HELENA O, I am out of breath in this fond chase.
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies,
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears;
If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers.
No, no: I am as ugly as a bear,
For beasts that meet me run away for fear;
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne? (2.2.92-103)
Helena’s giving up, at least for now: O, I am out of breath in this fond chase, can’t keep going, need to—pause—and it’s fond, affectionate, running after love, but also mostly mad, the word’s main meaning. She knew all along this was likely going to be a bad idea, and so it’s proved: the more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. The more fervently I protest my love and ask for his in return, the more dismissive Demetrius is. Well, nasty, really. I’m just not getting anything back?
But then she returns to a familiar theme, a sad obsession: happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies, for she hath blessed and attractive eyes. It’s all about the eyes, Hermia’s got such nice EYES. Yes, that’s it. (Eyes, of course, are what’s most at stake here, at this moment in the play.) How came her eyes so bright? What’s her SECRET? Not with salt tears; if so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers. (Maybe that’s it? I’m always a bit red and puffy, while she’s—sparkly? a perfect flick?) No, no: I am as ugly as a bear, for beasts that meet me run away for fear. Oh Helena, love. It’s pathetic and self-pitying, but also loveable, Helena imagining herself as a kind of reverse Snow White, scattering squirrels as she goes. Animals run away from EVERYONE at night in the forest. That’s it, she continues, I’m so UGLY, so HORRIFIC, therefore no marvel though Demetrius do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. It’s no wonder that Demetrius runs away from me too, he can’t even bear to be near me. I’m HIDEOUS, utterly REPELLENT. How did I even think I ever had a chance with him, how stupid, how self-deluding, what wicked and dissembling glass of mine made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne? I was a fool to believe I ever could, deceived by my vanity into imagining that I was ever in the game.
And Helena can be funny, and ridiculous, and pathetic, and mad and silly, but also, who has not been there, who has never been a fool for love, and ended up feeling stupid and small and plain and STUPID?
