Much Ado About Nothing

Boy!

Yes Signior?

In my bedroom window there is a book. Go get it and bring it to me here in the orchard.

I’m already here, sir.

I see that you are here, but I’d like you to go there and then come back again.

I’m amazed that a man, after watching romance turn another man into a fool and laughing at that man, can turn right around and become the thing he’s scorned. That’s the kind of man Claudio is. I knew him when he listened to nothing but the military drum and fife; now he would rather hear the sweet and refined music of the tabor and pipe. I knew him when he would’ve walked ten miles to see a well-crafted suit of armor; now he spends ten nights awake in his room designing himself a fancy new jacket. He used to speak plainly and to the point, like an honorable man and soldier; now his speech is elaborate and flowery. His words are like a miraculous banquet, full of strange new dishes. Will I be changed like that, and see the world through a lover’s eyes? I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. I can’t promise that love won’t transform me, but I can promise you this: until I truly fall in love, a woman will never make me act like such a fool. A beautiful woman comes along, but I’m unmoved. A wise woman turns up, but I’m unmoved. A virtuous woman appears, but I’m unmoved. I refuse to fall in love until all three qualities unite in a single woman. She must be rich, certainly, and smart, or I’ll have nothing to do with her. She has to be virtuous, or I’ll never bid on her; beautiful, or I won’t bother to look at her. Mild-mannered, or else she should stay away from me. Noble, or I won’t have her even if she’s an angel. She must be well spoken, an excellent musician, and her hair should be—well, I suppose the color doesn’t matter. Ha! Look, it’s the Prince and Mr. Love. I’ll hide in the arbor.

Well, should we hear some music?

Yes, my lord. Listen to how quiet the evening is, as if it’s purposefully setting the stage for a song.

(speaking so that only CLAUDIOcan hear) Do you see where Benedick is hiding?

(speaking so that only DON PEDROcan hear) Yes, very well, my lord. Once the music has ended, we’ll give him more than he bargained for.

Come on, Balthasar, let’s hear that song again.

Oh, my good lord, don’t make me insult music again with my awful singing.

You can tell an artist is excellent when he denies his own perfection. Please, sing for us; don’t make me woo you anymore!

Since you put it that way, I’ll sing. You’re like a suitor who courts a woman insincerely, swearing that he loves her even though he really doesn’t find her worthy.

Come on, please sing. If you’d like to continue this discussion, at least do so with music.

Just know this before I begin: I can’t play a single note that’s worthy of note.

Listen to him speaking in quarter notes! Get on with your note-playing now.

(to himself) That music must be divine, because their souls have been captivated. Isn’t it strange that strings made of sheep’s guts are capable of drawing men’s souls out of their bodies? Well, I’d rather listen to a plain old hunting horn than this music, when all is said and done.

(singing)

Don’t cry anymore, ladies, don’t cry anymore

Men have always been deceivers,

One foot on a ship and one on the shore,

Never devoted to anything.

So don’t cry like that, just let them go

And be happy and carefree forever,

Turning all your sad sounds around

When you sing “Hey, nonny nonny” instead.

Don’t sing more sad songs

About being down in the dumps

For men have been committing this kind of fraud

Ever since the first summer trees had leaves.

So don’t cry like that, just let them go

And be happy and carefree forever,

Turning all your sad sounds around

When you sing “Hey, nonny nonny” instead.

That’s a good song.

And a bad singer, my lord.

Ha! No, no, really, your voice is good enough in a pinch.

(to himself) If a dog had howled like that, I would have hung it. I hope his horrible singing doesn’t have any ill effects. I would’ve rather listened to the night raven screech, even if the bird’s noise does give me the plague, as they say it will.

Yes, do you hear me, Balthasar? Please, get some excellent music, because tomorrow we want to serenade Lady Hero at her bedroom window.

I’ll do the best I can, my lord.

Please do. Goodbye.

Come here, Leonato. What was it that you told me today—that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

Oh yes. (speaking so that only DON PEDRO can hear) Go on, keep walking: our prey is in sight.—I never thought that woman would love any man.

I didn’t, either. But how wonderful that she should be so fond of Signior Benedick, whom she has always appeared to hate.

(to himself) Is it possible? Is that the way the wind is blowing?

Really, my lord, I don’t know what to make of it, but she loves him with such a passion that it’s past all understanding.

Maybe she’s just pretending.

Yes, that’s quite likely.

Oh God! Pretending? No one has ever faked passion as skillfully as this, then.

Why, what symptoms of love does she exhibit?

(speaking so that only LEONATOcan hear) Bait the hook well; this fish is going to bite.

What symptoms, my lord? She will have a seat—you heard my daughter tell you how.

Yes, she did tell us.

Please, please tell me! This is amazing. I would have thought she was invincible against any assault of love.

I would have sworn that, too, my lord, especially against Benedick.

(to himself) I would take this as a joke if the old man weren’t saying it. Mischief surely can’t be hiding in such a respectable man.

(speaking so that only DON PEDROcan hear) We’ve infected him! Keep it up.

Has she told Benedick how she feels?

No, and she swears she never will. That’s what’s driving her crazy.

It’s true, Hero says so. Beatrice asks, “Does it make any sense to write and tell him I love him when I have always treated him with scorn?”

She says this as she begins to write the letter. She’ll be getting up twenty times in a night, sitting there in her slip until she’s written a page. My daughter told me everything.

Now that you speak of paper, I remember a funny story of Hero’s.

Oh, you mean when Beatrice writes a letter and Hero sees that it has “Benedick” and “Beatrice” written all over it?

Yes, that’s the one.

Oh, she tears that letter into a thousand small pieces and berates herself for being so forward as to write a letter to a man she knows would mock her. “I compare him,” she says, “to myself, and I know that I would mock him if he wrote me such a letter. Yes, even though I love him, I would mock him.”

Then she falls down to her knees, weeps, sobs, beats her breast, tears her hair, prays, and curses: “Oh sweet Benedick! God give me patience!”

She did indeed, my daughter says so. She worries that Beatrice is so overwrought that she might do herself harm someday. It’s true.

If she won’t tell Benedick, someone else should.

And what would that accomplish? He’ll just turn it into a joke and torment the poor woman even more.

If he did that, it would be a charitable deed to hang him. She’s an excellent, sweet woman, and there’s no doubt that she is virtuous.

And she is very smart.

Except for the fact that she loves Benedick.

Oh, my lord, when wisdom and passion are in one body, it’s ten to one that the passion will win. I am sorry for her, as I should be, since I am both her uncle and her guardian.

I wish she were in love with me instead. I would have thrown away all other considerations and made her my wife. Please, tell Benedick about her feelings and see what he has to say.

Is that a good idea, do you think?

Hero thinks Beatrice will surely die, for she says she’ll die if he doesn’t love her, and that she’ll die before she tells him, and she’ll die if he woos her and she’s made to hold back even one of her usual insults.

She’s probably right. If she offers him her love, it’s very possible that he’ll scorn it, since, as we all know, he tends to be contemptuous.

He’s a very proper man.

Indeed, he is good-looking and carries himself well.

And I swear to God he’s very smart.

He does indeed show sparks of something like wit.

And I believe him to be brave.

As brave as Hector, surely. And you could say that he is wise in managing fights, for he either avoids them discreetly or enters into them timidly.

If he fears God, he must necessarily keep the peace. If he breaks the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

And he’ll do that, because he’s a God-fearing man, even though his joking makes it seem otherwise. Well, I’m sorry for your niece. Should we go find Benedick and tell him about Beatrice’s love?

No, don’t ever tell him, my lord. Let her get over it, with the help of good advice.

No, that’s impossible. Her heart will break first.

Well, we’ll hear more about it from your daughter. Let it sit for a while. I am very fond of Benedick, and I just wish he would take a look at himself and realize how unfairly he’s treating this good woman.

My lord, will you come with me? Dinner is ready.

(speaking so that only DON PEDROand LEONATO can hear) If he doesn’t fall in love with her now, I’ll never trust my intuition again.

(speaking so that only LEONATOcan hear) The same trap must be set for her; that’s your daughter’s and servants’ job. The real fun will be when they both believe the other to be in love, without any of it being true. I can’t wait to watch that drama—it’ll be a pantomime, since both of them will be totally speechless! Let’s send Beatrice to call Benedick in to dinner

(coming forward) This can’t be a trick. They spoke with great seriousness, and they have Hero’s testimony. They seem to pity the lady. It seems her love is stretched to the limit. She loves me? Well, that love must be returned! I hear how I’m criticized. They say I’ll be smug if I find out she loves me. They also say she’d rather die than give any sign of her feelings. I never thought I’d marry. I can’t appear to be proud. People who discover their faults and can then change them are lucky indeed. They say the lady is beautiful; it’s true, I’ve seen it myself. And virtuous; that’s true, I can’t disprove that. And smart, except that she loves me. That may not be any proof of her intelligence, but I swear it won’t be evidence of her stupidity—for I’m going to be horribly in love with her! People might tease me here and there, since I attacked marriage for so long. But don’t tastes change? A man can love a dish when he is young that he hates when he turns old. Will quips and clever remarks and scathing written words keep a man from getting what his heart desires? No! The world needs to be populated. When I said that I’d die as a bachelor, I just meant that I didn’t think I’d live until I got married. Here comes Beatrice. By God! She’s a beautiful lady. I think I sense some signs of love in her.

Against my will, I’ve been told to bring you in to dinner.

Lovely Beatrice, I thank you for taking the pains to tell me that.

I didn’t take any more pains bringing this message than you took pains in thanking me. If the job had been painful, I would not have come.

So you took pleasure in bringing me this message?

Yes, as much pleasure as one might take in choking a bird at knifepoint. You don’t want to eat, sir? Goodbye, then.

Ha! “Against my will, I’ve been told to bring you in to dinner.” There’s a double meaning in that. “I didn’t take any more pains bringing this message than you took pains in thanking me.” That’s like saying, “Any thing I do for you is as easy as saying ”thank you." If this doesn’t move me to take pity on her, I’m a horrible person. If I don’t love her, I’m completely hard-hearted. I will go get her picture.