature's children, these faults are ours, though then we think not they are faults."
While the countess was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, "Helena, you know I am a mother to you."
Helena replied, "You are my honorable mistress."
"You are my daughter," said the countess again. "I say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at my words?"
With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, "Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; the Count Rousillon cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter."
"Yet, Helena," said the countess, "you might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the words MOTHER and DAUGHTER so disturb you. Helena, do you love my son?"
"Good madam, pardon me," said the affrighted Helena.
Again the countess repeated her question. "Do you love my son?"
"Do not you love him, madam?" said Helena.
The countess replied: "Give me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for your love has to the full appeared."
Helena, on her knees now, owned her love, and with shame and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense she had of the inequality between their fortunes she protested Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble, unaspiring love to a poor Indian who adores the sun that looks upon his worshiper but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she had