Project Gutenberg's Tales from Shakespeare, by Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb
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Title: Tales from Shakespeare
Author: Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb
Illustrator: Arthur Rackham
Release Date: February 24, 2007 [EBook #20657]
Language: English
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TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE
By CHARLES & MARY LAMB
ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR RACKHAM
_WEATHERVANE BOOKS NEW YORK_
Copyright © MCMLXXV by Crown Publishers, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-18860
All rights reserved.
This edition is published by Weathervane Books, a division of Barre
Publishing Company, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America
PREFACE
The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an
introduction to the study of Shakespeare, for which purpose his words
are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in whatever
has been added to give them the regular form of a connected story,
diligent care has been taken to select such words as might least
interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote:
therefore, words introduced into our language since his time have been
as far as possible avoided.
In those tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, the young
readers will perceive, when they come to see the source from which these
stories are derived, that Shakespeare's own words, with little
alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the
dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the writers found
themselves scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrative form:
therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been made use of too
frequently for young people not accustomed to the dramatic form of
writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused by an earnest
wish to give as much of Shakespeare's own words as possible: and if the
"_He said_," and "_She said_," the question and the reply, should
sometimes seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon it, because
it was the only way in which could be given to them a few hints and
little foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder
years, when they come to the rich treasures from which these small and
valueless coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as
faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image. Faint and
imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his language
is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his
excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense, to
make it read something like prose; and even in some few places, where
his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple plainness
to cheat the young readers into the belief that they are reading prose,
yet still his language being transplanted from its own natural soil and
wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native beauty.
It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young
children. To the utmost of their ability the writers have constantly
kept this in mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very
difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and
women in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. For
young ladies too, it has been the intention chiefly to write; because
boys being generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a
much earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best scenes of
Shakespeare by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into
this manly book; and, therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to
the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the
originals, their kind assistance is rather requested in explaining to
their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand: and when
they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they
will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young
sister's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these
stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and it
is hoped they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select
passages, they may choose to give their sisters in this way will be much
better relished and understood from their having some notion of the
general story from one of these imperfect abridgments;--which if they
be fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any of the young
readers, it is hoped that no worse effect will result than to make them
wish themselves a little older, that they may be allowed to read the
Plays at full length (such a wish will be neither peevish nor
irrational). When time and leave of judicious friends shall put them
into their hands, they will discover in such of them as are here
abridged (not to mention almost as many more, which are left untouched)
many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite
variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of
sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour of
which it was feared would be lost if it were attempted to reduce the
length of them.
What these Tales shall have been to the _young_ readers, that and much
more it is the writers' wish that the true Plays of Shakespeare may
prove to them in older years--enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of
virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson
of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach courtesy,
benignity, generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these
virtues, his pages are full.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE TEMPEST 1
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 14
THE WINTER'S TALE 27
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 39
AS YOU LIKE IT 53
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 71
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 85
CYMBELINE 102
KING LEAR 117
MACBETH 136
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 148
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 162
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 174
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 190
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 206
TIMON OF ATHENS 221
ROMEO AND JULIET 236
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 255
OTHELLO 272
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 287
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PERDITA
WHEN CALIBAN WAS LAZY AND NEGLECTED HIS WORK,
ARIEL WOULD COME SLILY AND PINCH HIM
WHERE IS PEASE-BLOSSOM?
PAULINA DREW BACK THE CURTAIN WHICH CONCEALED
THIS FAMOUS STATUE
GANYMEDE ASSUMED THE FORWARD MANNERS OFTEN
SEEN IN YOUTHS WHEN THEY ARE BETWEEN BOYS
AND MEN
IMOGEN'S TWO BROTHERS THEN CARRIED HER TO A
SHADY COVERT
CORDELIA
THEY WERE STOPPED BY THE STRANGE APPEARANCE
OF THREE FIGURES
PETRUCHIO, PRETENDING TO FIND FAULT WITH EVERY
DISH, THREW THE MEAT ABOUT THE FLOOR
SHE BEGAN TO THINK OF CONFESSING THAT SHE WAS
A WOMAN
AT THE CELL OF FRIAR LAWRENCE
TO THIS BROOK OPHELIA CAME
[Illustration]
THE TEMPEST
There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which
were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a
very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she
had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's.
They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; it was divided into
several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he
kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time
much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this art he found
very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon this
island, which had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who died
there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art,
released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of
large trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked commands.
These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero.
Of these Ariel was the chief.
[Illustration: WHEN CALIBAN WAS LAZY AND NEGLECTED HIS WORK, ARIEL WOULD
COME SLILY AND PINCH HIM]
The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature,
except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly
monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the son
of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the woods, a
strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape: he took him
home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero would have been
very kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from his
mother Sycorax, would not let him learn anything good or useful:
therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most
laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these
services.
When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible
to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slily and pinch him, and
sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness
of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape, in
the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who
feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With a
variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him,
whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do.
Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by
their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders
they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with
the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up, he
showed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full of
living beings like themselves. "O my dear father," said she, "if by your
art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad
distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they
will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth,
rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious
souls within her."
"Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; "there is no harm
done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receive any
hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You are
ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you know no more of
me, but that I am your father, and live in this poor cave. Can you
remember a time before you came to this cell? I think you cannot, for
you were not then three years of age."
"Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda.
"By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other house or person? Tell me what
you can remember, my child."
Miranda said, "It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But had
I not once four or five women who attended upon me?"
Prospero answered, "You had, and more. How is it that this still lives
in your mind? Do you remember how you came here?"
"No, sir," said Miranda, "I remember nothing more."
"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, "I was Duke of Milan,
and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a younger brother,
whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted everything; and as I was fond
of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the management of my state
affairs to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed he proved). I,
neglecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did dedicate my
whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio being thus in
possession of my power, began to think himself the duke indeed. The
opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among my subjects
awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom:
this he soon effected with the aid of the King of Naples, a powerful
prince, who was my enemy."
"Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not that hour destroy us?"
"My child," answered her father, "they durst not, so dear was the love
that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when we
were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, without
either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us, as he thought, to
perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had
privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some books
which I prize above my dukedom."
"O my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble must I have been to you
then!"
"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little cherub that did
preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me bear up against my
misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island, since
when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and well have
you profited by my instructions."
"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now pray tell me,
sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm?"
"Know then," said her father, "that by means of this storm, my enemies,
the King of Naples, and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this
island."
Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic
wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then presented
himself before his master, to give an account of the tempest, and how he
had disposed of the ship's company, and though the spirits were always
invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she should hear him
holding converse (as would seem to her) with the empty air.
"Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, "how have you performed
your task?"
Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors of the
mariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who leaped
into the sea; and his father thought he saw his dear son swallowed up by
the waves and lost. "But he is safe," said Ariel, "in a corner of the
isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lamenting the loss of the
king, his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is
injured, and his princely garments, though drenched in the sea-waves,
look fresher than before."
"That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring him hither: my
daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and my brother?"
"I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Ferdinand, whom they have
little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship's
crew not one is missing; though each one thinks himself the only one
saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the harbour."
"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed: but there
is more work yet."
"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, master, you have
promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you worthy
service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge
or grumbling."
"How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect what a torment I freed
you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and
envy was almost bent double? Where was she born? Speak; tell me."
"Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel.
"O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you have been, which
I find you do not remember. This bad witch, Sycorax, for her
witch-crafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from
Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirit too
delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a tree,
where I found you howling. This torment, remember, I did free you from."
"Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful; "I
will obey your commands."
"Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set you free." He then gave orders
what further he would have him do; and away went Ariel, first to where
he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the
same melancholy posture.
"O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I will soon move
you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight
of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began singing,
"Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell."
This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from the
stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the sound
of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were
sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen a
man before, except her own father.
"Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at yonder."
"O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, "surely that is a
spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful
creature. Is it not a spirit?"
"No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has senses
such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. He is somewhat
altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He has lost
his companions, and is wandering about to find them."
Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards like her
father, was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful young
prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place,
and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing but
wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and that Miranda was
the goddess of the place, and as such he began to address her.
She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and was
going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted her.
He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly
perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight: but to try
Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some difficulties in their
way: therefore advancing forward, he addressed the prince with a stern
air, telling him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it from him
who was the lord of it. "Follow me," said he, "I will tie you neck and
feet together. You shall drink sea-water; shell-fish, withered roots,
and husks of acorns shall be your food." "No," said Ferdinand, "I will
resist such entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy," and drew
his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him to the spot
where he stood, so that he had no power to move.
Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are you so ungentle? Have
pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, and
to me he seems a true one."
"Silence," said the father: "one word more will make me chide you, girl!
What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no more such fine
men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most
men as far excel this, as he does Caliban." This he said to prove his
daughter's constancy; and she replied, "My affections are most humble. I
have no wish to see a goodlier man."
"Come on, young man," said Prospero to the Prince; "you have no power to
disobey me."
"I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was by
magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished to
find himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero: looking back on
Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after Prospero
into the cave, "My spirits are all bound up, as if I were in a dream;
but this man's threats, and the weakness which I feel, would seem light
to me if from my prison I might once a day behold this fair maid."
Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soon
brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking
care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on him, and
then pretending to go into his study, he secretly watched them both.
Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs of wood.
Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. "Alas!" said she, "do not
work so hard; my father is at his studies, he is safe for these three
hours; pray rest yourself."
"O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish my task
before I take my rest."
"If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry your logs the
while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead of a help
Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that
the business of log-carrying went on very slowly.
Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of his
love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but was standing
by them invisible, to overhear what they said.
Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was against her
father's express command she did so.
Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's
disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall in
love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her love by
forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a long
speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above all the
ladies he ever saw.
In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all the
women in the world, she replied, "I do not remember the face of any
woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and my
dear father. How features are abroad, I know not; but, believe me, sir,
I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can my
imagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear
I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget."
At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to say, "This
goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be Queen of Naples."
And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes speak
in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to the crown
of Naples, and that she should be his queen.
"Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will
answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife if you will marry
me."
Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible before them.
"Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard, and approve of all
you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I will
make you rich amends, by giving you my daughter. All your vexations were
but trials of your love, and you have nobly stood the test. Then as my
gift, which your true love has worthily purchased, take my daughter, and
do not smile that I boast she is above all praise." He then, telling
them that he had business which required his presence, desired they
would sit down and talk together till he returned; and this command
Miranda seemed not at all disposed to disobey.
When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly
appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's
brother and the King of Naples. Ariel said he had left them almost out
of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused them to
see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished for want
of food, he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet, and then,
just as they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the
shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the feast vanished
away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them,
reminding them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom,
and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea; saying,
that for this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them.
The King of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the
injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel told his master he was
certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could
not but pity them.
"Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who are but a
spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being like
themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my dainty
Ariel."
Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in their
train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music he played in
the air to draw them on to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the
same who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books and
provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perish
in an open boat in the sea.
Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they did not know
Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling
him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and the king knew
that he was the injured Prospero.
Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true repentance,
implored his brother's forgiveness, and the king expressed his sincere
remorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his brother: and Prospero
forgave them; and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom, he said
to the King of Naples, "I have a gift in store for you too;" and opening
a door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda.
Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this
unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in the
storm.
"O wonder!" said Miranda, "what noble creatures these are! It must
surely be a brave world that has such people in it."
The King of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty and
excellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had been. "Who is this
maid?" said he; "she seems the goddess that has parted us, and brought
us thus together." "No, sir," answered Ferdinand, smiling to find his
father had fallen into the same mistake that he had done when he first
saw Miranda, "she is a mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine; I
chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your consent, not
thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to this Prospero, who is
the famous Duke of Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but
never saw him till now: of him I have received a new life: he has made
himself to me a second father, giving me this dear lady."
"Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how oddly will it
sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness."
"No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our troubles
past, since they so happily have ended." And then Prospero embraced his
brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a wise
over-ruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven from his
poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the crown of
Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert island, it had happened
that the king's son had loved Miranda.
These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother,
so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable to
speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation,
and prayed for blessings on the young couple.
Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, and the
sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter would accompany
them home the next morning. "In the meantime," says he, "partake of such
refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your evening's
entertainment I will relate the history of my life from my first landing
in this desert island." He then called for Caliban to prepare some food,
and set the cave in order; and the company were astonished at the
uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero
said) was the only attendant he had to wait upon him.
Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service, to
the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he had been a
faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free
liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. "My
quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him free,
"I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom." "Thank you, my dear
master," said Ariel; "but give me leave to attend your ship home with
prosperous gales, before you bid farewell to the assistance of your
faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily I shall
live!" Here Ariel sung this pretty song:
"Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie:
There I crouch when owls do cry
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."
Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and wand, for
he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art. And having thus
overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the King
of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happiness, but to
revisit his native land, to take possession of his dukedom, and to
witness the happy nuptials of his daughter and Prince Ferdinand, which
the king said should be instantly celebrated with great splendour on
their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of the
spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
There was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its citizens the
power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased;
for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen to
be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her to be
put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of their own
daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little refractory, this
law was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the young
ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their parents
with the terrors of it.
There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus,
who actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning Duke of
Athens), to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to
marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family, refused to obey
him, because she loved another young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus
demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might be
put in force against his daughter.
Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius had
formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena
loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason, which Hermia
gave for not obeying her father's command, moved not the stern Egeus.
Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to alter the
laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia four days to
consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still refused to
marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death.
When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went to her
lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, and that she must
either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days.
Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but
recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from Athens,
and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not be put in
force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the boundaries of
the city), he proposed to Hermia that she should steal out of her
father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's house, where he
would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, "in the wood a few
miles without the city; in that delightful wood where we have so often
walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May."
To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of her
intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will do
foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell this
to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying her
friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following her faithless lover
to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither in
pursuit of Hermia.
The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet was the
favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name of _Fairies_.
Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the Fairies, with all their
tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels.
Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at this
time, a sad disagreement; they never met by moonlight in the shady walks
of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy
elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.
The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to give
Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend;
and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and
brought him up in the woods.
The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania was
walking with some of her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended by his
train of fairy courtiers.
"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. The queen
replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have
forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not I thy
lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little changeling
boy to be my page."
"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy kingdom
buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great anger. "Well,
go your way," said Oberon: "before the morning dawns I will torment you
for this injury."
Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy counsellor.
Puck, (or as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a shrewd and
knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in the neighbouring
villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and skimming the milk,
sometimes plunging his light and airy form into the butter-churn, and
while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn, in vain the
dairy-maid would labour to change her cream into butter: nor had the
village swains any better success; whenever Puck chose to play his
freaks in the brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a few
good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable ale together, Puck
would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted crab, and
when some old goody was going to drink he would bob against her lips,
and spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after, when the
same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her neighbours a sad
and melancholy story, Puck would slip her three-legged stool from under
her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and then the old gossips would
hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear they never wasted a merrier
hour.
"Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the
night; "fetch me the flower which maids call _Love in Idleness_; the
juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who
sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the first thing they
see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my
Titania when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when she
opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a lion or a
bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy ape; and before I will take this
charm from off her sight, which I can do with another charm I know of, I
will make her give me that boy to be my page."
Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this
intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena
enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for following
him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle expostulations
from Helena, reminding him of his former love and professions of true
faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts,
and she ran after him as swiftly as she could.
The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great
compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk
by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in
those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that might
be, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon said to his
favourite, "Take a part of this flower; there has been a sweet Athenian
lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you find him
sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to do it
when she is near him, that the first thing he sees when he awakes may be
this despised lady. You will know the man by the Athenian garments which
he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter very dexterously: and
then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, where she was
preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild
thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of wood-bine,
musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always slept some part of the
night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a snake, which, though a small
mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy in.
He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ
themselves while she slept. "Some of you," said her majesty, "must kill
cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for their
leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of you keep watch
that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not near me: but first
sing me to sleep." Then they began to sing this song:--
"You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong
Come not near our Fairy Queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby;
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So good night with lullaby."
When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby,
they left her to perform the important services she had enjoined them.
Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and dropped some of the
love-juice on her eyelids, saying,--
"What thou seest when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take."
But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house
that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marry
Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander
waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before they had
passed half through the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that
Lysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, who had proved her
affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her
to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down himself on
the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here
they were found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and
perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and that
a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must be the
Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had sent him to seek;
and he naturally enough conjectured that, as they were alone together,
she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke; so, without more
ado, he proceeded to pour some of the juice of the little purple flower
into his eyes. But it so fell out, that Helena came that way, and,
instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he opened
his eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was the love-charm, all his
love for Hermia vanished away, and Lysander fell in love with Helena.
Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck committed would
have been of no consequence, for he could not love that faithful lady
too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to
forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another lady, and leave
Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a sad chance
indeed.
Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related,
endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from
her; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men being always
better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon lost sight of
Demetrius; and as she was wandering about, dejected and forlorn, she
arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping. "Ah!" said she, "this
is Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead or asleep?" Then, gently
touching him, she said, "Good sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this
Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm beginning to work)
immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant love and admiration;
telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a dove does a
raven, and that he would run through fire for her sweet sake; and many
more such lover-like speeches. Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend
Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnly engaged to marry her, was in
the utmost rage when she heard herself addressed in this manner; for she
thought (as well she might) that Lysander was making a jest of her.
"Oh!" said she, "why was I born to be mocked and scorned by every one?
Is it not enough, is it not enough, young man, that I can never get a
sweet look or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in
this disdainful manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord
of more true gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran
away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who
was still asleep.
When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone.
She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander, or
which way to go to seek for him. In the meantime Demetrius not being
able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his
fruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt
by some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied the
love-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now having found the person
first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius with
the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being
Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love-speeches
to her; and just at that moment Lysander, followed by Hermia (for
through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia's turn to run
after her lover) made his appearance; and then Lysander and Demetrius,
both speaking together, made love to Helena, they being each one under
the influence of the same potent charm.
The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once
dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a jest of her.
Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew not why Lysander and
Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of
Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.
The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now fell
to high words together.
"Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you have set Lysander on to vex me
with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost to
spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call me Goddess, Nymph,
rare, precious, and celestial? He would not speak thus to me, whom he
hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to
join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have you forgot our
school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on one
cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the same
flower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in fashion
of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted! Hermia, it is not friendly
in you, it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning your poor
friend."
"I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you not;
it seems you scorn me." "Ay, do," returned Helena, "persevere,
counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back;
then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any
pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."
While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other,
Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for the
love of Helena.
When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, and once
more wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers.
As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck had been
listening to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your negligence,
Puck; or did you do this wilfully?" "Believe me, king of shadows,"
answered Puck, "it was a mistake; did not you tell me I should know the
man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry this has happened,
for I think their jangling makes excellent sport." "You heard," said
Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a convenient place
to fight in. I command you to overhang the night with a thick fog, and
lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not
be able to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the
other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, while they
think it is their rival's tongue they hear. See you do this, till they
are so weary they can go no farther; and when you find they are asleep,
drop the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, and when he
awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and return to his old
passion for Hermia; and then the two fair ladies may each one be happy
with the man she loves, and they will think all that has passed a
vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck, and I will go and see what
sweet love my Titania has found."
Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who had
lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow," said
he, "shall be my Titania's true love;" and clapping an ass's head over
the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon his
own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, it
awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to him,
he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.
"Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and the
juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect: "are you as
wise as you are beautiful?"
"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find
the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn."
"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured queen. "I am a
spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give you
fairies to attend upon you."
She then called four of her fairies: their names were, Pease-blossom,
Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.
[Illustration: WHERE IS PEASE-BLOSSOM?]
"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his walks,
and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and steal
for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said she to
the clown, "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my beautiful
ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!"
"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown, not much regarding
the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new attendants.
"Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom.
"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?"
"Here, sir," said Cobweb.
"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red humble bee
on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the
honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and
take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you
overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?"
"Here, sir," said Mustard-seed: "what is your will?"
"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr.
Pease-blossom to scratch; I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for
methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face."
"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a
venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new
nuts."
"I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with
his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of your
people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep."
"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. O how I
love you! how I dote upon you!"
When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen, he
advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished her
favours upon an ass.
This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her arms,
with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.
When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the
changeling boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord with
her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him.
Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for to
be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by his
merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some of the
juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen immediately
recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage, saying how she
now loathed the sight of the strange monster.
Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him to
finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.
Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to her
the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she agreed
to go with him and see the end of their adventures.
The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no
great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to
make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other; and
he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander with
the antidote the fairy king gave to him.
Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her,
was looking at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander
presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his
reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, and with his reason,
his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the
night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they had both
been dreaming the same bewildering dream.
Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having
quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with delight
to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her, and which,
to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive were sincere.
These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became once
more true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were forgiven,
and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done in their
present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had given up
his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavour to prevail upon her
father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been passed
against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for this
friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus,
Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runaway
daughter.
When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter,
he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent
that they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the
same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and on
that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now
faithful Demetrius.
The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this
reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history,
brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so much
pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching
nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy kingdom.
And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their
pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think
that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures
were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of my
readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty harmless
Midsummer Night's Dream.
[Illustration]
THE WINTER'S TALE
Leontes, King of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuous
Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy was
Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he had no wish
ungratified, except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to
present to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
King of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together from
their infancy, but being, by the death of their fathers, called to reign
over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though
they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and loving embassies.
At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from Bohemia to
the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit.
At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He recommended
the friend of his youth to the queen's particular attention, and seemed
in the presence of his dear friend and old companion to have his
felicity quite completed. They talked over old times; their school-days
and their youthful pranks were remembered, and recounted to Hermione,
who always took a cheerful part in these conversations.
When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to depart, Hermione,
at the desire of her husband, joined her entreaties to his that
Polixenes would prolong his visit.
And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refusing to stay
at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and
persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon
this, although Leontes had so long known the integrity and honourable
principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellent disposition
of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable jealousy.
Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her husband's
particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the unfortunate
king's jealousy; and from being a loving and a true friend, and the best
and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman
monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and telling
him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded him to poison
Polixenes.
Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy of
Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of poisoning
Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's orders, and agreed
to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and Polixenes, with
the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia,
where Camillo lived from that time in the king's court, and became the
chief friend and favourite of Polixenes.
The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he went
to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with her
little son Mamillius, who was just beginning to tell one of his best
stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking the child
away, sent Hermione to prison.
Mamillius, though but a very young child, loved his mother tenderly; and
when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was taken from him to be
put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined
away by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it was
thought his grief would kill him.
The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes and
Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of the
oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful to him.
When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to bed of
a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight of
her pretty baby, and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I am as
innocent as you are."
[Illustration: PAULINA DREW BACK THE CURTAIN WHICH CONCEALED THIS FAMOUS
STATUE]
Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who was the
wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the lady Paulina heard her
royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione
was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended upon Hermione,
"I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her majesty dare trust me
with her little babe, I will carry it to the king, its father; we do not
know how he may soften at the sight of his innocent child." "Most worthy
madam," replied Emilia, "I will acquaint the queen with your noble
offer; she was wishing to-day that she had any friend who would venture
to present the child to the king." "And tell her," said Paulina, "that I
will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence." "May you be for ever
blessed," said Emilia, "for your kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia
then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby to the care of
Paulina, for she had feared that no one would dare venture to present
the child to its father.
Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's
presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger,
endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet, and
Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and she
reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him to have
mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited
remonstrances only aggravated Leontes' displeasure, and he ordered her
husband Antigonus to take her from his presence.
When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its father's feet,
thinking when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, and have pity
on its helpless innocence.
The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was she gone than the
merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the
child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to
perish.
Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders of
Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and put out
to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could find.
So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that he would
not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent to
consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was
recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her
precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before all the lords
and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, the judges, and
all the nobility of the land were assembled together to try Hermione,
and that unhappy queen was standing as a prisoner before her subjects to
receive their judgment, Cleomenes and Dion entered the assembly, and
presented to the king the answer of the oracle, sealed up; and Leontes
commanded the seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle to be read
aloud, and these were the words:--"_Hermione is innocent, Polixenes
blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the
king shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found._"
The king would give no credit to the words of the oracle: he said it was
a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, and he desired the judge to
proceed in the trial of the queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man
entered and told him that the Prince Mamillius, hearing his mother was
to be tried for her life, struck with grief and shame, had suddenly
died.
Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate child, who
had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and Leontes,
pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his unhappy
queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her attendants,
to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina soon returned,
and told the king that Hermione was dead.
When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty
to her; and now that he thought his ill-usuage had broken Hermione's
heart, he believed her innocent; and now he thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew "if that which was lost was not found,"
which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without an heir,
the young Prince Mamillius being dead; and he would give his kingdom now
to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up to remorse,
and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant grief.
The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea was
driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the
good King Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little
baby.
Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had left his
daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came out of the
woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for obeying the
wicked order of Leontes.
The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had made
it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a
paper to its mantle, and the name of _Perdita_ written thereon, and
words obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate.
[Illustration: PERDITA]
This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a humane man,
and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it
tenderly; but poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize he
had found: therefore he left that part of the country, that no one might
know where he got his riches, and with part of Perdita's jewels he
bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up
Perdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than a
shepherd's daughter.
The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had no better
education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the natural
graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her untutored
mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known she had not been
brought up in her father's court.
Polixenes, the King of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was
Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd's dwelling,
he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty, and
queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to fall in love
with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the disguise of a
private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old shepherd's
house. Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Polixenes; and
setting people to watch his son, he discovered his love for the
shepherd's fair daughter.
Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had
preserved his life from the fury of Leontes, and desired that he would
accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of
Perdita.
Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's
dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and
though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest being
made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the general
festivity.
Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. Tables were spread, and
great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and
lasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of the
young men were buying ribands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at the
door.
While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita sat
quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the
conversation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports and
silly amusements of those around them.
The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know him:
he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The simple
yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did not a
little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, "This is the prettiest
low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks like
something greater than herself, too noble for this place."
Camillo replied, "Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream."
"Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old shepherd, "what fair
swain is that talking with your daughter?" "They call him Doricles,"
replied the shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and, to speak
truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If
young Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little dreams
of;" meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he had
bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up for
her marriage portion.
Polixenes then addressed his son. "How now, young man!" said he: "your
heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting.
When I was young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have let
the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy."
The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king his
father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts which
Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart." Then turning to
Perdita, he said to her, "O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he shall hear what I
profess." Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a witness to
a solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to
Polixenes, "I pray you, mark our contract."
"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering himself.
Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to this
low-born maiden, calling Perdita "shepherd's-brat, sheep-hook," and
other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered his son
to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her father, to
a cruel death.
The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to follow
him with Prince Florizel.
When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused by
Polixenes' reproaches, said, "Though we are all undone, I was not much
afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly
that the selfsame sun which shines upon his palace, hides not his face
from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then sorrowfully she said,
"But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no further.
Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes and weep."
The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety of
Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was too deeply
in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royal father, he
thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same time to execute
a favourite scheme he had in his mind.
Camillo had long known that Leontes, the King of Sicily, was become a
true penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured friend of King
Polixenes, he could not help wishing once more to see his late royal
master and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel and
Perdita that they should accompany him to the Sicilian court, where he
would engage Leontes should protect them, till, through his mediation,
they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their
marriage.
To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conducted
everything relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go
along with them.
The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, her baby
clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her mantle.
After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the old
shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who still
mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo with
great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to Prince Florizel. But
Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, seemed to engross all
Leontes' attention: perceiving a resemblance between her and his dead
queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely
creature might his own daughter have been, if he had not so cruelly
destroyed her. "And then, too," said he to Florizel, "I lost the society
and friendship of your brave father, whom I now desire more than my life
once again to look upon."
When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had taken of
Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he
fell to comparing the time when he found the little Perdita, with the
manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its high birth;
from all which it was impossible for him not to conclude that Perdita
and the king's lost daughter were the same.
Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were present
when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had
found the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus' death, he
having seen the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in which
Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and he produced a
jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and
he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be the writing of her
husband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own daughter:
but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her husband's
death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his
long-lost daughter being found. When Leontes heard that Perdita was his
daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Hermione was not living to
behold her child, made him that he could say nothing for a long time,
but, "O thy mother, thy mother!"
Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to
Leontes, that she had a statue newly finished by that rare Italian
master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the queen,
that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look upon it,
he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself. Thither then
they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance of his Hermione,
and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never saw did look
like.
When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue,
so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was
renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak or move.
"I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina, "it the more shows your
wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen?"
At length the king said, "O, thus she stood, even with such majesty,
when I first wooed her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as
this statue looks." Paulina replied, "So much the more the carver's
excellence, who has made the statue as Hermione would have looked had
she been living now. But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently
you think it moves."
The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain; Would I were dead! See,
Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion
in it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. "You are so
transported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives." "O, sweet
Paulina," said Leontes, "make me think so twenty years together! Still
methinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet
cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her." "Good my lord,
forbear!" said Paulina. "The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will
stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?" "No, not
these twenty years," said Leontes.
Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent
admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, "And so long
could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother."
"Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, "and let me
draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can make the
statue move indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take you
by the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I am not, that I
am assisted by some wicked powers."
"What you can make her do," said the astonished king, "I am content to
look upon. What you can make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is
as easy to make her speak as move."
Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had prepared
for the purpose, to strike up; and, to the amazement of all the
beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and threw its
arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, praying for
blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly-found Perdita.
No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her
husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione
herself, the real, the living queen.
Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione,
thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress' life; and
with the good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since, never choosing
Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita was found;
for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes had done to
herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant daughter.
His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the
long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own
happiness.
Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on all
sides. Now the delighted parents thanked Prince Florizel for loving
their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good old shepherd
for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina rejoice that
they had lived to see so good an end of all their faithful services.
And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange and
unlooked-for joy, King Polixenes himself now entered the palace.
When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that Camillo
had long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should find the
fugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he happened to just
arrive at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life.
Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend Leontes
the unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they once more
loved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish friendship.
And there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his son's marriage
with Perdita. She was no "sheep-hook" now, but the heiress of the crown
of Sicily.
Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermione
rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and her
Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens.
[Illustration]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose names were Hero
and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of Leonato,
the governor of Messina.
Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero,
who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies.
Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the
light-hearted Beatrice.
At the time the history of these ladies commences some young men of high
rank in the army, as they were passing through Messina on their return
from a war that was just ended, in which they had distinguished
themselves by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among these
were Don Pedro, the Prince of Arragon; and his friend Claudio, who was a
lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and witty Benedick, and he
was a lord of Padua.
These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable governor
introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old friends and
acquaintance.
Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversation
with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of
any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, "I wonder that you will
still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you." Benedick was
just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at
this free salutation; he thought it did not become a well-bred lady to
be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was last at
Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests upon.
And as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of as those
who are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it was with Benedick
and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former times but a
perfect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they always parted
mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when Beatrice stopped him
in the middle of his discourse with telling him nobody marked what he
was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have observed before that she was
present, said, "What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?" And now
war broke out afresh between them, and a long jangling argument ensued,
during which Beatrice, although she knew he had so well approved his
valour in the late war, said that she would eat all he had killed there:
and observing the prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she
called him "the prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind
of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him
that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did
not regard, knowing himself to be a brave man; but there is nothing that
great wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the
charge comes sometimes a little too near the truth: therefore Benedick
perfectly hated Beatrice when she called him "the prince's jester."
The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and while
Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which time had made in
her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine
figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was highly
amused with listening to the humorous dialogue between Benedick and
Beatrice; and he said in a whisper to Leonato, "This is a
pleasant-spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for Benedick."
Leonato replied to this suggestion, "O, my lord, my lord, if they were
but a week married, they would talk themselves mad." But though Leonato
thought they would make a discordant pair, the prince did not give up
the idea of matching these two keen wits together.
When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he found that the
marriage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not the only
one projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in such terms of
Hero, as made the prince guess at what was passing in his heart; and he
liked it well, and he said to Claudio, "Do you affect Hero?" To this
question Claudio replied, "O my lord, when I was last at Messina, I
looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had no leisure for
loving; but now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts of war have left
their places vacant in my mind, and in their room come thronging soft
and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how fair young Hero is,
reminding me that I liked her before I went to the wars." Claudio's
confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the prince, that he lost
no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to accept of Claudio for a
son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal, and the prince found no
great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero herself to listen to the
suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare endowments, and highly
accomplished, and Claudio, assisted by his kind prince, soon prevailed
upon Leonato to fix an early day for the celebration of his marriage
with Hero.
Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to his
fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being tedious, as indeed
most young men are impatient when they are waiting for the
accomplishment of any event they have set their hearts upon: the prince,
therefore, to make the time seem short to him, proposed as a kind of
merry pastime that they should invent some artful scheme to make
Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudio entered with
great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and Leonato promised
them his assistance, and even Hero said she would do any modest office
to help her cousin to a good husband.
The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should make
Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero
should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with her.
The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their operations first: and
watching upon an opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated reading in
an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their station among the
trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could not choose but hear
all they said; and after some careless talk the prince said, "Come
hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day--that your niece
Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did never think that lady
would have loved any man." "No, nor I neither, my lord," answered
Leonato. "It is most wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick, whom
she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dislike." Claudio confirmed
all this with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice was so in love with
Benedick, that she would certainly die of grief, if he could not be
brought to love her; which Leonato and Claudio seemed to agree was
impossible, he having always been such a railer against all fair ladies,
and in particular against Beatrice.
The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for
Beatrice, and he said, "It were good that Benedick were told of this."
"To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but make sport of it, and torment
the poor lady worse." "And if he should," said the prince, "it were a
good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and
exceeding wise in everything but in loving Benedick." Then the prince
motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick
to meditate upon what he had overheard.
Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this conversation;
and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it
possible? Sits the wind in that corner?" And when they were gone, he
began to reason in this manner with himself: "This can be no trick! they
were very serious, and they have the truth from Hero, and seem to pity
the lady. Love me! Why it must be requited! I did never think to marry.
But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I should live
to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She is so. And
wise in everything but loving me. Why, that is no great argument of her
folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I do
spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice now approached him, and said
with her usual tartness, "Against my will I am sent to bid you come in
to dinner." Benedick, who never felt himself disposed to speak so
politely to her before, replied, "Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your
pains:" and when Beatrice, after two or three more rude speeches, left
him, Benedick thought he observed a concealed meaning of kindness under
the uncivil words she uttered, and he said aloud, "If I do not take pity
on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get
her picture."
The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him, it
was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and for this purpose
she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who attended upon her,
and she said to Margaret, "Good Margaret, run to the parlour; there you
will find my cousin Beatrice talking with the prince and Claudio.
Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking in the orchard, and
that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleasant
arbour, where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions,
forbid the sun to enter." This arbour, into which Hero desired Margaret
to entice Beatrice, was the very same pleasant arbour where Benedick had
so lately been an attentive listener.
"I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret.
Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, "Now,
Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and
our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be your
part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to you must be
how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look where
Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear our
conference." They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to something
which Ursula had said, "No, truly, Ursula. She is too disdainful; her
spirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock." "But are you sure," said
Ursula, "that Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?" Hero replied, "So
says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to acquaint
her with it; but I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to let
Beatrice know of it." "Certainly," replied Ursula, "it were not good she
knew his love, lest she made sport of it." "Why, to say truth," said
Hero, "I never yet saw a man, how wise soever, or noble, young, or
rarely featured, but she would dispraise him." "Sure sure, such carping
is not commendable," said Ursula. "No," replied Hero, "but who dare tell
her so? If I should speak, she would mock me into air." "O! you wrong
your cousin," said Ursula: "she cannot be so much without true judgment,
as to refuse so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick." "He hath an
excellent good name," said Hero: "indeed, he is the first man in Italy,
always excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero giving her attendant a
hint that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula said, "And when
are you to be married, madam?" Hero then told her, that she was to be
married to Claudio the next day, and desired she would go in with her,
and look at some new attire, as she wished to consult with her on what
she would wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening with
breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed,
"What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Farewell, contempt and
scorn, and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love on! I will requite you,
taming my wild heart to your loving hand."
It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies converted
into new and loving friends, and to behold their first meeting after
being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the
good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero must now
be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been her wedding-day,
brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father Leonato.
The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along with him to
Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melancholy,
discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving of
villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio,
because he was the prince's friend, and determined to prevent Claudio's
marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of making Claudio
and the prince unhappy; for he knew the prince had set his heart upon
this marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself; and to effect this
wicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom
he encouraged with the offer of a great reward. This Borachio paid his
court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John, knowing this,
prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with him from her
lady's chamber window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to
dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into the
belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he meant to compass by
this wicked plot.
Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that Hero
was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her chamber
window at midnight. Now this was the evening before the wedding, and he
offered to take them that night, where they should themselves hear Hero
discoursing with a man from her window; and they consented to go along
with him, and Claudio said, "If I see anything to-night why I should not
marry her, to-morrow in the congregation, where I intended to wed her,
there will I shame her." The prince also said, "And as I assisted you to
obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her."
When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they saw
Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking out of
Hero's window, and heard her talking with Borachio: and Margaret being
dressed in the same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince and
Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself.
Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made (as he
thought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero was at once
converted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in the church, as
he had said he would, the next day; and the prince agreed to this,
thinking no punishment could be too severe for the naughty lady, who
talked with a man from her window the very night before she was going to
be married to the noble Claudio.
The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage, and
Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the priest, or
friar, as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the marriage
ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, proclaimed the guilt
of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words he uttered, said
meekly, "Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide?"
Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, "My lord, why speak
not you?" "What should I speak?" said the prince; "I stand dishonoured,
that have gone about to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman.
Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this grieved Claudio,
did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with a man at her
chamber window."
Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, "This looks not like a
nuptial."
"True, O God!" replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless lady
sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince and
Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero would recover,
or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown Leonato. So
hard-hearted had their anger made them.
Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from her swoon,
saying, "How does the lady?" "Dead, I think," replied Beatrice in great
agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous principles,
she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken against her. Not so
the poor old father; he believed the story of his child's shame, and it
was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay like one dead
before him, wishing she might never more open her eyes.
But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on human
nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when she
heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to start
into her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away those
blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error that the
prince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowing
father, "Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my observation; trust
not my age, my reverence, nor my calling, if this sweet lady lie not
guiltless here under some biting error."
When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, the
friar said to her, "Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" Hero
replied, "They know that do accuse me; I know of none:" then turning to
Leonato, she said, "O my father, if you can prove that any man has ever
conversed with me at hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words
with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death."
"There is," said the friar, "some strange misunderstanding in the prince
and Claudio;" and then he counselled Leonato, that he should report that
Hero was dead; and he said that the death-like swoon in which they had
left Hero would make this easy of belief; and he also advised him that
he should put on mourning, and erect a monument for her, and do all
rites that appertain to a burial. "What shall become of this?" said
Leonato; "What will this do?" The friar replied, "This report of her
death shall change slander into pity: that is some good; but that is not
all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died upon hearing
his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his
imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his
heart, and wish that he had not so accused her; yea, though he thought
his accusation true."
Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you
know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will not
reveal this secret to them."
Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, "I am so
grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar then led
Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and
Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting from which their
friends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected so much
diversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and
from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.
Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, "Lady Beatrice, have you
wept all this while?" "Yea, and I will weep a while longer," said
Beatrice. "Surely," said Benedick, "I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged." "Ah!" said Beatrice, "how much might that man deserve of me
who would right her!" Benedick then said, "Is there any way to show such
friendship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that
strange?" "It were as possible," said Beatrice, "for me to say I loved
nothing in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie
not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin."
"By my sword," said Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I love you.
Come, bid me do anything for you." "Kill Claudio," said Beatrice. "Ha!
not for the wide world," said Benedick; for he loved his friend Claudio,
and he believed he had been imposed upon. "Is not Claudio a villain,
that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my cousin?" said Beatrice:
"O that I were a man!" "Hear me, Beatrice!" said Benedick. But Beatrice
would hear nothing in Claudio's defence; and she continued to urge on
Benedick to revenge her cousin's wrongs: and she said, "Talk with a man
out of the window; a proper saying! Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is
slandered; she is undone. O that I were a man for Claudio's sake! or
that I had any friend, who would be a man for my sake! but valour is
melted into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be a man with wishing,
therefore I will die a woman with grieving." "Tarry, good Beatrice,"
said Benedick: "by this hand I love you." "Use it for my love some other
way than swearing by it," said Beatrice. "Think you on your soul that
Claudio has wronged Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as
sure as I have a thought, or a soul." "Enough," said Benedick; "I am
engaged; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you.
By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account! As you hear from
me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin."
While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and working
his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in the
cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato was
challenging the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the
injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had died for grief.
But they respected his age and his sorrow, and they said, "Nay, do not
quarrel with us, good old man." And now came Benedick, and he also
challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done to
Hero; and Claudio and the prince said to each other, "Beatrice has set
him on to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this
challenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment
brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the
uncertain fortune of a duel.
While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge of
Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the prince.
Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his companions of the
mischief he had been employed by Don John to do.
Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hearing, that
it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked with
from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero herself; and
no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and the prince of the
innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained it must have been removed
by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies were detected,
fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother.
The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found he had falsely
accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel words; and
the memory of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in the rare
semblance that he loved it first; and the prince asking him if what he
heard did not run like iron through his soul, he answered, that he felt
as if he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking.
And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonato
for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that whatever
penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in believing the false
accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he would endure
it.
The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning a cousin
of Hero's, who, he said, was now his heir, and in person very like Hero.
Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he made to Leonato, said, he would
marry this unknown lady, even though she were an Ethiop: but his heart
was very sorrowful, and he passed that night in tears, and in remorseful
grief, at the tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero.
When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church,
where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already assembled,
to celebrate a second nuptial; and Leonato presented to Claudio his
promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio might not discover her
face. And Claudio said to the lady in the mask, "Give me your hand,
before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you will marry me." "And
when I lived I was your other wife," said this unknown lady; and, taking
off her mask, she proved to be no niece (as was pretended), but
Leonato's very daughter, the Lady Hero herself. We may be sure that this
proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so
that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes; and the prince, who was
equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed, "Is not this Hero, Hero that
was dead?" Leonato replied, "She died, my lord, but while her slander
lived." The friar promised them an explanation of this seeming miracle,
after the ceremony was ended; and was proceeding to marry them, when he
was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married at the same time
to Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to this match, and Benedick
challenging her with her love for him, which he had learned from Hero, a
pleasant explanation took place; and they found they had both been
tricked into a belief of love, which had never existed, and had become
lovers in truth by the power of a false jest: but the affection, which
a merry invention had cheated them into, was grown too powerful to be
shaken by a serious explanation; and since Benedick proposed to marry,
he was resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the world could say
against it; and he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that
he took her but for pity, and because he heard she was dying of love for
him; and Beatrice protested, that she yielded but upon great persuasion,
and partly to save his life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So
these two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it, after
Claudio and Hero were married; and to complete the history, Don John,
the contriver of the villany, was taken in his flight, and brought back
to Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this gloomy, discontented
man, to see the joy and feastings which, by the disappointment of his
plots, took place in the palace in Messina.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AS YOU LIKE IT
During the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms as
they were called) there reigned in one of these provinces an usurper,
who had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke.
The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few
faithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke lived
with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile
for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the false usurper;
and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here more sweet
to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here
they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many
noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the time
carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer they
lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the
playful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor
dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest,
that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with
venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke feel
the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and
say, "These chilling winds which blow upon my body are true counsellors;
they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition; and though
they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen as that of
unkindness and ingratitude. I find that howsoever men speak against
adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from it; like the
jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the head of the
venomous and despised toad." In this manner did the patient duke draw a
useful moral from everything that he saw; and by the help of this
moralising turn, in that life of his, remote from public haunts, he
could find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in
stones, and good in everything.
The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the
usurper, Duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained in
his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship
subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement between their
fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness
in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of her own
father in deposing the father of Rosalind; and whenever the thoughts of
her father's banishment, and her own dependence on the false usurper,
made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's whole care was to comfort and console
her.
One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind,
saying, "I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger
entered from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a
wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must come instantly
to the court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it would amuse
Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.
In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country clowns,
was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and before fair
ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia and
Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a very tragical
sight; for a large and powerful man, who had been long practised in the
art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests of this kind, was
just going to wrestle with a very young man, who, from his extreme youth
and inexperience in the art, the beholders all thought would certainly
be killed.
When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, "How now, daughter and
niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little
delight in it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young man,
I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and
see if you can move him."
The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and first
Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the
attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling
consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, that instead of
being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose, all his
thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in this lovely
lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind in such
graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concern for him; he
concluded his refusal with saying, "I am sorry to deny such fair and
excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go
with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered there is one shamed that
was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one dead that is willing to
die; I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the
world no injury, for in it I have nothing; for I only fill up a place in
the world which may be better supplied when I have made it empty."
And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young stranger
might not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless state
which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think
that he was like herself, unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, and
so deep an interest she took in his danger while he was wrestling, that
she might almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love with him.
The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies
gave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in the
end completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt, that for
a while he was unable to speak or move.
The Duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shown by
this young stranger; and desired to know his name and parentage, meaning
to take him under his protection.
The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest son
of Sir Rowland de Boys.
Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years;
but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of
the banished duke: therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the son
of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young
man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends,
and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as he went out,
that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.
Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son of her
father's old friend; and she said to Celia, "My father loved Sir Rowland
de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son, I would have
added tears to my entreaties before he should have ventured."
The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the sudden
displeasure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to
him; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak some
more civil things to the brave young son of her father's old friend; and
taking a chain from off her neck, she said, "Gentleman, wear this for
me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a more valuable
present."
When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando,
Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome
young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, "Is it possible you should
fall in love so suddenly?" Rosalind replied, "The duke, my father, loved
his father dearly." "But," said Celia, "does it therefore follow that
you should love his son dearly? for then I ought to hate him, for my
father hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando."
Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys' son, which
reminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among the
nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece,
because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her
good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; and while
Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room,
and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the
palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, who in
vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to stay upon
her account. "I did not then," said Celia, "entreat you to let her stay,
for I was too young at that time to value her; but now that I know her
worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose at the same
instant, learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live out of her
company." Frederick replied, "She is too subtle for you; her smoothness,
her very silence, and her patience speak to the people, and they pity
her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem more bright and
virtuous when she is gone; therefore open not your lips in her favour,
for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable."
When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind
remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and leaving
her father's palace that night, she went along with her friend to seek
Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden.
Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for two
young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she therefore
proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing themselves
like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still greater protection
if one of them was to be dressed like a man; and so it was quickly
agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the tallest, she should
wear the dress of a young countryman, and Celia should be habited like a
country lass, and that they should say they were brother and sister, and
Rosalind said she would be called Ganymede, and Celia chose the name of
Aliena.
[Illustration: GANYMEDE ASSUMED THE FORWARD MANNERS OFTEN SEEN IN YOUTHS
WHEN THEY ARE BETWEEN BOYS AND MEN]
In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their
expenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the
forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke's
dominions.
The Lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be called) with her manly
garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful friendship
Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made the
new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert a cheerful spirit,
as if he were indeed Ganymede, the rustic and stout-hearted brother of
the gentle village maiden, Aliena.
When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found the
convenient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the road;
and being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily cheered
his sister with pleasant speeches and happy remarks all the way, now
owned to Aliena that he was so weary, he could find in his heart to
disgrace his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena declared
she could go no farther; and then again Ganymede tried to recollect
that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, as the weaker
vessel; and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said, "Come, have a
good heart, my sister Aliena; we are now at the end of our travel, in
the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced courage would no
longer support them; for though they were in the forest of Arden, they
knew not where to find the duke: and here the travel of these weary
ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might have lost
themselves, and perished for want of food; but providentially, as they
were sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue and hopeless of any
relief, a countryman chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more
tried to speak with a manly boldness, saying, "Shepherd, if love or gold
can in this desert place procure us entertainment, I pray you bring us
where we may rest ourselves; for this young maid, my sister, is much
fatigued with travelling, and faints for want of food."
The man replied that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that his
master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would find
but poor entertainment; but that if they would go with him, they should
be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near prospect
of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought the house and sheep of
the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to the shepherd's
house to wait on them; and being by this means so fortunately provided
with a neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions, they agreed to
stay here till they could learn in what part of the forest the duke
dwelt.
When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they began to
like their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves the shepherd
and shepherdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes Ganymede remembered he
had once been the same Lady Rosalind who had so dearly loved the brave
Orlando, because he was the son of old Sir Rowland, her father's
friend; and though Ganymede thought that Orlando was many miles distant,
even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it soon appeared
that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in this manner this
strange event came to pass.
Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who, when he died,
left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest
brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a
good education, and provide for him as became the dignity of their
ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding the
commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to school, but
kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature and
in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his
excellent father, that without any advantages of education he seemed
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; and Oliver so
envied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother,
that at last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set on
people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as has
been before related, had killed so many men. Now, it was this cruel
brother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being
so friendless.
When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother proved
victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he would
burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this vow
by one that had been an old and faithful servant to their father, and
that loved Orlando because he resembled Sir Rowland. This old man went
out to meet him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when he saw
Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made him break out into
these passionate exclamations: "O my gentle master, my sweet master, O
you memory of old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are you gentle,
strong, and valiant? and why would you be so fond to overcome the
famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you."
Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked him what was the matter.
And then the old man told him how his wicked brother, envying the love
all people bore him, and now hearing the fame he had gained by his
victory in the duke's palace, intended to destroy him, by setting fire
to his chamber that night; and in conclusion, advised him to escape the
danger he was in by instant flight; and knowing Orlando had no money,
Adam (for that was the good old man's name) had brought out with him his
own little hoard, and he said, "I have five hundred crowns, the thrifty
hire I saved under your father, and laid by to be provision for me when
my old limbs should become unfit for service; take that, and he that
doth the ravens feed be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; all this I
give to you: let me be your servant; though I look old I will do the
service of a younger man in all your business and necessities." "O good
old man!" said Orlando, "how well appears in you the constant service of
the old world! You are not for the fashion of these times. We will go
along together, and before your youthful wages are spent, I shall light
upon some means for both our maintenance."
Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and
Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till
they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in the
same distress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had been. They
wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost spent
with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, "O my dear master, I die for
want of food, I can go no farther!" He then laid himself down, thinking
to make that place his grave, and bade his dear master farewell.
Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant up in his
arms, and carried him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and he
said to him, "Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here awhile, and
do not talk of dying!"
Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to arrive
at that part of the forest where the duke was; and he and his friends
were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the
grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of some large trees.
Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending to
take their meat by force, and said, "Forbear and eat no more; I must
have your food!" The duke asked him, if distress had made him so bold,
or if he were a rude despiser of good manners? On this Orlando said, he
was dying with hunger; and then the duke told him he was welcome to sit
down and eat with them. Orlando hearing him speak so gently, put up his
sword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he had
demanded their food. "Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought that
all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance
of stern command; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, under
the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of
time; if ever you have looked on better days; if ever you have been
where bells have knolled to church; if you have ever sat at any good
man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and know
what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move you to do
me human courtesy!" The duke replied, "True it is that we are men (as
you say) who have seen better days, and though we have now our
habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and cities, and
have with holy bell been knolled to church, have sat at good men's
feasts, and from our eyes have wiped the drops which sacred pity has
engendered; therefore sit you down, and take of our refreshment as much
as will minister to your wants." "There is an old poor man," answered
Orlando, "who has limped after me many a weary step in pure love,
oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he be
satisfied, I must not touch a bit." "Go, find him out, and bring him
hither," said the duke; "we will forbear to eat till you return." Then
Orlando went like a doe to find its fawn and give it food; and presently
returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said, "Set down your
venerable burthen; you are both welcome:" and they fed the old man, and
cheered his heart, and he revived, and recovered his health and strength
again.
The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when he found that he was the son
of his old friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his
protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the
forest.
Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede and Aliena
came there, and (as has been before related) bought the shepherd's
cottage.
Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name of
Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets, fastened to them, all
addressed to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could be,
they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had given
him about his neck.
Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair Princess Rosalind,
who, by her noble condescension and favour, had so won his heart that he
passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing
sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased with the
graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered into conversation
with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganymede to his beloved
Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment of that noble
lady; for Ganymede assumed the forward manners often seen in youths when
they are between boys and men, and with much archness and humour talked
to Orlando of a certain lover, "who," said he, "haunts our forest, and
spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind upon their barks; and he
hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles, all praising this
same Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would give him some good
counsel that would soon cure him of his love."
Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and asked
Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede
proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should come
every day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt: "And
then," said Ganymede, "I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall
feign to court me in the same manner as you would do if I was Rosalind,
and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their
lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and this is the way I
propose to cure you." Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he
agreed to come every day to Ganymede's cottage, and feign a playful
courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede and Aliena, and
Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, and every day talked
over all the fine words and flattering compliments which young men
delight to use when they court their mistresses. It does not appear,
however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing Orlando of his love
for Rosalind.
Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming
that Ganymede was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him of
saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost
as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed the secret jest in knowing
these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right person.
In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people;
and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganymede happy, let him have
his own way, and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did not care to
remind Ganymede that the Lady Rosalind had not yet made herself known
to the duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest they had
learnt from Orlando. Ganymede met the duke one day, and had some talk
with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymede
answered that he came of as good parentage as he did, which made the
duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal
lineage. Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede was content
to put off all further explanation for a few days longer.
One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man lying
asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself about
his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the
bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie
crouching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting
until the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on
nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by
Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and lioness; but
when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper who
was exposed to this double peril, was his own brother Oliver, who had so
cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him by fire; and he was
almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness; but brotherly
affection and the gentleness of his nature soon overcame his first anger
against his brother; and he drew his sword, and attacked the lioness,
and slew her, and thus preserved his brother's life both from the
venomous snake and from the furious lioness; but before Orlando could
conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his arms with her sharp claws.
While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and
perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was
saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own life,
shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his unworthy
conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's pardon for the
injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, and
readily forgave him: they embraced each other; and from that hour Oliver
loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he had come to the
forest bent on his destruction.
The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself too
weak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore he desired his brother to go
and tell Ganymede, "whom," said Orlando, "I in sport do call my
Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him.
Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Aliena how Orlando
had saved his life: and when he had finished the story of Orlando's
bravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to them that he was
Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him; and then he told them of
their reconciliation.
The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such a
lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell
in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress
he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with her.
But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver,
he was no less busy with Ganymede, who hearing of the danger Orlando had
been in, and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted; and when he
recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the swoon in the
imaginary character of Rosalind, and Ganymede said to Oliver, "Tell your
brother Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the
paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and much wondering
at the weakness of the young man, he said, "Well, if you did
counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." "So I do,"
replied Ganymede, truly, "but I should have been a woman by right."
Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned
back to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides the
account of Ganymede's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded,
Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess
Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, even in this
their first interview; and he talked to his brother, as of a thing
almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so well
loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, and settle his estate
and house at home upon Orlando.
"You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your wedding be to-morrow, and
I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess
to agree to this: she is now alone; for look, here comes her brother."
Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganymede, whom Orlando had perceived
approaching, came to inquire after the health of his wounded friend.
When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden love which had
taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his
brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow,
and then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day
to his Rosalind.
Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement, said that if Orlando
really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have his
wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in her
own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando.
This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede was the Lady
Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to
pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who
was a famous magician.
The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what he heard,
asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober meaning. "By my life I do," said
Ganymede; "therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke and your
friends to your wedding; for if you desire to be married to-morrow to
Rosalind, she shall be here."
The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they
came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando.
They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as yet
only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and
conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of
Orlando.
The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought in
this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy could
really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answering that he
knew not what to think, Ganymede entered, and asked the duke, if he
brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriage with
Orlando. "That I would," said the duke, "if I had kingdoms to give with
her." Ganymede then said to Orlando, "And you say you will marry her if
I bring her here." "That I would," said Orlando, "if I were king of many
kingdoms."
Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and Ganymede throwing off
his male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's apparel, quickly
became Rosalind without the power of magic; and Aliena changing her
country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as little trouble
transformed into the Lady Celia.
While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought the
shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he
also had observed the resemblance.
They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and
Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that it was
by the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself on
her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so
wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear, that it
might well have passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer trifle
with her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of her
dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as
her sister.
The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage; and
Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same time.
And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest
with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions, yet a
happier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating their
venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should
be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke and the true
lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke the joyful
news, that his dukedom was restored to him.
The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing
that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden to
join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his brother should
be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the head of a
large force, and advanced towards the forest, intending to seize his
brother, and put him with all his faithful followers to the sword; but,
by a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was
converted from his evil intention; for just as he entered the skirts of
the wild forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit, with whom
he had much talk, and who in the end completely turned his heart from
his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a true penitent, and
resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of
his days in a religious house. The first act of his newly-conceived
penitence was to send a messenger to his brother (as has been related)
to offer to restore to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so long,
and with it the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful
followers of his adversity.
This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came opportunely to
heighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses.
Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune which had happened to
the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her joy very sincerely, though
she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by this restoration
which her father had made, Rosalind was now the heir: so completely was
the love of these two cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy or of
envy.
The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who had
stayed with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers, though
they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to
return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names were
Valentine and Proteus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship
had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and their hours
of leisure were always passed in each other's company, except when
Proteus visited a lady he was in love with; and these visits to his
mistress, and this passion of Proteus for the fair Julia, were the only
topics on which these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, not being
himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his friend for
ever talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at Proteus, and in
pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, and declare that no such
idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as he said)
the free and happy life he led, to the anxious hopes and fears of the
lover Proteus.
One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him that they must for a
time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, unwilling to
part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon Valentine not
to leave him: but Valentine said, "Cease to persuade me, my loving
Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness at
home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were
not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia, I would entreat
you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the world abroad; but since
you are a lover, love on still, and may your love be prosperous!"
They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. "Sweet
Valentine, adieu!" said Proteus; "think on me, when you see some rare
object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your
happiness."
Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his
friend had left him, Proteus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which
he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.
Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a noble
spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity too easily
to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his passion, and
gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.
And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive it,
and chid her maid for taking letters from Proteus, and ordered her to
leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written in the
letter, that she soon called in her maid again; and when Lucetta
returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" Lucetta, who knew her mistress
more desired to see the letter than to know the time of day, without
answering her question, again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry
that her maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know what she
really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor,
ordering her maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring,
she stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who
meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger, "Go, get you
gone, and let the papers lie; you would be fingering them to anger me."
Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn
fragments. She first made out these words, "Love-wounded Proteus;" and
lamenting over these and such like loving words, which she made out
though they were all torn asunder, or, she said _wounded_ (the
expression "Love-wounded Proteus" giving her that idea), she talked to
these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a
bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several
piece, to make amends.
In this manner she went on talking with a pretty ladylike childishness,
till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her own
ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she called
them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done
before.
Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer to his
letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet love, sweet
lines, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by
his father. "How now!" said the old gentleman; "what letter are you
reading there?"
"My lord," replied Proteus, "it is a letter from my friend Valentine, at
Milan."
"Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me see what news."
"There are no news, my lord," said Proteus, greatly alarmed, "but that
he writes how well beloved he is of the Duke of Milan, who daily graces
him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of his
fortune."
"And how stand you affected to his wish?" asked the father.
"As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on his
friendly wish," said Proteus.
Now it had happened that Proteus' father had just been talking with a
friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his
lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most men
were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; "some," said he, "to
the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands far
away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there is his
companion Valentine, he is gone to the Duke of Milan's court. Your son
is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to
him in his riper age not to have travelled in his youth."
Proteus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good, and upon
Proteus telling him that Valentine "wished him with him, the partner of
his fortune," he at once determined to send his son to Milan; and
without giving Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution, it being
the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to command his son, not
reason with him, he said, "My will is the same as Valentine's wish;" and
seeing his son look astonished, he added, "Look not amazed, that I so
suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in the Duke of Milan's court;
for what I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be in readiness
to go. Make no excuses; for I am peremptory."
Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who
never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for
telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought
upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.
Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long a time,
she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other a
mournful farewell, with many vows of love and constancy. Proteus and
Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever in
remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Proteus
set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine.
Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to his father, in
high favour with the Duke of Milan; and another event had happened to
him, of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the
freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as passionate
a lover as Proteus.
She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was the Lady
Silvia, daughter of the Duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but they
concealed their love from the duke, because although he showed much
kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace, yet he
designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name was
Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense
and excellent qualities of Valentine.
These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to
Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning everything
Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room, and
told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus' arrival.
Valentine said, "If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have
seen him here!" And then he highly praised Proteus to the duke, saying,
"My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my friend
made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person and
in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman."
"Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke. "Silvia, I
speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him do
so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and
Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, entertain him
to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship."
When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alone
together, Valentine said, "Now tell me how all does from whence you
came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?" Proteus replied,
"My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a love
discourse."
"Ay, Proteus," returned Valentine, "but that life is altered now. I have
done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt of love,
love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love is
a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess there is no woe
like his correction, nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I now
like no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine,
sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love."
This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the disposition
of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. But "friend"
Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love,
of whom they were speaking (yea, even while they were talking of the
change he had made in Valentine), was working in the heart of Proteus;
and he, who had till this time been a pattern of true love and perfect
friendship, was now, in one short interview with Silvia, become a false
friend and a faithless lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his
love for Julia vanished away like a dream, nor did his long friendship
for Valentine deter him from endeavouring to supplant him in her
affections; and although, as it will always be, when people of
dispositions naturally good become unjust, he had many scruples before
he determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival of Valentine; yet
he at length overcame his sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost
without remorse, to his new unhappy passion.
Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love,
and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and
told him, that, despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he
had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that night, and
go with him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help
of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the windows of
the palace after it was dark.
Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, it
is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Proteus resolved
to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him.
This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the duke,
such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what he was
going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him,
and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that which else no
worldly good should draw from him. He then told all he had heard from
Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which
Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.
The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he
preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal an
unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to let
Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some
artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon
saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.
The duke upon this stopped him, saying, "Whither away so fast,
Valentine?"--"May it please your grace," said Valentine, "there is a
messenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going to
deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better success
in the event than the untruth Proteus told his father.
"Be they of much import?" said the duke.
"No more, my lord," said Valentine, "than to tell my father I am well
and happy at your grace's court."
"Nay then," said the duke, "no matter; stay with me a while. I wish your
counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." He then told
Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him,
saying that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with Thurio,
but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands, "neither
regarding," said he, "that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were
her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my love
from her. I had thought my age should have been cherished by her
childlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to
whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me
and my possessions she esteems not."
Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, "And what
would your grace have me to do in all this?"
"Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,
and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of
courtship is much changed since I was young: now I would willingly have
you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo."
Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then
practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love, such
as presents, frequent visits, and the like.
The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which he
sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man
might have access to her by day.
"Why then," said Valentine, "you must visit her by night."
"But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the drift of
his discourse, "her doors are fast locked."
Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke should get into the
lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying he would
procure him one fitting for that purpose; and in conclusion advised him
to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that which he now
wore. "Lend me your cloak," said the duke, who had feigned this long
story on purpose to have a pretence to get off the cloak; so upon
saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwing it
back, he discovered not only the ladder of ropes, but also a letter of
Silvia's, which he instantly opened and read; and this letter contained
a full account of their intended elopement. The duke, after upbraiding
Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the favour he had shown
him, by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banished him from the
court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was forced to depart
that night, without even seeing Silvia.
While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona was
regretting the absence of Proteus; and her regard for him at last so far
overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona, and
seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from danger on the road,
she dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and they
set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan soon after Valentine was
banished from that city through the treachery of Proteus.
Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn; and
her thoughts being all on her dear Proteus, she entered into
conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by
that means to learn some news of Proteus.
The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as he
took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded was of high rank,
spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he was sorry
to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest, he offered
to take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman
that evening was going to serenade his mistress.
The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well
know what Proteus would think of the imprudent step she had taken; for
she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity of
character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem: and
this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.
She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the
music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Proteus by the way.
But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very
different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for there,
to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Proteus,
serenading the Lady Silvia with music, and addressing discourse of love
and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia from a window talk
with Proteus, and reproach him for forsaking his own true lady, and for
his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; and then Silvia left the
window, not choosing to listen to his music and his fine speeches; for
she was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine, and abhorred the
ungenerous conduct of his false friend Proteus.
Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did she
still love the truant Proteus; and hearing that he had lately parted
with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host, the
friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page; and Proteus
knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents to her
rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as a
parting gift at Verona.
When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to find that
Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Proteus; and Julia, or the page
Sebastian as she was called, entered into conversation with Silvia about
Proteus' first love, the forsaken Lady Julia. She putting in (as one may
say) a good word for herself, said she knew Julia; as well she might,
being herself the Julia of whom she spoke; telling how fondly Julia
loved her master Proteus, and how his unkind neglect would grieve her:
and then she with a pretty equivocation went on: "Julia is about my
height, and of my complexion, the colour of her eyes and hair the same
as mine:" and indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her boy's
attire. Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who was so sadly
forsaken by the man she loved; and when Julia offered the ring which
Proteus had sent, refused it, saying, "The more shame for him that he
sends me that ring; I will not take it; for I have often heard him say
his Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her,
poor lady! Here is a purse; I give it you for Julia's sake." These
comfortable words coming from her kind rival's tongue cheered the
drooping heart of the disguised lady.
But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce knew which way to
bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father a
disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest,
not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear treasure,
the Lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded his money.
Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he was
going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he had on
being all his riches.
The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struck with
his noble air and manly behaviour, told him if he would live with them,
and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves under his
command; but that if he refused to accept their offer, they would kill
him.
Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said he would
consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no
outrage on women or poor passengers.
Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read in
ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in this
situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass.
Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon
her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following
Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken
refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived in
the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, but
taking no part in their depredations, and using the authority which they
had imposed upon him in no other way than to compel them to show
compassion to the travellers they robbed.
Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in
company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom she
took along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass through
the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of these
robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, but he
escaped.
The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, bid her
not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave where
his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their captain
had an honourable mind, and always showed humanity to women. Silvia
found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as a
prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. "O Valentine," she
cried, "this I endure for thee!"
But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he was
stopped by Proteus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of a
page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to this
forest. Proteus now rescued her from the hands of the robber; but scarce
had she time to thank him for the service he had done her, before he
began to distress her afresh with his love suit; and while he was rudely
pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia)
was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great
service which Proteus had just done to Silvia should win her to show him
some favour, they were all strangely surprised with the sudden
appearance of Valentine, who, having heard his robbers had taken a lady
prisoner, came to console and relieve her.
Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being caught
by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence and
remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had
done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and generous,
even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored him to his
former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism he
said, "I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have in Silvia, I
give it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside her master as a page,
hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus would not be able with
this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, and they were all
employed in recovering her: else would Silvia have been offended at
being thus made over to Proteus, though she could scarcely think that
Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained and too generous act
of friendship. When Julia recovered from the fainting fit, she said, "I
had forgot, my master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia."
Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one he gave to
Julia, in return for that which he received from her, and which he had
sent by the supposed page to Silvia. "How is this?" said he, "this is
Julia's ring: how came you by it, boy?" Julia answered, "Julia herself
did give it me, and Julia herself hath brought it hither."
Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that the page
Sebastian was no other than the Lady Julia herself; and the proof she
had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that his
love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his own dear
lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the Lady Silvia to
Valentine, who had so well deserved her.
Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their
reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies when they were
surprised with the sight of the Duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there
in pursuit of Silvia.
Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying, "Silvia
is mine." Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited manner,
"Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is yours, you
shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but possession of her
with a torch! I dare you but to breathe upon my love." Hearing this
threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back, and said he cared not
for her, and that none but a fool would fight for a girl who loved him
not.
The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger,
"The more base and degenerate in you to take such means for her as you
have done, and leave her on such slight conditions." Then turning to
Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think you
worthy of an empress' love. You shall have Silvia, for you have well
deserved her." Valentine then with great humility kissed the duke's
hand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him of his
daughter with becoming thankfulness: taking occasion of this joyful
minute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves with whom
he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when reformed and
restored to society, there would be found among them many good, and fit
for great employment; for the most of them had been banished, like
Valentine, for state offences, rather than for any black crimes they had
been guilty of. To this the ready duke consented: and now nothing
remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was ordained, by way of
penance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital of
the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke; and the
shame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficient
punishment: which being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnised in the presence of the duke,
with high triumphs and feasting.
[Illustration]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed an
immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian
merchants. Shylock, being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the
money he lent with such severity that he was much disliked by all good
men, and particularly by Antonio, a young merchant of Venice; and
Shylock as much hated Antonio, because he used to lend money to people
in distress, and would never take any interest for the money he lent;
therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the
generous merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto
(or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard
dealings, which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he
secretly meditated revenge.
Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and had
the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed, he was one in
whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that drew breath
in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens; but the
friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble
Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his
little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his slender
means, as young men of high rank with small fortunes are too apt to do.
Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Antonio assisted him; and it seemed as
if they had but one heart and one purse between them.
One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he wished to repair
his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly loved,
whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a large
estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit at her house,
when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes from her eyes
sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would be no unwelcome
suitor; but not having money to furnish himself with an appearance
befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought Antonio to add to
the many favours he had shown him, by lending him three thousand ducats.
Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but
expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise, he
said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the money
upon the credit of those ships.
Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio asked the Jew
to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should require,
to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On
this, Shylock thought within himself, "If I can once catch him on the
hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him; he hates our Jewish
nation; he lends out money gratis, and among the merchants he rails at
me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed be my
tribe if I forgive him!" Antonio finding he was musing within himself
and did not answer, and being impatient for the money, said, "Shylock,
do you hear? will you lend the money?" To this question the Jew replied,
"Signior Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often you have railed at
me about my monies and my usuries, and I have borne it with a patient
shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe; and then you have
called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my Jewish garments,
and spurned at me with your foot, as if I was a cur. Well then, it now
appears you need my help; and you come to me, and say, _Shylock, lend me
monies_. Has a dog money? Is it possible a cur should lend three
thousand ducats? Shall I bend low and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on
Wednesday last, another time you called me dog, and for these courtesies
I am to lend you monies." Antonio replied, "I am as like to call you so
again, to spit on you again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me this
money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to
an enemy, that, if I break, you may with better face exact the
penalty."--"Why, look you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I would be
friends with you, and have your love. I will forget the shames you have
put upon me. I will supply your wants, and take no interest for my
money." This seemingly kind offer greatly surprised Antonio; and then
Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that all he did was to gain
Antonio's love, again said he would lend him the three thousand ducats,
and take no interest for his money; only Antonio should go with him to a
lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay
the money by a certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut
off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased.
"Content," said Antonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say there is
much kindness in the Jew."
Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him; but still
Antonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the day of
payment came, his ships would return laden with many times the value of
the money.
Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "O, father Abraham, what
suspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach
them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this,
Bassanio: if he should break his day, what should I gain by the exaction
of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, is not so
estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or beef. I
say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will take it, so;
if not, adieu."
At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all the
Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should run
the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio signed the
bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.
The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, at a
place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of her
person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we
read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.
Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Antonio, at
the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train, and
attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.
Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time
consented to accept of him for a husband.
Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his high
birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she, who loved
him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to regard wealth
in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she would wish
herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times more rich, to
be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished Portia prettily
dispraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled,
unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and that she
would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by him in all
things; and she said, "Myself and what is mine, to you and yours is now
converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair mansion,
queen of myself, and mistress over these servants; and now this house,
these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I give them with this
ring;" presenting a ring to Bassanio.
Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious
manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his
humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to the
dear lady who so honoured him, by anything but broken words of love and
thankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed never to part with it.
Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon
their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become the
obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the
generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same time.
"With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you can get a wife."
Gratiano then said that he loved the Lady Portia's fair waiting
gentlewoman Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her
lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa
replied, "Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly
consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding-feast shall be
much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano."
The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the
entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Antonio containing
fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared it
was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so pale; and
inquiring what was the news which had so distressed him, he said, "O
sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever
blotted paper; gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I
freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should have
told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio then
told Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing the money of
Antonio, and of Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the
bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh, if it was
not repaid by a certain day: and then Bassanio read Antonio's letter;
the words of which were, "_Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my
bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible I
should live, I could wish to see you at my death; notwithstanding, use
your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade you to come, let not
my letter._" "O, my dear love," said Portia, "despatch all business, and
begone; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times over, before
this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's fault; and as you
are so dearly bought, I will dearly love you." Portia then said she
would be married to Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal
right to her money; and that same day they were married, and Gratiano
was also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the instant they
were married, set out in great haste for Venice, where Bassanio found
Antonio in prison.
The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the
money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of
Antonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause before
the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the event
of the trial.
When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him, and
bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned; yet she
feared it would go hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone, she
began to think and consider within herself, if she could by any means be
instrumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio's friend; and
notwithstanding when she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said to
him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she would submit in all
things to be governed by his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth
into action by the peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did
nothing doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her own true
and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice, and
speak in Antonio's defence.
Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this
gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to
him, desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send
her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he
brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also
everything necessary for her equipment.
Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and
putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her as
her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice on the
very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before the
duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portia entered
this high court of justice, and presented a letter from Bellario, in
which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would have
come himself to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented by
sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctor Balthasar (so
he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in his stead. This the
duke granted, much wondering at the youthful appearance of the stranger,
who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes and her large wig.
And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and she
saw the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in her
disguise. He was standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress and
fear for his friend.
The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this
tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had
undertaken to perform: and first of all she addressed herself to
Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to have
the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble
quality of _mercy_, as would have softened any heart but the unfeeling
Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon
the place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him
that gave, and him that received it; and how it became monarchs better
than their crowns, being an attribute of God himself; and that earthly
power came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice;
and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that same
prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered her by
desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. "Is he not able to
pay the money?" asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment
of the three thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire;
which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon having a pound of
Antonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young counsellor would
endeavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia
gravely answered, that laws once established must never be altered.
Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered, it seemed
to him that she was pleading in his favour, and he said, "A Daniel is
come to judgment! O wise young judge, how I do honour you! How much
elder are you than your looks!"
[Illustration: SHYLOCK WAS SHARPENING A LONG KNIFE]
Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when she had
read it, she said, "This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew may
lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Antonio's
heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful: take the money, and bid
me tear the bond." But no mercy would the cruel Shylock show; and he
said, "By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to
alter me."--"Why then, Antonio," said Portia, "you must prepare your
bosom for the knife:" and while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with
great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio,
"Have you anything to say?" Antonio with a calm resignation replied,
that he had but little to say, for that he had prepared his mind for
death. Then he said to Bassanio, "Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare you
well! Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend
me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I have loved you!" Bassanio
in the deepest affliction replied, "Antonio, I am married to a wife, who
is as dear to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all the
world, are not esteemed with me above your life: I would lose all, I
would sacrifice all to this devil here, to deliver you."
Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all
offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so true a
friend as Antonio in these strong terms, yet could not help answering,
"Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were present, to hear
you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to copy what his lord
did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's, and he said, in
Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's dress by the side of
Portia, "I have a wife, whom I protest I love; I wish she were in
heaven, if she could but entreat some power there to change the cruel
temper of this currish Jew." "It is well you wish this behind her back,
else you would have but an unquiet house," said Nerissa.
Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pronounce the
sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the court, and every
heart was full of grief for Antonio.
Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said
to the Jew, "Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to
death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio should bleed to
death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia replied, "It is
not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so much
for charity." To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I cannot
find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound of
Antonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards it.
And you may cut this flesh from on his breast. The law allows it and the
court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright judge! A
Daniel is come to judgment!" And then he sharpened his long knife again,
and looking eagerly on Antonio, he said, "Come, prepare!"
"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is something else. This bond
here gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are, 'a pound of
flesh.' If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of
Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the law to be confiscated
to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly impossible for Shylock to
cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of Antonio's blood,
this wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that
was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio; and all admiring the
wonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who had so happily thought
of this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of the
senate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock had
used, "O wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to
judgment!"
Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with a
disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio, rejoiced
beyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, "Here is
the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly; there is no haste;
the Jew shall have nothing but the penalty: therefore prepare, Shylock,
to cut off the flesh; but mind you shed no blood: nor do not cut off
more nor less than just a pound; be it more or less by one poor
scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, you
are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is
forfeited to the senate." "Give me my money, and let me go," said
Shylock. "I have it ready," said Bassanio: "here it is."
Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped him,
saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of
Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the mercy
of the duke; therefore, down on your knees, and ask him to pardon you."
The duke then said to Shylock, "That you may see the difference of our
Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; half your
wealth belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the state."
The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his share of
Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his
death to his daughter and her husband; for Antonio knew that the Jew had
an only daughter who had lately married against his consent to a young
Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, which had so offended
Shylock, that he had disinherited her.
The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disappointed in his revenge, and
despoiled of his riches, he said, "I am ill. Let me go home; send the
deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches to my
daughter."--"Get thee gone, then," said the duke, "and sign it; and if
you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will forgive you
the fine of the other half of your riches."
The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He then highly
praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and invited
him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before her
husband, replied, "I humbly thank your grace, but I must away directly."
The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine with
him; and turning to Antonio, he added, "Reward this gentleman; for in my
mind you are much indebted to him."
The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said to
Portia, "Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Antonio have by your
wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you will
accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." "And we shall
stand indebted to you over and above," said Antonio, "in love and
service evermore."
Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon
Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, "Give me
your gloves; I will wear them for your sake;" and then Bassanio taking
off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him upon his
finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from him to make
a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him for
his gloves; and she said, when she saw the ring, "and for your love I
will take this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly distressed that the
counsellor should ask him for the only thing he could not part with, and
he replied in great confusion, that he could not give him that ring,
because it was his wife's gift, and he had vowed never to part with it;
but that he would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and find it
out by proclamation. On this Portia affected to be affronted, and left
the court, saying, "You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered."
"Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, "let him have the ring; let my love and
the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's
displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and
sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then the _clerk_ Nerissa,
who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano
(not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave it to her.
And there was laughing among these ladies to think, when they got home,
how they would tax their husbands with giving away their rings, and
swear that they had given them as a present to some woman.
Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which never
fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good action; her
cheerful spirits enjoyed everything she saw: the moon never seemed to
shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon was hid behind a
cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at Belmont as well
pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, "That light we see
is burning in my hall; how far that little candle throws its beams, so
shines a good deed in a naughty world;" and hearing the sound of music
from her house, she said, "Methinks that music sounds much sweeter than
by day."
And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves in
their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who soon
followed them with Antonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear friend to
the Lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that lady were
hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husband quarrelling in
a corner of the room. "A quarrel already?" said Portia. "What is the
matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that
Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife;
_Love me, and leave me not._"
"What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify?" said Nerissa.
"You swore to me when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till the
hour of death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I know
you gave it to a woman."--"By this hand," replied Gratiano, "I gave it
to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, no higher than
yourself; he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wise pleading
saved Antonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could
not for my life deny him." Portia said, "You were to blame, Gratiano,
to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a ring, and
I am sure he would not part with it for all the world." Gratiano, in
excuse for his fault, now said, "My lord Bassanio gave his ring away to
the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some pains in
writing, he begged my ring."
Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for
giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to
believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very
unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great
earnestness, "No, by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor, who
refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which when I
denied him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet Portia? I
was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to
send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you been there, I
think you would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor."
"Ah!" said Antonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels."
Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome
notwithstanding; and then Antonio said, "I once did lend my body for
Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I
should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the
forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you."--"Then you
shall be his surety," said Portia; "give him this ring, and bid him keep
it better than the other."
When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find it
was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him how she was the
young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his
unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage and
wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was saved.
And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which by some
chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of
Antonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the
harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story were
all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and there was
leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, and the husbands
that did not know their own wives: Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort
of rhyming speech, that
----while he lived, he'd fear no other thing
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CYMBELINE
During the time of Augustus Cæsar, Emperor of Rome, there reigned in
England (which was then called Britain) a king whose name was Cymbeline.
Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons and a
daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, was
brought up in her father's court; but by a strange chance the two sons
of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the eldest was but
three years of age, and the youngest quite an infant; and Cymbeline
could never discover what was become of them, or by whom they were
conveyed away.
[Illustration: IMOGEN'S TWO BROTHERS THEN CARRIED HER TO A SHADY COVERT]
Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife was a wicked, plotting
woman, and a cruel stepmother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his
first wife.
The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a son of her
own by a former husband (she also having been twice married): for by
this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown of
Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, if the
king's sons were not found, the Princess Imogen must be the king's heir.
But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married without
the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen.
Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the best
scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father died
fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his mother
died also for grief at the loss of her husband.
Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Posthumus
(Cymbeline having given him that name, because he was born after his
father's death), and educated him in his own court.
Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and were
playfellows from their infancy; they loved each other tenderly when they
were children, and their affection continuing to increase with their
years, when they grew up they privately married.
The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies
constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she
immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.
Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard that his
daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a
subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him from
his native country for ever.
The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered at
losing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting before
Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen for
his residence in his banishment: this seeming kindness she showed, the
better to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son Cloten; for
she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her
marriage was not lawful, being contracted without the consent of the
king.
Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each other.
Imogen gave her husband a diamond ring, which had been her mother's,
and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; and he fastened a
bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preserve with
great care, as a token of his love; they then bid each other farewell,
with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.
Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court, and
Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for his banishment.
Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men of different
nations, who were talking freely of ladies: each one praising the ladies
of his own country, and his own mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his
own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair Imogen, was
the most virtuous, wise and constant lady in the world.
One of those gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended that a
lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his
country-women, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of
his so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much altercation,
Posthumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that he (Iachimo) should
go to Britain, and endeavour to gain the love of the married Imogen.
They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed in this wicked
design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; but if he could win
Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give him the bracelet which
Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would keep as a token of his
love, then the wager was to terminate with Posthumus giving to Iachimo
the ring, which was Imogen's love present when she parted with her
husband. Such firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity of Imogen, that
he thought he ran no hazard in this trial of her honour.
Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance, and a courteous
welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but when he began to
make professions of love to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and he
soon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in his dishonourable
design.
The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to a
stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed some
of Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into her bedchamber,
concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till Imogen was
retired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then getting out of the
trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and wrote down
everything he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole which he
observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloosing the bracelet from
her arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired into the chest
again; and the next day he set on for Rome with great expedition, and
boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the bracelet, and
likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber: and in this
manner Iachimo told his false tale: "Her bedchamber," said he, "was hung
with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was _the proud Cleopatra
when she met her Anthony_, a piece of work most bravely wrought."
"This is true," said Posthumus; "but this you might have heard spoken of
without seeing."
"Then the chimney," said Iachimo, "is south of the chamber, and the
chimney-piece is _Diana bathing_; never saw I figures livelier
expressed."
"This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said Posthumus; "for it
is much talked of."
Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber; and added, "I
had almost forgot her andirons; they were _two winking Cupids_ made of
silver, each on one foot standing." He then took out the bracelet, and
said, "Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She took it from her
arm. I see her yet; her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yet
enriched it too. She gave it me, and said, _she prized it once._" He
last of all described the mole he had observed upon her neck.
Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an agony of
doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations against
Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had agreed
to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen.
Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a gentleman of
Britain, who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been a
faithful friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what proof he had of
his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to
Milford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at the same
time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her to go with
Pisanio, for that finding he could live no longer without seeing her,
though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, he
would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he begged she would meet
him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved her husband above all
things, and desired more than her life to see him, hastened her
departure with Pisanio, and the same night she received the letter she
set out.
When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though faithful
to Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed
to Imogen the cruel order he had received.
Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, found
herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond
measure.
Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient fortitude
for the time when Posthumus should see and repent his injustice: in the
meantime, as she refused in her distress to return to her father's
court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes for more
security in travelling; to which advice she agreed, and thought in that
disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her husband, whom, though
he had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to love.
When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left her to her
uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but before he
departed he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen had
given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders.
The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen and
Posthumus, gave him this phial, which she supposed contained poison, she
having ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try its effects
(as she said) upon animals; but the physician, knowing her malicious
disposition, would not trust her with real poison, but gave her a drug
which would do no other mischief than causing a person to sleep with
every appearance of death for a few hours. This mixture, which Pisanio
thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found
herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so, with blessings and
prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved
troubles, he left her.
Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her two
brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius, who
stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, and having been
falsely accused to the king of treason, and banished from the court, in
revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbeline, and brought them up in
a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole them through
revenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had been his own
children, educated them carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their
princely spirits leading them to bold and daring actions; and as they
subsisted by hunting, they were active and hardy, and were always
pressing their supposed father to let them seek their fortune in the
wars.
At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imogen's fortune to arrive.
She had lost her way in a large forest, through which her road lay to
Milford-Haven (from which she meant to embark for Rome); and being
unable to find any place where she could purchase food, she was with
weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not merely putting on a
man's apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought up, to
bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing
this cave, she entered, hoping to find some one within of whom she could
procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking about she discovered
some cold meat, and her hunger was so pressing, that she could not wait
for an invitation, but sat down and began to eat. "Ah," said she,
talking to herself, "I see a man's life is a tedious one; how tired am
I! for two nights together I have made the ground my bed: my resolution
helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford-Haven from
the mountain top, how near it seemed!" Then the thoughts of her husband
and his cruel mandate came across her, and she said, "My dear Posthumus,
thou art a false one!"
The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their reputed
father, Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bellarius had given
them the names of Polydore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but
supposed that Bellarius was their father; but the real names of these
princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.
Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, stopped them,
saying, "Come not in yet; it eats our victuals, or I should think it was
a fairy."
"What is the matter, sir?" said the young men. "By Jupiter," said
Bellarius again, "there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an earthly
paragon." So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel.
She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and
addressed them in these words: "Good masters, do not harm me; before I
entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought what I have
eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had found
gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I would have
left on the board when I had made my meal, and parted with prayers for
the provider." They refused her money with great earnestness. "I see you
are angry with me," said the timid Imogen; "but, sirs, if you kill me
for my fault, know that I should have died if I had not made it."
"Whither are you bound?" asked Bellarius, "and what is your name?"
"Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. "I have a kinsman, who is bound
for Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going, almost
spent with hunger, I am fallen into this offence."
"Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, "do not think us churls, nor
measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are well
encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better cheer before you
depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome."
The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cave with
many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, as they said,
_him_) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they having
killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them with her
neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper; for though
it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to understand
cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art; and, as
her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots in
characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick, and Fidele
were her dieter. "And then," said Polydore to his brother, "how
angel-like he sings!"
They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele smiled so sweetly,
yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if grief and
patience had together taken possession of him.
For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their near
relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called
her, _Fidele_) became the doting-piece of her brothers, and she scarcely
less loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her dear Posthumus,
she could live and die in the cave with these wild forest youths; and
she gladly consented to stay with them, till she was enough rested from
the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way to Milford-Haven.
When the venison they had taken was all eaten and they were going out to
hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them because she was unwell.
Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the fatigue
of wandering in the forest, was the cause of her illness.
They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt, praising all the way
the noble parts and graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele.
Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial Pisanio
had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into a sound and
death-like sleep.
When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Polydore went
first into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy
shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake her; so did true
gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters; but he
soon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, and
concluded her to be dead, and Polydore lamented over her with dear and
brotherly regret, as if they had never from their infancy been parted.
Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, and there
celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then the
custom.
Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and there
laying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her departed spirit,
and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Polydore said, "While
summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy grave. The
pale primrose, that flower most like thy face; the blue-bell, like thy
clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, which is not sweeter than was
thy breath; all these will I strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss
in winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet corse."
When they had finished her funeral obsequies they departed very
sorrowful.
Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect of the sleepy drug
going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight covering of
leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, and imagining
she had been dreaming, she said, "I thought I was a cave-keeper, and
cook to honest creatures; how came I here covered with flowers?" Not
being able to find her way back to the cave, and seeing nothing of her
new companions, she concluded it was certainly all a dream; and once
more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, hoping at last she should
find her way to Milford-Haven, and thence get a passage in some ship
bound for Italy; for all her thoughts were still with her husband
Posthumus, whom she intended to seek in the disguise of a page.
But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knew
nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman emperor
Augustus Cæsar and Cymbeline, the King of Britain; and a Roman army had
landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very forest over
which Imogen was journeying. With this army came Posthumus.
Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army he did not
mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, but intended to
join the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who had
banished him.
He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death of her he had so
fondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio having written him a
letter to say he had obeyed his command, and that Imogen was dead), sat
heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring
either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by Cymbeline for
returning home from banishment.
Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands of the
Roman army; and her presence and deportment recommending her, she was
made a page to Lucius, the Roman general.
Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when they entered
this forest, Polydore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The young men
were eager to engage in acts of valour, though they little thought they
were going to fight for their own royal father: and old Bellarius went
with them to the battle. He had long since repented of the injury he had
done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and having been a warrior
in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king he had so
injured.
And now a great battle commenced between the two armies, and the Britons
would have been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but for the
extraordinary valour of Posthumus and Bellarius and the two sons of
Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his life, and so entirely
turned the fortune of the day, that the Britons gained the victory.
When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the death he
sought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers of Cymbeline,
willing to suffer the death which was to be his punishment if he
returned from banishment.
Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners, and brought
before Cymbeline, as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who was an officer
in the Roman army; and when these prisoners were before the king,
Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence of death; and at this
strange juncture of time, Bellarius with Polydore and Cadwal were also
brought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the great
services they had by their valour done for the king. Pisanio, being one
of the king's attendants, was likewise present.
Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but with very
different hopes and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with her new master the
Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false friend
Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, with Bellarius,
who had stolen them away.
The Roman general was the first who spoke; the rest stood silent before
the king, though there was many a beating heart among them.
Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he was in the disguise of a
peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire: and she knew
Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her
own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of all her
troubles: and she stood before her own father a prisoner of war.
Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the garb of a
boy. "It is my mistress," thought he; "since she is living, let the time
run on to good or bad." Bellarius knew her too, and softly said to
Cadwal, "Is not this boy revived from death?"--"One sand," replied
Cadwal, "does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is like
the dead Fidele."--"The same dead thing alive," said Polydore. "Peace,
peace," said Bellarius; "if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken
to us."--"But we saw him dead," again whispered Polydore. "Be silent,"
replied Bellarius.
Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his own
death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had saved his
life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.
Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen under his protection as
his page, was the first (as has been before said) who spoke to the king.
He was a man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was his speech
to the king:--
"I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them all to
death: I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer death. But there
is one thing for which I would entreat." Then bringing Imogen before the
king, he said, "This boy is a Briton born. Let him be ransomed. He is my
page. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all
occasions, so true, so nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, though
he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare no one beside."
Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not in
that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his
heart, for he said, "I have surely seen him, his face appears familiar
to me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy; but I give you your
life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will grant it you. Yea,
even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have."
"I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen.
What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise to give
any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on whom that favour
was conferred chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear what
thing the page would ask for; and Lucius her master said to her, "I do
not beg my life, good lad, but I know that is what you will ask
for."--"No, no, alas!" said Imogen, "I have other work in hand, good
master; your life I cannot ask for."
This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman general.
Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon than
this: that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had the ring he
wore on his finger.
Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with the torture
if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring on his finger.
Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villany, telling, as
has been before related, the whole story of his wager with Posthumus,
and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity.
What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of his lady
cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and confessed to
Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to execute
upon the princess; exclaiming wildly, "O Imogen, my queen, my life, my
wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!"
Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress without
discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thus
relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces
of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated.
Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at finding his
lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her former place
in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband Posthumus his
life, but consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law.
Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation to make his
confession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal to the king, telling him
they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus.
Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could think of punishments at a
season of such universal happiness? To find his daughter living, and his
lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen so
bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed!
Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late master,
the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father readily granted
at her request; and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was
concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which was kept inviolate
many years.
How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her projects
to pass, and touched with remorse of conscience, sickened and died,
having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrel
which he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this happy
conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is sufficient that all
were made happy who were deserving; and even the treacherous Iachimo, in
consideration of his villany having missed its final aim, was dismissed
without punishment.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
KING LEAR
Lear, King of Britain, had three daughters; Goneril, wife to the Duke of
Albany; Regan, wife to the Duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a young maid,
for whose love the King of France and Duke of Burgundy were joint
suitors, and were at this time making stay for that purpose in the court
of Lear.
[Illustration: CORDELIA]
The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of government, he being
more than fourscore years old, determined to take no further part in
state affairs, but to leave the management to younger strengths, that he
might have time to prepare for death, which must at no long period
ensue. With this intent he called his three daughters to him, to know
from their own lips which of them loved him best, that he might part his
kingdom among them in such proportions as their affection for him should
seem to deserve.
Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than words
could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of her own
eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing
stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, only a
few fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that case. The
king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her love,
and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a fit of fatherly
fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one third of his ample
kingdom.
Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she had to
say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her sister, was not
a whit behind in her professions, but rather declared that what her
sister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to bear for
his highness; insomuch that she found all other joys dead, in comparison
with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dear king and
father.
Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as he thought; and
could do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan had made,
than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in
size to that which he had already given away to Goneril.
Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called his joy,
he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt that she would glad his
ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had uttered, or
rather that her expressions would be so much stronger than theirs, as
she had always been his darling, and favoured by him above either of
them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose
hearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all their
coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old king out of his
dominions, that they and their husbands might reign in his lifetime,
made no other reply but this,--that she loved his majesty according to
her duty, neither more nor less.
The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his favourite
child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her speech, lest
it should mar her fortunes.
Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he had
given her breeding, and loved her; that she returned those duties back
as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. But
that she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her sisters
had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why had her
sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love for anything but
their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she
gave her hand would want half her love, half of her care and duty; she
should never marry like her sisters, to love her father all.
Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even almost as
extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly told
him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms, and
without these qualifications, which did indeed sound a little
ungracious; but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,
which she had seen drawn such extravagant rewards, she thought the
handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This put her
affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed that she loved,
but not for gain; and that her professions, the less ostentatious they
were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity than her sisters'.
This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the old
monarch--who in his best of times always showed much of spleen and
rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age had so clouded over
his reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor a gay
painted speech from words that came from the heart--that in a fury of
resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom which yet
remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away from
her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and their husbands, the
Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; whom he now called to him, and in presence
of all his courtiers bestowing a coronet between them, invested them
jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution of government, only
retaining to himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he
resigned; with this reservation, that himself, with a hundred knights
for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly course in each of
his daughters' palaces in turn.
So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by reason,
and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonishment and
sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose between this
incensed king and his wrath, except the Earl of Kent, who was beginning
to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the passionate Lear on pain of
death commanded him to desist; but the good Kent was not so to be
repelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured as a
king, loved as a father, followed as a master; and he had never esteemed
his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal master's
enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was the motive; nor
now that Lear was most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of the
king forget his old principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear
good; and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He had been a most
faithful counsellor in times past to the king, and he besought him now,
that he would see with his eyes (as he had done in many weighty
matters), and go by his advice still; and in his best consideration
recall this hideous rashness: for he would answer with his life, his
judgment that Lear's youngest daughter did not love him least, nor were
those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token of hollowness. When
power bowed to flattery, honour was bound to plainness. For Lear's
threats, what could he do to him, whose life was already at his service?
That should not hinder duty from speaking.
The honest freedom of this good Earl of Kent only stirred up the king's
wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his physician, and
loves his mortal disease, he banished this true servant, and allotted
him but five days to make his preparations for departure; but if on the
sixth his hated person was found within the realm of Britain, that
moment was to be his death. And Kent bade farewell to the king, and
said, that since he chose to show himself in such fashion, it was but
banishment to stay there; and before he went, he recommended Cordelia to
the protection of the gods, the maid who had so rightly thought, and so
discreetly spoken; and only wished that her sisters' large speeches
might be answered with deeds of love; and then he went, as he said, to
shape his old course to a new country.
The King of France and Duke of Burgundy were now called in to hear the
determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know whether
they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was
under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but her own person to
recommend her: and the Duke of Burgundy declined the match, and would
not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the King of France,
understanding what the nature of the fault had been which had lost her
the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the
not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took
this young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry
above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her sisters and of
her father, though he had been unkind, and she should go with him, and
be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over fairer possessions
than her sisters: and he called the Duke of Burgundy in contempt a
waterish duke, because his love for this young maid had in a moment run
all away like water.
Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and besought
them to love their father well, and make good their professions: and
they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for they knew their
duty; but to strive to content her husband, who had taken her (as they
tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And Cordelia with a heavy
heart departed, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, and she wished
her father in better hands than she was about to leave him in.
Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of her
sisters began to show themselves in their true colours. Even before the
expiration of the first month, which Lear was to spend by agreement with
his eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out the
difference between promises and performances. This wretch having got
from her father all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away of
the crown from off his head, began to grudge even those small remnants
of royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to please his
fancy with the idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see him
and his hundred knights. Every time she met her father, she put on a
frowning countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak with her, she
would feign sickness, or anything to get rid of the sight of him; for it
was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and his
attendants an unnecessary expense: not only she herself slackened in her
expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and (it is to be
feared) not without her private instructions, her very servants affected
to treat him with neglect, and would either refuse to obey his orders,
or still more contemptuously pretend not to hear them. Lear could not
but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his daughter, but he
shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as people commonly are
unwilling to believe the unpleasant consequences which their own
mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon them.
True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by _ill_, than
falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by _good_, _usage_.
This eminently appears in the instance of the good Earl of Kent, who,
though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found in
Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long as there was
a chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to what mean
shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes; yet it
counts nothing base or unworthy, so as it can but do service where it
owes an obligation!
In the disguise of a serving man, all his greatness and pomp laid aside,
this good earl proffered his services to the king, who, not knowing him
to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a certain plainness, or
rather bluntness in his answers, which the earl put on (so different
from that smooth oily flattery which he had so much reason to be sick
of, having found the effects not answerable in his daughter), a bargain
was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into his service by the name of
Caius, as he called himself, never suspecting him to be his once great
favourite, the high and mighty Earl of Kent.
This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and love to his
royal master: for Goneril's steward that same day behaving in a
disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language,
as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius, not
enduring to hear so open an affront put upon his majesty, made no more
ado but presently tripped up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave in
the kennel; for which friendly service Lear became more and more
attached to him.
Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as far as so
insignificant a personage could show his love, the poor fool, or jester,
that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the
custom of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool (as he
was called) to make them sport after serious business: this poor fool
clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and by his witty
sayings would keep up his good humour, though he could not refrain
sometimes from jeering at his master for his imprudence in uncrowning
himself, and giving all away to his daughters; at which time, as he
rhymingly expressed it, these daughters
For sudden joy did weep
And he for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep
And go the fools among.
And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he had plenty,
this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the presence of
Goneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the quick:
such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the young of
the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its head bit off for
its pains; and saying, that an ass may know when the cart draws the
horse (meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to go behind, now
ranked before their father); and that Lear was no longer Lear, but the
shadow of Lear: for which free speeches he was once or twice threatened
to be whipped.
The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun to
perceive, were not all which this foolish fond father was to suffer from
his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his staying in her
palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an
establishment of a hundred knights; that this establishment was useless
and expensive, and only served to fill her court with riot and feasting;
and she prayed him that he would lessen their number, and keep none but
old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age.
Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was his
daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she who had
received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and grudge
him the respect due to his old age. But she, persisting in her undutiful
demand, the old man's rage was so excited, that he called her a detested
kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; and so indeed she did, for
the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour and sobriety of
manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given to rioting or
feasting, as she said. And he bid his horses to be prepared, for he
would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights; and
he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted devil, and
showed more hideous in a child than the sea-monster. And he cursed his
eldest daughter Goneril so as was terrible to hear; praying that she
might never have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return
that scorn and contempt upon her which she had shown to him: that she
might feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to have a thankless
child. And Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany, beginning to excuse
himself for any share which Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness,
Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be
saddled, and set out with his followers for the abode of Regan, his
other daughter. And Lear thought to himself how small the fault of
Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in comparison with her
sister's, and he wept; and then he was ashamed that such a creature as
Goneril should have so much power over his manhood as to make him weep.
Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp and state
at their palace; and Lear despatched his servant Caius with letters to
his daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception, while he and
his train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had been before-hand
with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her father of
waywardness and ill humours, and advising her not to receive so great a
train as he was bringing with him. This messenger arrived at the same
time with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who should it be but Caius's
old enemy the steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the heels for
his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow's look, and
suspecting what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged him to
fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion,
beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked
messages deserved; which coming to the ears of Regan and her husband,
they ordered Caius to be put in stocks, though he was a messenger from
the king her father, and in that character demanded the highest respect:
so that the first thing the king saw when he entered the castle, was his
faithful servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful situation.
This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to expect; but a
worse followed, when, upon inquiry for his daughter and her husband, he
was told they were weary with travelling all night, and could not see
him; and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry manner
to see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in their company
but the hated Goneril, who had come to tell her own story, and set her
sister against the king her father!
This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Regan take her
by the hand; and he asked Goneril if she was not ashamed to look upon
his old white beard. And Regan advised him to go home again with
Goneril, and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attendants,
and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and wanted discretion, and
must be ruled and led by persons that had more discretion than himself.
And Lear showed how preposterous that would sound, if he were to go down
on his knees, and beg of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he
argued against such an unnatural dependence, declaring his resolution
never to return with her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and
his hundred knights; for he said that she had not forgot the half of the
kingdom which he had endowed her with, and that her eyes were not fierce
like Goneril's, but mild and kind. And he said that rather than return
to Goneril, with half his train cut off, he would go over to France,
and beg a wretched pension of the king there, who had married his
youngest daughter without a portion.
But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan than he had
experienced from her sister Goneril. As if willing to outdo her sister
in unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty knights too
many to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty were enough. Then Lear, nigh
heart-broken, turned to Goneril and said that he would go back with her,
for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much
as Regan's. But Goneril excused herself, and said, what need of so many
as five-and-twenty? or even ten? or five? when he might be waited upon
by her servants, or her sister's servants? So these two wicked
daughters, as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their
old father, who had been so good to them, by little and little would
have abated him of all his train, all respect (little enough for him
that once commanded a kingdom), which was left him to show that he had
once been a king! Not that a splendid train is essential to happiness,
but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from commanding millions
to be without one attendant; and it was the ingratitude in his
daughters' denying it, more than what he would suffer by the want of it,
which pierced this poor king to the heart; insomuch, that with this
double ill-usage, and vexation for having so foolishly given away a
kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, and while he said he knew not
what, he vowed revenge against those unnatural hags, and to make
examples of them that should be a terror to the earth!
While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could never
execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning with
rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolution not to
admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to
encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the same
roof with these ungrateful daughters: and they, saying that the injuries
which wilful men procure to themselves are their just punishment,
suffered him to go in that condition and shut their doors upon him.
The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the old man
sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than his
daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush; and
there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark night,
did King Lear wander out, and defy the winds and the thunder; and he bid
the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea
till they drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any such
ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left with no other
companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him, with his merry
conceits striving to outjest misfortune, saying it was but a naughty
night to swim in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his
daughter's blessing:--
But he that has a little tiny wit.
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain!
Must make content with his fortunes fit.
Though the rain it raineth every day:
and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride.
Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was found by his
ever-faithful servant the good Earl of Kent, now transformed to Caius,
who ever followed close at his side, though the king did not know him to
be the earl; and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? creatures that love
night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful storm has driven the
beasts to their hiding places. Man's nature cannot endure the affliction
or the fear." And Lear rebuked him and said, these lesser evils were not
felt, where a greater malady was fixed. When the mind is at ease, the
body has leisure to be delicate, but the tempest in his mind did take
all feeling else from his senses, but of that which beat at his
heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if
the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to it; for parents were
hands and food and everything to children.
[Illustration: THERE UPON A HEATH, EXPOSED TO THE FURY OF THE STORM ON A
DARK NIGHT, DID KING LEAR WANDER OUT]
But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that the king
would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter a
little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool first
entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit.
But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing more than a poor
Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel for shelter, and
with his talk about devils frighted the fool, one of those poor lunatics
who are either mad, or feign to be so, the better to extort charity from
the compassionate country people, who go about the country, calling
themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying, "Who gives anything to
poor Tom?" sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary into their
arms to make them bleed; and with such horrible actions, partly by
prayers, and partly with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the
ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. This poor fellow was such
a one; and the king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing but
a blanket about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be persuaded
but that the fellow was some father who had given all away to his
daughters, and brought himself to that pass: for nothing he thought
could bring a man to such wretchedness but the having unkind daughters.
And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, the good
Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but that
his daughters' ill usage had really made him go mad. And now the loyalty
of this worthy Earl of Kent showed itself in more essential services
than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with the
assistance of some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he had
the person of his royal master removed at daybreak to the castle of
Dover, where his own friends and influence, as Earl of Kent, chiefly
lay; and himself embarking for France, hastened to the court of
Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the pitiful
condition of her royal father, and set out in such lively colours the
inhumanity of her sisters, that this good and loving child with many
tears besought the king her husband that he would give her leave to
embark for England, with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel
daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father to his
throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed
at Dover.
Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which the good
Earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy, was
found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields near
Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to himself,
with a crown upon his head which he had made of straw, and nettles, and
other wild weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice
of the physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her
father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till by sleep and the
operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be restored to greater
composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia
promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king, Lear
was soon in a condition to see his daughter.
A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father and
daughter; to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old king at
beholding again his once darling child, and the shame at receiving such
filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in
his displeasure; both these passions struggling with the remains of his
malady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made him that he scarce
remembered where he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and
spoke to him: and then he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at
him, if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his daughter
Cordelia! And then to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of his
child; and she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of
him, and telling him that it did not become him to kneel, but it was her
duty, for she was his child, his true and very child Cordelia! and she
kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, and
said that they might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their old kind
father with his white beard out into the cold air, when her enemy's dog,
though it had bit her (as she prettily expressed it), should have stayed
by her fire such a night as that, and warmed himself. And she told her
father how she had come from France with purpose to bring him
assistance; and he said that she must forget and forgive, for he was old
and foolish, and did not know what he did; but that to be sure she had
great cause not to love him, but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said
that she had no cause, no more than they had.
So we will leave this old king in the protection of his dutiful and
loving child, where, by the help of sleep and medicine, she and her
physicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarring
senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violently shaken.
Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel daughters.
These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their old
father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their own
husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of duty and
affection, and in an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon
another. It happened that the object of their guilty loves was the same.
It was Edmund, a natural son of the late Earl of Gloucester, who by his
treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful
heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices was now earl
himself; a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such wicked
creatures as Goneril and Regan. It falling out about this time that the
Duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband, died, Regan immediately declared her
intention of wedding this Earl of Gloucester, which rousing the jealousy
of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan this wicked earl had at
sundry times professed love, Goneril found means to make away with her
sister by poison; but being detected in her practices, and imprisoned by
her husband, the Duke of Albany, for this deed, and for her guilty
passion for the earl which had come to his ears, she, in a fit of
disappointed love and rage, shortly put an end to her own life. Thus the
justice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked daughters.
While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the justice
displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly taken
off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power
in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the Lady
Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate
conclusion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not
always successful in this world. The forces which Goneril and Regan had
sent out under the command of the bad Earl of Gloucester were
victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked earl, who did
not like that any should stand between him and the throne, ended her
life in prison. Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her
young years, after showing her to the world an illustrious example of
filial duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child.
Before he died, the good Earl of Kent, who had still attended his old
master's steps from the first of his daughters' ill usage to this sad
period of his decay, tried to make him understand that it was he who had
followed him under the name of Caius; but Lear's care-crazed brain at
that time could not comprehend how that could be, or how Kent and Caius
could be the same person: so Kent thought it needless to trouble him
with explanations at such a time; and Lear soon after expiring, this
faithful servant to the king, between age and grief for his old master's
vexations, soon followed him to the grave.
How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad Earl of Gloucester, whose
treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single combat with his
brother, the lawful earl; and how Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany,
who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never encouraged his
lady in her wicked proceedings against her father, ascended the throne
of Britain after the death of Lear, is needless here to narrate; Lear
and his Three Daughters being dead, whose adventures alone concern our
story.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MACBETH
When Duncan the Meek reigned King of Scotland, there lived a great
thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the
king, and in great esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the
wars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel army
assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers.
[Illustration: THEY WERE STOPPED BY THE STRANGE APPEARANCE OF THREE
FIGURES]
The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning victorious from
this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where they were
stopped by the strange appearance of three figures like women, except
that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild attire made them
look not like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed them, when
they, seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy finger upon her
skinny lips, in token of silence; and the first of them saluted Macbeth
with the title of thane of Glamis. The general was not a little startled
to find himself known by such creatures; but how much more, when the
second of them followed up that salute by giving him the title of thane
of Cawdor, to which honour he had no pretensions; and again the third
bid him "All hail! king that shalt be hereafter!" Such a prophetic
greeting might well amaze him, who knew that while the king's sons
lived he could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning to
Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be _lesser
than Macbeth and greater_! _not so happy, but much happier_! and
prophesied that though he should never reign, yet his sons after him
should be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air, and vanished: by
which the generals knew them to be the weird sisters, or witches.
While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adventure, there
arrived certain messengers from the king, who were empowered by him to
confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor: an event so
miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witches astonished
Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement, unable to make reply to the
messengers; and in that point of time swelling hopes arose in his mind
that the prediction of the third witch might in like manner have its
accomplishment, and that he should one day reign king in Scotland.
Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not hope that your children shall be
kings, when what the witches promised to me has so wonderfully come to
pass?" "That hope," answered the general, "might enkindle you to aim at
the throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell us truths in
little things, to betray us into deeds of greatest consequence."
But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into the
mind of Macbeth to allow him to attend to the warnings of the good
Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the
throne of Scotland.
Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction of
the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She was a bad,
ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself could arrive at
greatness, she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the
reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the thoughts of
blood, and did not cease to represent the murder of the king as a step
absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy.
It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal
condescension would oftentimes visit his principal nobility upon
gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house, attended by his two sons,
Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants,
the more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars.
The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about it was
sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the martlet, or
swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the
building, wherever it found a place of advantage; for where those birds
most breed and haunt, the air is observed to be delicate. The king
entered well-pleased with the place, and not less so with the attentions
and respect of his honoured hostess, Lady Macbeth, who had the art of
covering treacherous purposes with smiles; and could look like the
innocent flower, while she was indeed the serpent under it.
The king being tired with his journey, went early to bed, and in his
state-room two grooms of his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside
him. He had been unusually pleased with his reception, and had made
presents before he retired to his principal officers; and among the
rest, had sent a rich diamond to Lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name
of his most kind hostess.
Now was the middle of night, when over half the world nature seems dead,
and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none but the wolf and
the murderer is abroad. This was the time when Lady Macbeth waked to
plot the murder of the king. She would not have undertaken a deed so
abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her husband's nature, that it
was too full of the milk of human kindness, to do a contrived murder.
She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet
prepared for that height of crime which commonly in the end accompanies
inordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder, but she
doubted his resolution; and she feared that the natural tenderness of
his disposition (more humane than her own) would come between, and
defeat the purpose. So with her own hands armed with a dagger, she
approached the king's bed; having taken care to ply the grooms of his
chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless of their
charge. There lay Duncan in a sound sleep after the fatigues of his
journey, and as she viewed him earnestly, there was something in his
face, as he slept, which resembled her own father; and she had not the
courage to proceed.
She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had begun to
stagger. He considered that there were strong reasons against the deed.
In the first place, he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman to the
king; and he had been his host and entertainer that day, whose duty, by
the laws of hospitality, it was to shut the door against his murderers,
not bear the knife himself. Then he considered how just and merciful a
king this Duncan had been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how
loving to his nobility, and in particular to him; that such kings are
the peculiar care of Heaven, and their subjects doubly bound to revenge
their deaths. Besides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood high in
the opinion of all sorts of men, and how would those honours be stained
by the reputation of so foul a murder!
In these conflicts of the mind Lady Macbeth found her husband inclining
to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. But she being a
woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to pour in at his
ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit into his mind,
assigning reason upon reason why he should not shrink from what he had
undertaken; how easy the deed was; how soon it would be over; and how
the action of one short night would give to all their nights and days to
come sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw contempt on his change
of purpose, and accused him of fickleness and cowardice; and declared
that she had given suck, and knew how tender it was to love the babe
that milked her; but she would, while it was smiling in her face, have
plucked it from her breast, and dashed its brains out, if she had so
sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform that murder. Then she added,
how practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon the drunken
sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her tongue she so chastised his
sluggish resolutions, that he once more summoned up courage to the
bloody business.
So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to the
room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw another dagger
in the air, with the handle towards him, and on the blade and at the
point of it drops of blood; but when he tried to grasp at it, it was
nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot and
oppressed brain and the business he had in hand.
Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, whom he despatched
with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had done the murder, one of
the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the
other cried, "Murder," which woke them both; but they said a short
prayer; one of them said, "God bless us!" and the other answered "Amen;"
and addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to
them, tried to say, "Amen," when the fellow said, "God bless us!" but,
though he had most need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat, and
he could not pronounce it.
Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, "Sleep no more: Macbeth
doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." Still it
cried, "Sleep no more," to all the house. "Glamis hath murdered sleep,
and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more."
With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to his listening wife,
who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the deed was
somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state, that she
reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his hands
of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, with purpose
to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem their
guilt.
Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could not
be concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made great show of grief,
and the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being produced against
them and their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently strong, yet
the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such a deed
were so much more forcible than such poor silly grooms could be supposed
to have; and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for
refuge in the English court; and the youngest, Donalbain, made his
escape to Ireland.
The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus vacated the
throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the prediction
of the weird sisters was literally accomplished.
Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget the
prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king, yet
not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings after him.
The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands with blood,
and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of Banquo upon the
throne, so rankled within them, that they determined to put to death
both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions of the weird
sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably brought to pass.
For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they invited all the
chief thanes; and, among the rest, with marks of particular respect,
Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The way by which Banquo was to
pass to the palace at night was beset by murderers appointed by Macbeth,
who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance escaped. From that
Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish
throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of
England, under whom the two crowns of England and Scotland were united.
At supper, the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affable
and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention which
conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with his
thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the country
was under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present, whom
yet he hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect, than to lament
for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom he had
caused to be murdered, entered the room and placed himself on the chair
which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, and
one that could have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible
sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite unmanned
with his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who
saw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an empty
chair, took it for a fit of distraction; and she reproached him,
whispering that it was but the same fancy which made him see the dagger
in the air, when he was about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to
see the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could say, while he
addressed it with distracted words, yet so significant, that his queen,
fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, in great haste dismissed
the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often
troubled with.
To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and he had their
sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled
them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom now they looked upon as
father to a line of kings who should keep their posterity out of the
throne. With these miserable thoughts they found no peace, and Macbeth
determined once more to seek out the weird sisters, and know from them
the worst.
He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew by
foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful
charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them
futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the
eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the
wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the
maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root of
the poisonous hemlock (this to have effect must be digged in the dark),
the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew tree
that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child: all these
were set on to boil in a great kettle, or cauldron, which, as fast as it
grew too hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood: to these they poured in
the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they threw into the
flame the grease that had sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these
charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer their questions.
It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts resolved by
them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the
dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, "Where are they? let
me see them." And they called the spirits, which were three. And the
first arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth by
name, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife; for which caution Macbeth
thanked him; for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the
thane of Fife.
And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody child, and he
called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the
power of man, for none of woman born should have power to hurt him; and
he advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. "Then live, Macduff!"
cried the king; "what need I fear of thee? but yet I will make assurance
doubly sure. Thou shalt not live; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it
lies, and sleep in spite of thunder."
That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child
crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, and
comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should never be
vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill should come
against him. "Sweet bodements! good!" cried Macbeth; "who can unfix the
forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live the
usual period of man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death. But
my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell so
much, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?" Here the
cauldron sank into the ground, and a noise of music was heard, and eight
shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a
glass which showed the figures of many more, and Banquo all bloody
smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth knew that
these were the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him in
Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with dancing,
making a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from this
time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful.
The first thing he heard when he got out of the witches' cave, was that
Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the army which was
forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king, with
intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right heir, upon the
throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, and
put his wife and children, whom the thane had left behind, to the sword,
and extended the slaughter to all who claimed the least relationship to
Macduff.
These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief nobility
from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were
now approaching with a powerful army, which they had raised in England;
and the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for fear of
Macbeth they could take no active part. His recruits went on slowly.
Everybody hated the tyrant; nobody loved or honoured him; but all
suspected him, and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had
murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done
its worst: steel nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign levies, could
hurt him any longer.
While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole partner
in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary
repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly,
died, it is supposed, by her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of
guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left alone, without a soul
to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he could confide his wicked
purposes.
He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near approach of
Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage, and
he determined to die (as he expressed it) "with armour on his back."
Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him with a
false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits, that
none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be
vanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thought
could never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly waited the
approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him,
pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had
seen; for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he
looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to move! "Liar
and slave!" cried Macbeth; "if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang
alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale be true, I
care not if thou dost as much by me;" for Macbeth now began to faint in
resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was
not to fear till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane; and now a wood
did move! "However," said he, "if this which he avouches be true, let us
arm and out. There is no flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be
weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end." With these desperate
speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the
castle.
The strange appearance which had given the messenger an idea of a wood
moving is easily solved. When the besieging army marched through the
wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed his soldiers
to hew down every one a bough and bear it before him, by way of
concealing the true numbers of his host. This marching of the soldiers
with boughs had at a distance the appearance which had frightened the
messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit brought to pass, in a sense
different from that in which Macbeth had understood them, and one great
hold of his confidence was gone.
And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, though feebly
supported by those who called themselves his friends, but in reality
hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet
fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to pieces all who
were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing
Macduff, and remembering the caution of the spirit who had counselled
him to avoid Macduff, above all men, he would have turned, but Macduff,
who had been seeking him through the whole fight, opposed his turning,
and a fierce contest ensued; Macduff giving him many foul reproaches for
the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged
enough with blood of that family already, would still have declined the
combat; but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, murderer,
hell-hound, and villain.
Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none of woman born
should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said to Macduff, "Thou
losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the air with
thy sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life, which must not
yield to one of woman born."
"Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that lying spirit whom thou
hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of woman, never as
the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely taken from
his mother."
"Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the trembling Macbeth,
who felt his last hold of confidence give way; "and let never man in
future believe the lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits,
who deceive us in words which have double senses, and while they keep
their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a different meaning.
I will not fight with thee."
"Then live!" said the scornful Macduff; "we will have a show of thee, as
men show monsters, and a painted board, on which shall be written, 'Here
men may see the tyrant!'"
"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair; "I will not
live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited
with the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
and thou opposed to me, who wast never born of woman, yet will I try the
last." With these frantic words he threw himself upon Macduff, who,
after a severe struggle, in the end overcame him, and cutting off his
head, made a present of it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm; who
took upon him the government which, by the machinations of the usurper,
he had so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncan the
Meek, amid the acclamations of the nobles and the people.
[Illustration]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
Bertram, Count of Rousillon, had newly come to his title and estate, by
the death of his father. The King of France loved the father of Bertram,
and when he heard of his death, he sent for his son to come immediately
to his royal court in Paris, intending, for the friendship he bore the
late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial favour and
protection.
Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed countess, when Lafeu, an
old lord of the French court, came to conduct him to the king. The King
of France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to court was in
the form of a royal mandate, or positive command, which no subject, of
what high dignity soever, might disobey; therefore though the countess,
in parting with this dear son, seemed a second time to bury her husband,
whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep him a
single day, but gave instant orders for his departure. Lafeu, who came
to fetch him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss of her late
lord, and her son's sudden absence; and he said, in a courtier's
flattering manner, that the king was so kind a prince, she would find in
his majesty a husband, and that he would be a father to her son; meaning
only, that the good king would befriend the fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu
told the countess that the king had fallen into a sad malady, which was
pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. The lady expressed great
sorrow on hearing this account of the king's ill health, and said, she
wished the father of Helena (a young gentlewoman who was present in
attendance upon her) were living, for that she doubted not he could have
cured his majesty of his disease. And she told Lafeu something of the
history of Helena, saying she was the only daughter of the famous
physician Gerard de Narbon, and that he had recommended his daughter to
her care when he was dying, so that since his death she had taken Helena
under her protection; then the countess praised the virtuous disposition
and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues
from her worthy father. While she was speaking, Helena wept in sad and
mournful silence, which made the countess gently reprove her for too
much grieving for her father's death.
Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess parted with this dear
son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care of
Lafeu, saying, "Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned
courtier."
Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of mere
civility, wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short farewell to
her with saying, "Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make
much of her."
Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and mournful
silence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved
her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the object of
which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form and
features of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image to her
mind but Bertram's.
Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he was the
Count of Rousillon, descended from the most ancient family in France.
She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all. His ancestors all
noble. And therefore she looked up to the high-born Bertram as to her
master and to her dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to live his
servant, and so living to die his vassal. So great the distance seemed
to her between his height of 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 honourable 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
worshipper, but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she
had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the design she had
formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the king's illness.
"This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," said the countess,
"was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord your son made
me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, had
from the conversation of my thoughts been absent then." The countess
heard the whole of this confession without saying a word either of
approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as to the
probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She found that it
was the most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and that he
had given it to his daughter on his deathbed; and remembering the solemn
promise she had made at that awful hour in regard to this young maid,
whose destiny, and the life of the king himself, seemed to depend on the
execution of a project (which though conceived by the fond suggestions
of a loving maiden's thoughts, the countess knew not but it might be the
unseen workings of Providence to bring to pass the recovery of the king,
and to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's
daughter), free leave she gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and
generously furnished her with ample means and suitable attendants; and
Helena set out for Paris with the blessings of the countess, and her
kindest wishes for her success.
Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the old
Lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had still many
difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed on to
try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But she told him
she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose fame the king was well
acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine as the darling
treasure which contained the essence of all her father's long experience
and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life, if it failed to
restore his majesty to perfect health in the space of two days. The king
at length consented to try it, and in two days' time Helena was to lose
her life if the king did not recover; but if she succeeded, he promised
to give her the choice of any man throughout all France (the princes
only excepted) whom she could like for a husband; the choice of a
husband being the fee Helena demanded if she cured the king of his
disease.
Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the efficacy
of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, the king was
restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the young noblemen of
his court together, in order to confer the promised reward of a husband
upon his fair physician; and he desired Helena to look round on this
youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her husband. Helena was
not slow to make her choice, for among these young lords she saw the
Count Rousillon, and turning to Bertram, she said, "This is the man. I
dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give me and my service ever
whilst I live into your guiding power." "Why, then," said the king,
"young Bertram, take her; she is your wife." Bertram did not hesitate to
declare his dislike to this present of the king's of the self-offered
Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, bred at his
father's charge, and now living a dependent on his mother's bounty.
Helena heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, and she
said to the king, "That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest
go." But the king would not suffer his royal command to be so slighted;
for the power of bestowing their nobles in marriage was one of the many
privileges of the kings of France; and that same day Bertram was married
to Helena, a forced and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no promising
hope to the poor lady, who, though she gained the noble husband she had
hazarded her life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank,
her husband's love not being a gift in the power of the King of France
to bestow.
Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram to apply
to the king for him for leave of absence from court; and when she
brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram told her
that he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much unsettled
him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course he should pursue.
If Helena wondered not, she grieved when she found it was his intention
to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his mother. When Helena heard
this unkind command, she replied, "Sir, I can nothing say to this, but
that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true
observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars have
failed to equal my great fortunes." But this humble speech of Helena's
did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he
parted from her without even the common civility of a kind farewell.
Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accomplished the
purport of her journey, she had preserved the life of the king, and she
had wedded her heart's dear lord, the Count Rousillon; but she returned
back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as soon as she
entered the house she received a letter from Bertram which almost broke
her heart.
The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she had
been her son's own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she spoke
kind words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram in sending
his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious reception
failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, "Madam, my lord is
gone, for ever gone." She then read these words out of Bertram's letter:
_When you can get the ring from my finger, which never shall come off,
then call me husband, but in such a Then I write a Never_. "This is a
dreadful sentence!" said Helena. The countess begged her to have
patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she should be her child, and
that she deserved a lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertram might
tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. But in vain by respectful
condescension and kind flattery this matchless mother tried to soothe
the sorrows of her daughter-in-law.
Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and cried out in an
agony of grief, _Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France_. The
countess asked her if she found those words in the letter? "Yes, madam,"
was all poor Helena could answer.
The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be delivered
to the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of
her sudden absence: in this letter she informed her that she was so much
grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country and his home,
that to atone for her offence, she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the
shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with requesting the
countess to inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his house
for ever.
Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became an
officer in the Duke of Florence's army, and after a successful war, in
which he distinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram received
letters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings that Helena
would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to return home, when
Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city of
Florence.
Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on their way
to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city, she heard
that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive into her house
the female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine of that saint,
giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To this good lady,
therefore, Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous welcome, and
invited her to see whatever was curious in that famous city, and told
her that if she would like to see the duke's army, she would take her
where she might have a full view of it. "And you will see a countryman
of yours," said the widow; "his name is Count Rousillon, who has done
worthy service in the duke's wars." Helena wanted no second invitation,
when she found Bertram was to make part of the show. She accompanied her
hostess; and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look once more
upon her dear husband's face. "Is he not a handsome man?" said the
widow. "I like him well," replied Helena, with great truth. All the way
they walked, the talkative widow's discourse was all of Bertram: she
told Helena the story of Bertram's marriage, and how he had deserted the
poor lady his wife, and entered into the duke's army to avoid living
with her. To this account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently
listened, and when it was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet
done, for then the widow began another tale, every word of which sank
deep into the mind of Helena; for the story she now told was of
Bertram's love for her daughter.
Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it
seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationed
with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair
young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena's hostess;
and every night, with music of all sorts, and songs composed in praise
of Diana's beauty, he would come under her window, and solicit her love;
and all his suit to her was, that she would permit him to visit her by
stealth after the family were retired to rest; but Diana would by no
means be persuaded to grant this improper request, nor give any
encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married man; for Diana
had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though
she was now in reduced circumstances, was well born, and descended from
the noble family of the Capulets.
All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuous
principles of her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely owing
to the excellent education and good advice she had given her; and she
further said, that Bertram had been particularly importunate with Diana
to admit him to the visit he so much desired that night, because he was
going to leave Florence early the next morning.
Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the widow's
daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived a
project (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former one) to
recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow that she was Helena,
the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind hostess and
her daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram to take place, and
allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; telling them, her
chief motive for desiring to have this secret meeting with her husband,
was to get a ring from him, which he had said, if ever she was in
possession of he would acknowledge her as his wife.
The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair, partly
moved by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won over to her
interest by the promises of reward which Helena made them, giving them a
purse of money in earnest of her future favour. In the course of that
day Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram that she was dead;
hoping that when he thought himself free to make a second choice by the
news of her death, he would offer marriage to her in her feigned
character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and this promise
too, she doubted not she should make some future good come of it.
In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana's
chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering
compliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena were precious
sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertram
was so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be
her husband, and to love her for ever; which she hoped would be
prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own wife,
the despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him.
Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps he would
not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he had
entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are accustomed to see
constantly, losing the effect which is caused by the first sight either
of beauty or of plainness; and of her understanding it was impossible he
should judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with her love for
him, that she was always silent in his presence: but now that her future
fate, and the happy ending of all her love-projects, seemed to depend on
her leaving a favourable impression on the mind of Bertram from this
night's interview, she exerted all her wit to please him; and the simple
graces of her lively conversation and the endearing sweetness of her
manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. Helena
begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard, and he
gave it to her; and in return for this ring, which it was of such
importance to her to possess, she gave him another ring, which was one
the king had made her a present of. Before it was light in the morning,
she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set out on his journey towards
his mother's house.
Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris, their
further assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment of the
plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they found the king was
gone upon a visit to the Countess of Rousillon, and Helena followed the
king with all the speed she could make.
The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who had
been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the
moment he saw the Countess of Rousillon, he began to talk of Helena,
calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her son; but
seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lamented the
death of Helena, he said, "My good lady, I have forgiven and forgotten
all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was present, and could not
bear that the memory of his favourite Helena should be so lightly passed
over, said, "This I must say, the young lord did great offence to his
majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself he did the greatest
wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes,
whose words took all ears captive, whose deep perfection made all hearts
wish to serve her." The king said, "Praising what is lost makes the
remembrance dear. Well--call him hither;" meaning Bertram, who now
presented himself before the king: and, on his expressing deep sorrow
for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his dead father's
and his admirable mother's sake, pardoned him and restored him once more
to his favour. But the gracious countenance of the king was soon changed
towards him, for he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his
finger which he had given to Helena: and he well remembered that Helena
had called all the saints in heaven to witness she would never part with
that ring, unless she sent it to the king himself upon some great
disaster befalling her; and Bertram, on the king's questioning him how
he came by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to
him out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of
their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared
he had destroyed her: and he ordered his guards to seize Bertram,
saying, "I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of Helena
was foully snatched." At this moment Diana and her mother entered, and
presented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his majesty to
exert his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made
her a solemn promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger,
denied he had made any such promise; and then Diana produced the ring
(which Helena had put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her words;
and she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in
exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing this,
the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account of the
ring differing from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were confirmed: and
he said, if they did not confess how they came by this ring of Helena's,
they should be both put to death. Diana requested her mother might be
permitted to fetch the jeweller of whom she bought the ring, which being
granted, the widow went out, and presently returned leading in Helena
herself.
The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's danger, and
had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife
might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved with
even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight she was
hardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for joy that it
was Helena, said, "Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?"
Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, "No, my
good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name and not the
thing." Bertram cried out, "Both, both! O pardon!"--"O my lord," said
Helena, "when I personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind;
and look, here is your letter!" reading to him in a joyful tone those
words which she had once repeated so sorrowfully, _When from my finger
you can get this ring_,--"This is done; it was to me you gave the ring.
Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?" Bertram replied, "If you can
make it plain that you were the lady I talked with that night, I will
love you dearly ever, ever dearly." This was no difficult task, for the
widow and Diana came with Helena to prove this fact; and the king was so
well pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she had rendered
the dear lady he so truly valued for the service she had done him, that
he promised her also a noble husband: Helena's history giving him a
hint, that it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies
when they perform notable services.
Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed sanctified
by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved wife of her
dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself the
Countess of Rousillon.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
Katharine, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich
gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and
fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by
no other name than Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed
impossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture to
marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for deferring
his consent to many excellent offers that were made to her gentle sister
Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that when the
eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have free leave to
address young Bianca.
[Illustration: PETRUCHIO, PRETENDING TO FIND FAULT WITH EVERY DISH,
THREW THE MEAT ABOUT THE FLOOR]
It happened, however, that a gentleman, named Petruchio, came to Padua,
purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these
reports of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome,
resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and taming her into a meek
and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set about this
herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as Katharine's,
and he was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, and withal so
wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign a
passionate and furious deportment, when his spirits were so calm that
himself could have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for his
natural temper was careless and easy; the boisterous airs he assumed
when he became the husband of Katharine being but in sport, or more
properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the only
means to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the furious
Katharine.
A courting then Petruchio went to Katharine the Shrew; and first of all
he applied to Baptista her father, for leave to woo his _gentle
daughter_ Katharine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that having
heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had come from Verona
to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished her married, was
forced to confess Katharine would ill answer this character, it being
soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was composed, for her
music-master rushed into the room to complain that the gentle Katharine,
his pupil, had broken his head with her lute, for presuming to find
fault with her performance; which, when Petruchio heard, he said, "It is
a brave wench; I love her more than ever, and long to have some chat
with her;" and hurrying the old gentleman for a positive answer, he
said, "My business is in haste, Signior Baptista, I cannot come every
day to woo. You knew my father: he is dead, and has left me heir to all
his lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what
dowry you will give with her." Baptista thought his manner was somewhat
blunt for a lover; but being glad to get Katharine married, he answered
that he would give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half
his estate at his death: so this odd match was quickly agreed on, and
Baptista went to apprise his shrewish daughter of her lover's addresses,
and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to his suit.
In the meantime Petruchio was settling with himself the mode of
courtship he should pursue; and he said, "I will woo her with some
spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell her she
sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I will say she
looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not speak a
word, I will praise the eloquence of her language; and if she bids me
leave her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her a
week." Now the stately Katharine entered, and Petruchio first addressed
her with "Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name, I hear." Katharine,
not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, "They call me
Katharine who do speak to me." "You lie," replied the lover; "for you
are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew:
but, Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore,
Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo you
for my wife."
A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry terms showing
him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised
her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing her father
coming, he said (intending to make as quick a wooing as possible),
"Sweet Katharine, let us set this idle chat aside, for your father has
consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and
whether you will or no, I will marry you."
And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had received
him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next Sunday.
This Katharine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged on Sunday,
and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap
ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to regard her
angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant before him,
but that when they were alone he had found her very fond and loving; and
he said to her, "Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you
fine apparel against our wedding day. Provide the feast, father, and
bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and
rich clothes, that my Katharine may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we
will be married on Sunday."
On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they waited
long before Petruchio came, and Katharine wept for vexation to think
that Petruchio had only been making a jest of her. At last, however, he
appeared; but he brought none of the bridal finery he had promised
Katharine, nor was he dressed himself like a bridegroom, but in strange
disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the serious
business he came about; and his servant and the very horses on which
they rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion habited.
Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said Katharine
was to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and finding it was in
vain to argue with him, to the church they went, he still behaving in
the same mad way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if Katharine
should be his wife, he swore so loud that she should, that, all amazed,
the priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, this
mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a cuff, that down fell the priest
and his book again. And all the while they were being married he stamped
and swore so, that the high-spirited Katharine trembled and shook with
fear. After the ceremony was over, while they were yet in the church, he
called for wine, and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a sop
which was at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton's face, giving
no other reason for this strange act, than that the sexton's beard grew
thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never
sure was there such a mad marriage; but Petruchio did but put this
wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his
shrewish wife.
Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast, but when they returned
from church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katharine, declared his
intention of carrying his wife home instantly: and no remonstrance of
his father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katharine, could make
him change his purpose. He claimed a husband's right to dispose of his
wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Katharine off: he seeming so
daring and resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him.
Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank, which
he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant no better
mounted; they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and ever when
this horse of Katharine's stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor
jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his burthen, as if he had been
the most passionate man alive.
At length, after a weary journey, during which Katharine had heard
nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and the horses,
they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly to her home,
but he resolved she should have neither rest nor food that night. The
tables were spread, and supper soon served; but Petruchio, pretending to
find fault with every dish, threw the meat about the floor, and ordered
the servants to remove it away; and all this he did, as he said, in love
for his Katharine, that she might not eat meat that was not well
dressed. And when Katharine, weary and supperless, retired to rest, he
found the same fault with the bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes
about the room, so that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if
she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by the loud voice
of her husband, storming at the servants for the ill-making of his
wife's bridal-bed.
The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking kind
words to Katharine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with
everything that was set before her, throwing the breakfast on the floor
as he had done the supper; and Katharine, the haughty Katharine, was
fain to beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of food; but
they being instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared not give her
anything unknown to their master. "Ah," said she, "did he marry me to
famish me? Beggars that come to my father's door have food given them.
But I, who never knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starved
for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and
with brawling fed; and that which vexes me more than all, he does it
under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, it
were present death to me." Here the soliloquy was interrupted by the
entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she should be quite starved, had
brought her a small portion of meat, and he said to her, "How fares my
sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I am, I have dressed your
meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word?
Nay, then you love not the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to no
purpose." He then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme
hunger, which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her say, though
angered to the heart, "I pray you let it stand." But this was not all
Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied, "The poorest service
is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you touch the meat." On
this Katharine brought out a reluctant "I thank you, sir." And now he
suffered her to make a slender meal, saying, "Much good may it do your
gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! And now, my honey love, we will return to
your father's house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken
coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and
double change of finery;" and to make her believe he really intended to
give her these gay things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, who
brought some new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her
plate to the servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her
hunger, he said, "What, have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a
cap, saying, "Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on which Petruchio
began to storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded in a porringer, and
that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, desiring the
haberdasher to take it away and make it bigger. Katharine said, "I will
have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these."--"When you are
gentle," replied Petruchio, "you shall have one too, and not till then."
The meat Katharine had eaten had a little revived her fallen spirits,
and she said, "Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I
will: I am no child, no babe; your betters have endured to hear me say
my mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop your ears." Petruchio
would not hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better
way of managing his wife than keeping up a jangling argument with her;
therefore his answer was, "Why, you say true; it is a paltry cap, and I
love you for not liking it."--"Love me, or love me not," said Katharine,
"I like the cap, and I will have this cap or none."--"You say you wish
to see the gown," said Petruchio, still affecting to misunderstand her.
The tailor then came forward and showed her a fine gown he had made for
her. Petruchio, whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor
gown, found as much fault with that. "O mercy, Heaven!" said he, "what
stuff is here! What, do you call this a sleeve? it is like a
demi-cannon, carved up and down like an apple tart." The tailor said,
"You bid me make it according to the fashion of the times;" and
Katharine said, she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough
for Petruchio, and privately desiring these people might be paid for
their goods, and excuses made to them for the seemingly strange
treatment he bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and furious
gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the room; and then,
turning to Katharine, he said, "Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your
father's even in these mean garments we now wear." And then he ordered
his horses, affirming they should reach Baptista's house by dinner-time,
for that it was but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the
very middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore Katharine ventured
to say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his
manner, "I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be
supper-time before we get there." But Petruchio meant that she should be
so completely subdued, that she should assent to everything he said,
before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he were lord
even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it should be what
time he pleased to have it, before he set forward; "For," he said,
"whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go to-day,
and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is." Another day
Katharine was forced to practise her newly-found obedience, and not till
he had brought her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection, that she
dared not remember there was such a word as contradiction, would
Petruchio allow her to go to her father's house; and even while they
were upon their journey thither, she was in danger of being turned back
again, only because she happened to hint it was the sun, when he
affirmed the moon shone brightly at noonday. "Now, by my mother's son,"
said he, "and that is myself, it shall be the moon, or stars, or what I
list, before I journey to your father's house." He then made as if he
were going back again; but Katharine, no longer Katharine the Shrew, but
the obedient wife, said, "Let us go forward, I pray, now we have come so
far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, and if you
please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so for
me." This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said again, "I say, it
is the moon."--"I know it is the moon," replied Katharine. "You lie, it
is the blessed sun," said Petruchio. "Then it is the blessed sun,"
replied Katharine; "but sun it is not, when you say it is not. What you
will have it named, even so it is, and so it ever shall be for
Katharine." Now then he suffered her to proceed on her journey; but
further to try if this yielding humour would last, he addressed an old
gentleman they met on the road as if he had been a young woman, saying
to him, "Good morrow, gentle mistress;" and asked Katharine if she had
ever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the old
man's cheeks, and comparing his eyes to two bright stars; and again he
addressed him, saying, "Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you!"
and said to his wife, "Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake."
The now completely vanquished Katharine quickly adopted her husband's
opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying
to him, "Young budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet:
whither are you going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are the parents
of so fair a child."--"Why, how now, Kate," said Petruchio; "I hope you
are not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and
not a maiden, as you say he is." On this Katharine said, "Pardon me, old
gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that everything I look on
seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope you will
pardon me for my sad mistake."--"Do, good old grandsire," said Petruchio,
"and tell us which way you are travelling. We shall be glad of your good
company, if you are going our way." The old gentleman replied, "Fair
sir, and you, my merry mistress, your strange encounter has much amazed
me. My name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of mine who
lives at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman to be the father
of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married to Baptista's
younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very happy, by telling
him the rich marriage his son was about to make: and they all journeyed
on pleasantly together till they came to Baptista's house, where there
was a large company assembled to celebrate the wedding of Bianca and
Lucentio, Baptista having willingly consented to the marriage of Bianca
when he had got Katharine off his hands.
When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and
there was present also another newly married pair.
Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new married man,
could not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish
disposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed
highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen,
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petruchio took
little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner,
and then he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh against him:
for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient than
theirs, the father of Katharine said, "Now, in good sadness, son
Petruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all." "Well," said
Petruchio, "I say no, and therefore for assurance that I speak the
truth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife is most
obedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a wager which
we will propose." To this the other two husbands willingly consented,
for they were quite confident that their gentle wives would prove more
obedient than the headstrong Katharine; and they proposed a wager of
twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much as that
upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his wife. Lucentio
and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio first
sent his servant to desire Bianca would come to him. But the servant
returned, and said, "Sir, my mistress sends you word she is busy and
cannot come."--"How," said Petruchio, "does she say she is busy and
cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?" Then they laughed at him,
and said, it would be well if Katharine did not send him a worse answer.
And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife; and he said to his
servant, "Go, and entreat my wife to come to me." "Oh ho! entreat her!"
said Petruchio. "Nay, then, she needs must come."--"I am afraid, sir,"
said Hortensio, "your wife will not be entreated." But presently this
civil husband looked a little blank, when the servant returned without
his mistress; and he said to him, "How now! Where is my wife?"--"Sir,"
said the servant, "my mistress says, you have some goodly jest in hand,
and therefore she will not come. She bids you come to her."--"Worse and
worse!" said Petruchio; and then he sent his servant, saying, "Sirrah,
go to your mistress, and tell her I command her to come to me." The
company had scarcely time to think she would not obey this summons, when
Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, "Now, by my _holidame_, here comes
Katharine!" and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, "What is your
will, sir, that you send for me?"--"Where is your sister and Hortensio's
wife?" said he. Katharine replied, "They sit conferring by the parlour
fire."--"Go, fetch them hither!" said Petruchio. Away went Katharine
without reply to perform her husband's command. "Here is a wonder," said
Lucentio, "if you talk of a wonder."--"And so it is," said Hortensio; "I
marvel what it bodes."--"Marry, peace it bodes," said Petruchio, "and
love, and quiet life, and right supremacy; and, to be short, everything
that is sweet and happy." Katharine's father, overjoyed to see this
reformation in his daughter, said, "Now, fair befall thee, son
Petruchio! you have won the wager, and I will add another twenty
thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for she
is changed as if she had never been."--"Nay," said Petruchio, "I will
win the wager better yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue
and obedience." Katharine now entering with the two ladies, he
continued, "See where she comes, and brings your froward wives as
prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katharine, that cap of yours does
not become you; off with that bauble, and throw it under foot."
Katharine instantly took off her cap, and threw it down. "Lord!" said
Hortensio's wife, "may I never have a cause to sigh till I am brought to
such a silly pass!" And Bianca, she too said, "Fie, what foolish duty
call you this?" On this Bianca's husband said to her, "I wish your duty
were as foolish too! The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a
hundred crowns since dinner-time."--"The more fool you," said Bianca,
"for laying on my duty."--"Katharine," said Petruchio, "I charge you
tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their lords and
husbands." And to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish lady
spoke as eloquently in praise of the wife-like duty of obedience, as she
had practised it implicitly in a ready submission to Petruchio's will.
And Katharine once more became famous in Padua, not as heretofore, as
Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most obedient and duteous wife
in Padua.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS
The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at variance, there was a cruel
law made at Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant of Syracuse was seen
in the city of Ephesus, he was to be put to death, unless he could pay a
thousand marks for the ransom of his life.
Ægeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets of
Ephesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, or
to receive sentence of death.
Ægeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he pronounced
the sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate the history of his
life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to come to the city of
Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan merchant to enter.
Ægeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made him weary
of his life, but that a heavier task could not have been imposed upon
him than to relate the events of his unfortunate life. He then began his
own history, in the following words:
"I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of a merchant.
I married a lady, with whom I lived very happily, but being obliged to
go to Epidamnum, I was detained there by my business six months, and
then, finding I should be obliged to stay some time longer, I sent for
my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, was brought to bed of two sons,
and what was very strange, they were both so exactly alike, that it was
impossible to distinguish the one from the other. At the same time that
my wife was brought to bed of these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn
where my wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, and these twins
were as much like each other as my two sons were. The parents of these
children being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys, and brought them
up to attend upon my sons.
"My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little proud of
two such boys: and she daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly
agreed, and in an evil hour we got on ship-board; for we had not sailed
above a league from Epidamnum before a dreadful storm arose, which
continued with such violence, that the sailors seeing no chance of
saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives, leaving
us alone in the ship, which we every moment expected would be destroyed
by the fury of the storm.
"The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints of the
pretty babes, who, not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, because
they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though I did
not for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were bent to contrive
means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the end of a small
spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against storms; at the other
end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same time I
directed my wife how to fasten the other children in like manner to
another mast. She thus having the care of the two eldest children, and I
of the two younger, we bound ourselves separately to these masts with
the children; and but for this contrivance we had all been lost, for the
ship split on a mighty rock, and was dashed in pieces; and we, clinging
to these slender masts, were supported above the water, where I, having
the care of two children, was unable to assist my wife, who with the
other children was soon separated from me; but while they were yet in my
sight, they were taken up by a boat of fishermen, from Corinth, (as I
supposed), and seeing them in safety, I had no care but to struggle with
the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and the youngest slave. At
length we, in our turn, were taken up by a ship, and the sailors,
knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in safety
at Syracuse; but from that sad hour I have never known what became of my
wife and eldest child.
"My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen years of
age, began to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, and often
importuned me that he might take his attendant, the young slave, who had
also lost his brother, and go in search of them: at length I unwillingly
gave consent, for though I anxiously desired to hear tidings of my wife
and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to find them, I hazarded
the loss of him also. It is now seven years since my son left me; five
years have I passed in travelling through the world in search of him: I
have been in farthest Greece, and through the bounds of Asia, and
coasting homewards, I landed here in Ephesus, being unwilling to leave
any place unsought that harbours men; but this day must end the story of
my life, and happy should I think myself in my death, if I were assured
my wife and sons were living."
Here the hapless Ægeon ended the account of his misfortunes; and the
duke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought upon himself this
great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it were not against
the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit him to alter, he
would freely pardon him; yet, instead of dooming him to instant death,
as the strict letter of the law required, he would give him that day to
try if he could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine.
This day of grace did seem no great favour to Ægeon, for not knowing
any man in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance that any
stranger would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay the fine; and
helpless and hopeless of any relief, he retired from the presence of the
duke in the custody of a jailor.
Ægeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very time he was
in danger of losing his life through the careful search he was making
after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were both in
the city of Ephesus.
Ægeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, were both
named alike, being both called Antipholus, and the two twin slaves were
also both named Dromio. Ægeon's youngest son, Antipholus of Syracuse, he
whom the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, happened to arrive at
Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very same day that Ægeon did; and he
being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have been in the same danger
that his father was, but by good fortune he met a friend who told him
the peril an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass
for a merchant of Epidamnum; this Antipholus agreed to do, and he was
sorry to hear one of his own countrymen was in this danger, but he
little thought this old merchant was his own father.
The eldest son of Ægeon (who must be called Antipholus of Ephesus, to
distinguish him from his brother Antipholus of Syracuse) had lived at
Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, was well able to have paid
the money for the ransom of his father's life; but Antipholus knew
nothing of his father, being so young when he was taken out of the sea
with his mother by the fishermen that he only remembered he had been so
preserved, but he had no recollection of either his father or his
mother; the fishermen who took up this Antipholus and his mother and the
young slave Dromio, having carried the two children away from her (to
the great grief of that unhappy lady), intending to sell them.
Antipholus and Dromio were sold by them to Duke Menaphon, a famous
warrior, who was uncle to the Duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys
to Ephesus when he went to visit the duke his nephew.
The Duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholus, when he grew
up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distinguished himself
by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his patron
the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, a rich lady
of Ephesus; with whom he was living (his slave Dromio still attending
him) at the time his father came there.
Antipholus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who advised him
to say he came from Epidamnum, gave his slave Dromio some money to carry
to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the meantime he said he
would walk about and view the city, and observe the manners of the
people.
Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholus was dull and
melancholy he used to divert himself with the odd humours and merry
jests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed in Dromio
were greater than is usual between masters and their servants.
When Antipholus of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood awhile
thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother and his
brother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear the least
tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, "I am like a drop of water
in the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow drop, loses itself in the
wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do lose
myself."
While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had hitherto
been so useless, Dromio (as he thought) returned. Antipholus, wondering
that he came back so soon, asked him where he had left the money. Now it
was not his own Dromio, but the twin-brother that lived with Antipholus
of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two Dromios and the two Antipholuses
were still as much alike as Ægeon had said they were in their infancy;
therefore no wonder Antipholus thought it was his own slave returned,
and asked him why he came back so soon. Dromio replied, "My mistress
sent me to bid you come to dinner. The capon burns, and the pig falls
from the spit, and the meat will be all cold if you do not come home."
"These jests are out of season," said Antipholus: "where did you leave
the money?" Dromio still answering, that his mistress had sent him to
fetch Antipholus to dinner: "What mistress?" said Antipholus. "Why, your
worship's wife, sir," replied Dromio. Antipholus having no wife, he was
very angry with Dromio, and said, "Because I familiarly sometimes chat
with you, you presume to jest with me in this free manner. I am not in a
sportive humour now: where is the money? we being strangers here, how
dare you trust so great a charge from your own custody?" Dromio hearing
his master, as he thought him, talk of their being strangers, supposing
Antipholus was jesting, replied merrily, "I pray you, sir, jest as you
sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch you home, to dine with my
mistress and her sister." Now Antipholus lost all patience, and beat
Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress that his master had refused
to come to dinner, and said that he had no wife.
Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, was very angry when she
heard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of a jealous
temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved another lady better
than herself; and she began to fret, and say unkind words of jealousy
and reproach of her husband; and her sister Luciana, who lived with her,
tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless suspicions.
Antipholus of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with the money
in safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again to chide
him for his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not doubting
but it was her husband she saw, she began to reproach him for looking
strange upon her (as well he might, never having seen this angry lady
before); and then she told him how well he loved her before they were
married, and that now he loved some other lady instead of her. "How
comes it now, my husband," said she, "O how comes it that I have lost
your love?"--"Plead you to me, fair dame?" said the astonished
Antipholus. It was in vain he told her he was not her husband, and that
he had been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going home
with her, and Antipholus at last, being unable to get away, went with
her to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana and her sister, the
one calling him husband, and the other brother, he, all amazed, thinking
he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that he was sleeping
now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less surprised, for the
cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also claimed him for her husband.
While Antipholus of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, his
brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his slave
Dromio; but the servants would not open the door, because their mistress
had ordered them not to admit any company; and when they repeatedly
knocked, and said they were Antipholus and Dromio, the maids laughed at
them, and said that Antipholus was at dinner with their mistress, and
Dromio was in the kitchen; and though they almost knocked the door down,
they could not gain admittance, and at last Antipholus went away very
angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining with
his wife.
When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so perplexed
at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and at hearing
that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that he left the
house, as soon as he could find any pretence to get away; for though he
was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous-tempered
Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all better satisfied
with his fair wife in the kitchen: therefore both master and man were
glad to get away from their new wives as fast as they could.
The moment Antipholus of Syracuse had left the house, he was met by a
goldsmith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholus of
Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name; and when
Antipholus would have refused the chain, saying it did not belong to
him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own orders; and went away,
leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholus, who ordered his man Dromio
to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a place any
longer, where he met with such strange adventures that he surely thought
himself bewitched.
The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antipholus, was
arrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed; and Antipholus,
the married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he had given the
chain, happened to come to the place where the officer was arresting the
goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholus, asked him to pay for the gold
chain he had just delivered to him, the price amounting to nearly the
same sum as that for which he had been arrested. Antipholus denying the
having received the chain, and the goldsmith persisting to declare that
he had but a few minutes before given it to him, they disputed this
matter a long time, both thinking they were right: for Antipholus knew
the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and so like were the two
brothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had delivered the chain into
his hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith away to prison
for the debt he owed, and at the same time the goldsmith made the
officer arrest Antipholus for the price of the chain; so that at the
conclusion of their dispute, Antipholus and the merchant were both
taken away to prison together.
As Antipholus was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, his
brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go to
Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which he was
arrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send him back to the
strange house where he dined, and from which he had just before been in
such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to tell his
master the ship was ready to sail: for he saw Antipholus was in no
humour to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling within
himself, that he must return to Adriana's house, "Where," said he,
"Dowsabel claims me for a husband: but I must go, for servants must obey
their masters' commands."
Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he met
Antipholus of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprising
adventures he met with; for his brother being well known in Ephesus,
there was hardly a man he met in the streets but saluted him as an old
acquaintance: some offered him money which they said was owing to him,
some invited him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks for
kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for his
brother. A tailor showed him some silks he had bought for him, and
insisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes.
Antipholus began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers and
witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his
bewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer who
was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold which
Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's of the
arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana,
perfectly confounded Antipholus, and he said, "This fellow Dromio is
certainly distracted, and we wander here in illusions;" and quite
terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed
power deliver us from this strange place!"
And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and she too
called him Antipholus, and told him he had dined with her that day, and
asked him for a gold chain which she said he had promised to give her.
Antipholus now lost all patience, and calling her a sorceress, he denied
that he had ever promised her a chain, or dined with her, or had even
seen her face before that moment. The lady persisted in affirming he had
dined with her, and had promised her a chain, which Antipholus still
denying, she further said, that she had given him a valuable ring, and
if he would not give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her
own ring again. On this Antipholus became quite frantic, and again
calling her sorceress and witch, and denying all knowledge of her or her
ring, ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his words and his
wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more certain than that he had
dined with her, and that she had given him a ring, in consequence of his
promising to make her a present of a gold chain. But this lady had
fallen into the same mistake the others had done, for she had taken him
for his brother: the married Antipholus had done all the things she
taxed this Antipholus with.
When the married Antipholus was denied entrance into his own house
(those within supposing him to be already there), he had gone away very
angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks, to which she
was very subject, and remembering that she had often falsely accused him
of visiting other ladies, he, to be revenged on her for shutting him out
of his own house, determined to go and dine with this lady, and she
receiving him with great civility, and his wife having so highly
offended him, Antipholus promised to give her a gold chain, which he had
intended as a present for his wife; it was the same chain which the
goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. The lady liked so well
the thoughts of having a fine gold chain, that she gave the married
Antipholus a ring; which when, as she supposed (taking his brother for
him), he denied, and said he did not know her, and left her in such a
wild passion, she began to think he was certainly out of his senses; and
presently she resolved to go and tell Adriana that her husband was mad.
And while she was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended by the jailor
(who allowed him to come home to get the money to pay the debt), for the
purse of money, which Adriana had sent by Dromio, and he had delivered
to the other Antipholus.
Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madness
must be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out of his own
house; and remembering how he had protested all dinner-time that he was
not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus till that day, she had no
doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the jailor the money, and
having discharged him, she ordered her servants to bind her husband with
ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to
come and cure him of his madness: Antipholus all the while hotly
exclaiming against this false accusation, which the exact likeness he
bore to his brother had brought upon him. But his rage only the more
confirmed them in the belief that he was mad; and Dromio persisting in
the same story, they bound him also, and took him away along with his
master.
Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant came
to tell her that Antipholus and Dromio must have broken loose from their
keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty in the next street.
On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home, taking some people
with her to secure her husband again; and her sister went along with
her. When they came to the gates of a convent in their neighbourhood,
there they saw Antipholus and Dromio, as they thought, being again
deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers.
Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this
likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had given
him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for
denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Antipholus was
protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain in the morning,
and that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith again.
And now Adriana came up to him and claimed him as her lunatic husband,
who had escaped from his keepers; and the men she brought with her were
going to lay violent hands on Antipholus and Dromio; but they ran into
the convent, and Antipholus begged the abbess to give him shelter in her
house.
And now came out the lady abbess herself to inquire into the cause of
this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge
of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the man who had
sought protection in her house; so she strictly questioned the wife
about the story she told of her husband's madness, and she said, "What
is the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he lost his
wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some dear friend that has disturbed
his mind?" Adriana replied, that no such things as these had been the
cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has fixed his affections on some
other lady than you his wife; and that has driven him to this state."
Adriana said she had long thought the love of some other lady was the
cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it was not his love for
another, but the teasing jealousy of his wife's temper, that often
obliged Antipholus to leave his home; and (the abbess suspecting this
from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn the truth, she said,
"You should have reprehended him for this."--"Why, so I did," replied
Adriana. "Ay," said the abbess, "but perhaps not enough." Adriana,
willing to convince the abbess that she had said enough to Antipholus
on this subject, replied, "It was the constant subject of our
conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At
table I would not let him eat for speaking of it. When I was alone with
him, I talked of nothing else; and in company I gave him frequent hints
of it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad it was in him to love any
lady better than me."
The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jealous
Adriana, now said, "And therefore comes it that your husband is mad. The
venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than a mad
dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by your railing; no wonder
that his head is light: and his meat was sauced with your upbraidings;
unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown him into this
fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your brawls; being debarred
from the enjoyment of society and recreation, what could ensue but dull
melancholy and comfortless despair? The consequence is then, that your
jealous fits have made your husband mad."
Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always reprehended
her husband mildly; and she said to her sister, "Why do you hear these
rebukes without answering them?" But the abbess had made her so plainly
perceive her fault, that she could only answer, "She has betrayed me to
my own reproof."
Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on having her
husband delivered up to her; but the abbess would suffer no person to
enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to the care
of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle means for his
recovery, and she retired into her house again, and ordered her gates to
be shut against them.
During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors had
happened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, old
Ægeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sunset; and at
sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the money.
The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he arrived
just as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending in
person, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present to
pardon him.
Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the duke
for justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver up her
lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her real husband
and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came before the duke to
demand justice, complaining that his wife had confined him on a false
charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner he had broken his bands,
and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised
to see her husband, when she thought he had been within the convent.
Ægeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him to go
in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure that this
dear son would readily pay the money demanded for his ransom. He
therefore spoke to Antipholus in words of fatherly affection, with
joyful hope that he should now be released. But to the utter
astonishment of Ægeon, his son denied all knowledge of him, as well he
might, for this Antipholus had never seen his father since they were
separated in the storm in his infancy; but while the poor old Ægeon was
in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowledge him, thinking surely
that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had so
strangely altered him that his son did not know him, or else that he was
ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery; in the midst of this
perplexity, the lady abbess and the other Antipholus and Dromio came
out, and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios standing
before her.
And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, were
clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholuses and the two
Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of these
seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story Ægeon had told him in the
morning; and he said, these men must be the two sons of Ægeon and their
twin slaves.
But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of Ægeon; and
the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence of
death, before the setting sun went down was brought to a happy
conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself known to be the
long-lost wife of Ægeon, and the fond mother of the two Antipholuses.
When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholus and Dromio away from her,
she entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct, she was at
length made lady abbess of this convent, and in discharging the rites of
hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had unknowingly protected her own
son.
Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these long
separated parents and their children made them for a while forget that
Ægeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they were become a
little calm, Antipholus of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom money for
his father's life; but the duke freely pardoned Ægeon, and would not
take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and her newly-found
husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy family
discourse at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes.
And the two Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten; they had their
congratulations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly
complimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to see
his own person (as in a glass) show so handsome in his brother.
Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law,
that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of her
husband.
Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his
brother's wife; and the good old Ægeon, with his wife and sons, lived at
Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these perplexities so
entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, but that
sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blunders would
happen, and the one Antipholus, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for the
other, making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild and
gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with
impunity; and there was in particular one law, the existence of which
was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during his
whole reign. This was a law dooming any man to the punishment of death,
who should live with a woman that was not his wife; and this law,
through the lenity of the duke, being utterly disregarded, the holy
institution of marriage became neglected, and complaints were every day
made to the duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that
their daughters had been seduced from their protection, and were living
as the companions of single men.
The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among his
subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from the
indulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict severity requisite to
check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved him)
consider him as a tyrant; therefore he determined to absent himself a
while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of his
power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put in
effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own person.
Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for his
strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to
undertake this important charge; and when the duke imparted his design
to Lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said, "If any man in
Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, it is Lord
Angelo." And now the duke departed from Vienna under pretence of making
a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the lord deputy in his
absence; but the duke's absence was only a feigned one, for he privately
returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent to watch
unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo.
It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with his new
dignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a young
lady from her parents; and for this offence, by command of the new lord
deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, and by virtue of
the old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio
to be beheaded. Great interest was made for the pardon of young Claudio,
and the good old Lord Escalus himself interceded for him. "Alas," said
he, "this gentleman whom I would save had an honourable father, for
whose sake I pray you pardon the young man's transgression." But Angelo
replied, "We must not make a scare-crow of the law, setting it up to
frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it harmless, makes it their
perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must die."
Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and Claudio
said to him, "I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my
sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent of Saint
Clare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore her that she
make friends with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. I
have great hopes in that; for she can discourse with prosperous art, and
well she can persuade; besides, there is a speechless dialect in
youthful sorrow, such as moves men."
Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered upon
her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent, after passing
through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was
inquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they heard
the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house, said,
"Peace be in this place!"--"Who is it that speaks?" said Isabel. "It is
a man's voice," replied the nun: "Gentle Isabel, go to him, and learn
his business; you may, I may not. When you have taken the veil, you must
not speak with men but in the presence of the prioress; then if you
speak you must not show your face, or if you show your face, you must
not speak."--"And have you nuns no further privileges?" said Isabel.
"Are not these large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly," said
Isabel: "I speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more strict
restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare." Again they
heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, "He calls again. I pray you
answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in answer to his
salutation, said, "Peace and Prosperity! Who is it that calls?" Then
Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, "Hail, virgin, if such you
be, as the roses on your cheeks proclaim you are no less! can you bring
me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sister
to her unhappy brother Claudio?"--"Why her unhappy brother?" said
Isabel, "let me ask! for I am that Isabel, and his sister."--"Fair and
gentle lady," he replied, "your brother kindly greets you by me; he is
in prison."--"Woe is me! for what?" said Isabel. Lucio then told her,
Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. "Ah," said she, "I
fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet and Isabel were not related, but
they called each other cousin in remembrance of their school days'
friendship; and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she
had been led by her affection for him into this transgression. "She it
is," replied Lucio. "Why then, let my brother marry Juliet," said
Isabel. Lucio replied that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that
the lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his offence; "Unless," said
he, "you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that
is my business between you and your poor brother."--"Alas!" said Isabel,
"what poor ability is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no
power to move Angelo."--"Our doubts are traitors," said Lucio, "and make
us lose the good we might often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to
Lord Angelo! When maidens sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like
gods."--"I will see what I can do," said Isabel: "I will but stay to
give the prioress notice of the affair, and then I will go to Angelo.
Commend me to my brother: soon at night I will send him word of my
success."
Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees before
Angelo, saying, "I am a woful suitor to your honour, if it will please
your honour to hear me."--"Well, what is your suit?" said Angelo. She
then made her petition in the most moving terms for her brother's life.
But Angelo said, "Maiden, there is no remedy; your brother is sentenced,
and he must die."--"O just, but severe law," said Isabel: "I had a
brother then--Heaven keep your honour!" and she was about to depart. But
Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, "Give it not over so; return to
him again, entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon his gown. You
are too cold; if you should need a pin, you could not with a more tame
tongue desire it." Then again Isabel on her knees implored for mercy.
"He is sentenced," said Angelo: "it is too late."--"Too late!" said
Isabel: "Why, no: I that do speak a word may call it back again. Believe
this, my lord, no ceremony that to great ones belongs, not the king's
crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's
robe, becomes them with one half so good a grace as mercy does."--"Pray
you begone," said Angelo. But still Isabel entreated; and she said, "If
my brother had been as you, and you as he, you might have slipped like
him, but he, like you, would not have been so stern. I would to heaven I
had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then be thus? No, I would
tell you what it were to be a judge, and what a prisoner."--"Be content,
fair maid!" said Angelo: "it is the law, not I, condemns your brother.
Were he my kinsman, my brother, or my son, it should be thus with him.
He must die to-morrow."--"To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh, that is sudden:
spare him, spare him; he is not prepared for death. Even for our
kitchens we kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven with less
respect than we minister to our gross selves? Good, good, my lord,
bethink you, none have died for my brother's offence, though many have
committed it. So you would be the first that gives this sentence, and he
the first that suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock there,
and ask your heart what it does know that is like my brother's fault; if
it confess a natural guiltiness such as his is, let it not sound a
thought against my brother's life!" Her last words more moved Angelo
than all she had before said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a
guilty passion in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of
dishonourable love, such as Claudio's crime had been; and the conflict
in his mind made him to turn away from Isabel; but she called him back,
saying, "Gentle my lord, turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my
lord, turn back!"--"How, bribe me!" said Angelo, astonished that she
should think of offering him a bribe. "Ay," said Isabel, "with such
gifts that Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden
treasures, or those glittering stones, whose price is either rich or
poor as fancy values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to
Heaven before sunrise,--prayers from preserved souls, from fasting
maids whose minds are dedicated to nothing temporal."--"Well, come to me
to-morrow," said Angelo. And for this short respite of her brother's
life, and for this permission that she might be heard again, she left
him with the joyful hope that she should at last prevail over his stern
nature: and as she went away she said, "Heaven keep your honour safe!
Heaven save your honour!" Which when Angelo heard, he said within his
heart, "Amen, I would be saved from thee and from thy virtues:" and
then, affrighted at his own evil thoughts, he said, "What is this? What
is this? Do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast
upon her eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to
catch a saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never could an immodest
woman once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman subdues me quite.
Even till now, when men were fond, I smiled and wondered at them."
In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night than
the prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison Claudio was
visited by the good duke, who, in his friar's habit, taught the young
man the way to heaven, preaching to him the words of penitence and
peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of irresolute guilt: now wishing to
seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, and now suffering
remorse and horror for a crime as yet but intentional. But in the end
his evil thoughts prevailed; and he who had so lately started at the
offer of a bribe, resolved to tempt this maiden with so high a bribe, as
she might not be able to resist, even with the precious gift of her dear
brother's life.
When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admitted
alone to his presence: and being there, he said to her, if she would
yield to him her virgin honour and transgress even as Juliet had done
with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life; "For," said he, "I
love you, Isabel."--"My brother," said Isabel, "did so love Juliet, and
yet you tell me he shall die for it."--"But," said Angelo, "Claudio
shall not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth at night, even
as Juliet left her father's house at night to come to Claudio." Isabel,
in amazement at his words, that he should tempt her to the same fault
for which he passed sentence upon her brother, said, "I would do as much
for my poor brother as for myself; that is, were I under sentence of
death, the impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my
death as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere I would yield
myself up to this shame." And then she told him, she hoped he only spoke
these words to try her virtue. But he said, "Believe me, on my honour,
my words express my purpose." Isabel, angered to the heart to hear him
use the word Honour to express such dishonourable purposes, said, "Ha!
little honour to be much believed; and most pernicious purpose. I will
proclaim thee, Angelo, look for it! Sign me a present pardon for my
brother, or I will tell the world aloud what man thou art!"--"Who will
believe you, Isabel?" said Angelo; "my unsoiled name, the austereness of
my life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh your accusation.
Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die to-morrow.
As for you, say what you can, my false will overweigh your true story.
Answer me to-morrow."
"To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?" said
Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison where her brother was
confined. When she arrived there, her brother was in pious conversation
with the duke, who in his friar's habit had also visited Juliet, and
brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault; and
unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse confessed that she was more
to blame than Claudio, in that she willingly consented to his
dishonourable solicitations.
As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said, "Peace
be here, grace, and good company!"--"Who is there?" said the disguised
duke; "come in; the wish deserves a welcome."--"My business is a word or
two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then the duke left them together, and
desired the provost, who had the charge of the prisoners, to place him
where he might overhear their conversation.
"Now, sister, what is the comfort?" said Claudio. Isabel told him he
must prepare for death on the morrow. "Is there no remedy?" said
Claudio.--"Yes, brother," replied Isabel, "there is; but such a one, as
if you consented to it would strip your honour from you, and leave you
naked."--"Let me know the point," said Claudio. "O, I do fear you,
Claudio!" replied his sister; "and I quake, lest you should wish to
live, and more respect the trifling term of six or seven winters added
to your life, than your perpetual honour! Do you dare to die? The sense
of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread
upon, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies." "Why do you give me
this shame?" said Claudio. "Think you I can fetch a resolution from
flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride,
and hug it in my arms."--"There spoke my brother," said Isabel; "there
my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must die; yet would
you think it, Claudio! this outward sainted deputy, if I would yield to
him my virgin honour, would grant your life. O, were it but my life, I
would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly as a pin!"--"Thanks,
dear Isabel," said Claudio. "Be ready to die to-morrow," said Isabel.
"Death is a fearful thing," said Claudio. "And shamed life a hateful,"
replied his sister. But the thoughts of death now overcame the constancy
of Claudio's temper, and terrors, such as the guilty only at their
deaths do know, assailing him, he cried out, "Sweet sister, let me live!
The sin you do to save a brother's life, nature dispenses with the deed
so far, that it becomes a virtue."--"O faithless coward! O dishonest
wretch!" said Isabel; "would you preserve your life by your sister's
shame? O fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, you had in you such a
mind of honour, that had you twenty heads to render up on twenty blocks,
you would have yielded them up all, before your sister should stoop to
such dishonour." "Nay, hear me, Isabel!" said Claudio. But what he would
have said in defence of his weakness, in desiring to live by the
dishonour of his virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance of the
duke; who said, "Claudio, I have overheard what has passed between you
and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; what he
said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. She having the truth of
honour in her, has given him that gracious denial which he is most glad
to receive. There is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass
your hours in prayer, and make ready for death." Then Claudio repented
of his weakness, and said, "Let me ask my sister's pardon! I am so out
of love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio
retired, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.
The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended her virtuous resolution,
saying, "The hand that made you fair, has made you good."--"O," said
Isabel, "how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! if ever he
return, and I can speak to him, I will discover his government." Isabel
knew not that she was even now making the discovery she threatened. The
duke replied, "That shall not be much amiss; yet as the matter now
stands, Angelo will repel your accusation; therefore lend an attentive
ear to my advisings. I believe that you may most righteously do a poor
wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law,
do no stain to your own most gracious person, and much please the absent
duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have notice of this
business." Isabel said, she had a spirit to do anything he desired,
provided it was nothing wrong. "Virtue is bold, and never fearful," said
the duke: and then he asked her, if she had ever heard of Mariana, the
sister of Frederick, the great soldier who was drowned at sea. "I have
heard of the lady," said Isabel, "and good words went with her
name."--"This lady," said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo; but her
marriage dowry was on board the vessel in which her brother perished,
and mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman! for, beside
the loss of a most noble and renowned brother, who in his love towards
her was ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune she lost
the affections of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who pretending
to discover some dishonour in this honourable lady (though the true
cause was the loss of her dowry) left her in her tears, and dried not
one of them with his comfort. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason
should have quenched her love, has, like an impediment in the current,
made it more unruly, and Mariana loves her cruel husband with the full
continuance of her first affection." The duke then more plainly unfolded
his plan. It was, that Isabel should go to Lord Angelo, and seemingly
consent to come to him as he desired at midnight; that by this means she
would obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana should go in her
stead to the appointment, and pass herself upon Angelo in the dark for
Isabel. "Nor, gentle daughter," said the feigned friar, "fear you to do
this thing; Angelo is her husband, and to bring them thus together is no
sin." Isabel being pleased with this project, departed to do as he
directed her; and he went to apprise Mariana of their intention. He had
before this time visited this unhappy lady in his assumed character,
giving her religious instruction and friendly consolation, at which
times he had learned her sad story from her own lips; and now she,
looking upon him as a holy man, readily consented to be directed by him
in this undertaking.
When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo, to the house of
Mariana, where the duke had appointed her to meet him, he said, "Well
met, and in good time; what is the news from this good deputy?" Isabel
related the manner in which she had settled the affair. "Angelo," said
she, "has a garden surrounded with a brick wall, on the western side of
which is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate." And then she
showed to the duke and Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her; and
she said, "This bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a little
door which leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have made my
promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have got from him
his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have taken a due and wary
note of the place; and with whispering and most guilty diligence he
showed me the way twice over."--"Are there no other tokens agreed upon
between you, that Mariana must observe?" said the duke. "No, none," said
Isabel, "only to go when it is dark. I have told him my time can be but
short; for I have made him think a servant comes along with me, and that
this servant is persuaded I come about my brother." The duke commended
her discreet management, and she, turning to Mariana, said, "Little have
you to say to Angelo, when you depart from him, but soft and low,
_Remember now my brother_!"
Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed place by Isabel, who
rejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device preserved both
her brother's life and her own honour. But that her brother's life was
safe the duke was not well satisfied, and therefore at midnight he again
repaired to the prison, and it was well for Claudio that he did so, else
would Claudio have that night been beheaded; for soon after the duke
entered the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy, commanding that
Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to him by five o'clock in
the morning. But the duke persuaded the provost to put off the
execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by sending him the head of
a man who died that morning in the prison. And to prevail upon the
provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost suspected not
to be anything more or greater than he seemed, showed the provost a
letter written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his seal, which
when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must have some secret
order from the absent duke, and therefore he consented to spare Claudio;
and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it to Angelo.
Then the duke in his own name, wrote to Angelo a letter, saying, that
certain accidents had put a stop to his journey, and that he should be
in Vienna by the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at the
entrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority; and the duke
also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any of his subjects craved
redress for injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street
on his first entrance into the city.
Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who there
awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell her that
Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had sent
the pardon for her brother, he said, "Angelo has released Claudio from
this world. His head is off, and sent to the deputy." The much-grieved
sister cried out, "O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world,
most wicked Angelo!" The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and when
she was become a little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect
of the duke's return, and told her in what manner she should proceed in
preferring her complaint against Angelo; and he bade her not fear if the
cause should seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel
sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, and gave her counsel
in what manner she also should act.
Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his own royal robes,
amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful subjects, assembled to greet his
arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who
delivered up his authority in the proper form. And there came Isabel, in
the manner of a petitioner for redress, and said, "Justice, most royal
duke! I am the sister of one Claudio, who, for the seducing a young
maid, was condemned to lose his head. I made my suit to Lord Angelo for
my brother's pardon. It were needless to tell your grace how I prayed
and kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied; for this was of much
length. The vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter.
Angelo would not but by my yielding to his dishonourable love release my
brother; and after much debate within myself, my sisterly remorse
overcame my virtue, and I did yield to him. But the next morning
betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant for my poor
brother's head!" The duke affected to disbelieve her story; and Angelo
said that grief for her brother's death, who had suffered by the due
course of the law, had disordered her senses. And now another suitor
approached, which was Mariana; and Mariana said, "Noble prince, as there
comes light from heaven, and truth from breath, as there is sense in
truth and truth in virtue, I am this man's wife, and, my good lord, the
words of Isabel are false; for the night she says she was with Angelo, I
passed that night with him in the garden-house. As this is true, let me
in safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here a marble monument." Then
did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had said to Friar Lodowick,
that being the name the duke had assumed in his disguise. Isabel and
Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in what they said, the duke
intending that the innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved in that
public manner before the whole city of Vienna; but Angelo little thought
that it was from such a cause that they thus differed in their story,
and he hoped from their contradictory evidence to be able to clear
himself from the accusation of Isabel; and he said, assuming the look
of offended innocence, "I did but smile till now; but, good my lord, my
patience here is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are
but the instruments of some greater one, who sets them on. Let me have
way, my lord, to find this practice out."--"Ay, with all my heart," said
the duke, "and punish them to the height of your pleasure. You, Lord
Escalus, sit with Lord Angelo, lend him your pains to discover this
abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, and when he comes, do
with your injuries as may seem best in any chastisement. I for a while
will leave you, but stir not you, Lord Angelo, till you have well
determined upon this slander." The duke then went away, leaving Angelo
well pleased to be deputed judge and umpire in his own cause. But the
duke was absent only while he threw off his royal robes and put on his
friar's habit; and in that disguise again he presented himself before
Angelo and Escalus: and the good old Escalus, who thought Angelo had
been falsely accused, said to the supposed friar, "Come, sir, did you
set these women on to slander Lord Angelo?" He replied, "Where is the
duke? It is he who should hear me speak." Escalus said, "The duke is in
us, and we will hear you. Speak justly."--"Boldly at least," retorted
the friar; and then he blamed the duke for leaving the cause of Isabel
in the hands of him she had accused, and spoke so freely of many corrupt
practices he had observed, while, as he said, he had been a looker-on in
Vienna, that Escalus threatened him with the torture for speaking words
against the state, and for censuring the conduct of the duke, and
ordered him to be taken away to prison. Then, to the amazement of all
present, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw
off his disguise, and they saw it was the duke himself.
The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, "Come hither, Isabel.
Your friar is now your prince, but with my habit I have not changed my
heart. I am still devoted to your service." "O give me pardon," said
Isabel, "that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled your unknown
sovereignty." He answered that he had most need of forgiveness from her,
for not having prevented the death of her brother--for not yet would he
tell her that Claudio was living; meaning first to make a further trial
of her goodness. Angelo now knew the duke had been a secret witness of
his bad deeds, and he said, "O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than
my guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible, when I perceive your
grace, like power divine, has looked upon my actions. Then, good prince,
no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial be my own confession.
Immediate sentence and death is all the grace I beg." The duke replied,
"Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We do condemn thee to the very block
where Claudio stooped to death; and with like haste away with him; and
for his possessions, Mariana, we do instate and widow you withal, to buy
you a better husband."--"O my dear lord," said Mariana, "I crave no
other, nor no better man:" and then on her knees, even as Isabel had
begged the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful husband
beg the life of Angelo; and she said, "Gentle my liege, O good my lord!
Sweet Isabel, take my part! Lend me your knees, and all my life to come
I will lend you all my life, to do you service!" The duke said, "Against
all sense you importune her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy,
her brother's ghost would break his paved bed, and take her hence in
horror." Still Mariana said, "Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me,
hold up your hand, say nothing! I will speak all. They say, best men are
moulded out of faults, and for the most part become much the better for
being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you not lend a
knee?" The duke then said, "He dies for Claudio." But much pleased was
the good duke, when his own Isabel, from whom he expected all gracious
and honourable acts, kneeled down before him, and said, "Most bounteous
sir, look, if it please you, on this man condemned, as if my brother
lived. I partly think a due sincerity governed his deeds, till he did
look on me. Since it is so, let him not die! My brother had but justice,
in that he did the thing for which he died."
The duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner for
her enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, where he
lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented brother
living; and he said to Isabel, "Give me your hand, Isabel; for your
lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and he shall be my
brother too." By this time Lord Angelo perceived he was safe; and the
duke, observing his eye to brighten up a little, said, "Well, Angelo,
look that you love your wife; her worth has obtained your pardon: joy to
you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo! I have confessed her, and know her
virtue." Angelo remembered, when dressed in a little brief authority,
how hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy.
The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered himself again to
the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had won her
prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to marry;
and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a humble
friar, which the noble duke had done for her, made her with grateful joy
accept the honour he offered her; and when she became Duchess of Vienna,
the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a complete
reformation among the young ladies of that city, that from that time
none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife of
the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke long reigned with his
beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of princes.
[Illustration]
TWELFTH NIGHT OR WHAT YOU WILL
Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of Messaline,
were twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) from their birth
they so much resembled each other, that, but for the difference in their
dress, they could not be known apart. They were both born in one hour,
and in one hour they were both in danger of perishing, for they were
shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria, as they were making a sea-voyage
together. The ship, on board of which they were, split on a rock in a
violent storm, and a very small number of the ship's company escaped
with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors
that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and with them they brought
Viola safe on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her
own deliverance, began to lament her brother's loss; but the captain
comforted her with the assurance that he had seen her brother, when the
ship spilt, fasten himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as he
could see anything of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up
above the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this account gave
her, and now considered how she was to dispose of herself in a strange
country, so far from home; and she asked the captain if he knew anything
of Illyria. "Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, "for I was born
not three hours' travel from this place."--"Who governs here?" said
Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke
noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her father
speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. "And he is so now,"
said the captain; "or was so very lately, for, but a month ago, I went
from here, and then it was the general talk (as you know what great ones
do, the people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love of fair
Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who died twelve months
ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of her brother, who shortly after
died also; and for the love of this dear brother, they say, she has
abjured the sight and company of men." Viola, who was herself in such a
sad affliction for her brother's loss, wished she could live with this
lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's death. She asked the captain
if he could introduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve
this lady. But he replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish,
because the Lady Olivia would admit no person into her house since her
brother's death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed another
project in her mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve the Duke
Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on male
attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state of
Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign
land, must plead her excuse.
She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he showed
a friendly concern for her welfare, entrusted him with her design, and
he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed him
to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to be made of
the same colour and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian used to
wear, and when she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly
like her brother that some strange errors happened by means of their
being mistaken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian
was also saved.
Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this pretty
lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her presented
to Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully
pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this handsome youth,
and made Cesario one of his pages, that being the office Viola wished to
obtain: and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new station, and
showed such a ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord, that
she soon became his most favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided
the whole history of his love for the Lady Olivia. To Cesario he told
the long and unsuccessful suit he had made to one who, rejecting his
long services, and despising his person, refused to admit him to her
presence; and for the love of this lady who had so unkindly treated him,
the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field and all manly
exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble
sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs,
and passionate love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and
learned lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long
conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave
courtiers thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the great
Duke Orsino.
It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants of
handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for all
that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she
suffered for the love of him; and much it moved her wonder, that Olivia
could be so regardless of this her peerless lord and master, whom she
thought no one could behold without the deepest admiration, and she
ventured gently to hint to Orsino, that it was a pity he should affect a
lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities; and she said, "If a lady
were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there may be
one who does), if you could not love her in return, would you not tell
her that you could not love, and must she not be content with this
answer?" But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied
that it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He said, no
woman's heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it was
unfair to compare the love of any lady for him, to his love for Olivia.
Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke's opinions, she
could not help thinking this was not quite true, for she thought her
heart had full as much love in it as Orsino's had; and she said, "Ah,
but I know, my lord."--"What do you know, Cesario?" said Orsino. "Too
well I know," replied Viola, "what love women may owe to men. They are
as true of heart as we are. My father had a daughter loved a man, as I
perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lordship."--"And what is her
history?" said Orsino. "A blank, my lord," replied Viola: "she never
told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her
damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow
melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief." The
duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola
returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story, to
speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered
for Orsino.
While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to
Olivia, and he said, "So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to
the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer: Until seven
years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; but like a
cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her tears for
the sad remembrance of her dead brother." On hearing this, the duke
exclaimed, "O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt
of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft
has touched her heart!" And then he said to Viola, "You know, Cesario, I
have told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to
Olivia's house. Be not denied access; stand at her doors, and tell her,
there your fixed foot shall grow till you have audience."--"And if I do
speak to her, my lord, what then?" said Viola. "O then;" replied Orsino,
"unfold to her the passion of my love. Make a long discourse to her of
my dear faith. It will well become you to act my woes, for she will
attend more to you than to one of graver aspect."
Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this
courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wished
to marry: but having undertaken the affair, she performed it with
fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who
insisted upon being admitted to her presence. "I told him," said the
servant, "that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore he
came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemed to
have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he must speak
with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems fortified
against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or no."
Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired
he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said she
would once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he came
from the duke, by his importunity. Viola, entering, put on the most
manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier language of
great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady, "Most radiant,
exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are the lady
of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon another;
for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains
to learn it."--"Whence come you, sir?" said Olivia. "I can say little
more than I have studied," replied Viola; "and that question is out of
my part."--"Are you a comedian?" said Olivia. "No," replied Viola; "and
yet I am not that which I play;" meaning that she, being a woman,
feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if she were the
lady of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having more
curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste to deliver her
master's message, said, "Good madam, let me see your face." With this
bold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty beauty,
whom the Duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived
a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario.
When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, "Have you any commission
from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?" And then,
forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew
aside her veil, saying, "But I will draw the curtain and show the
picture. Is it not well done?" Viola replied, "It is beauty truly mixed;
the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own cunning hand laid
on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these graces to
the grave, and leave the world no copy."--"O, sir," replied Olivia, "I
will not be so cruel. The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As,
_item_, two lips, indifferent red; _item_, two grey eyes, with lids to
them; one neck; one chin; and so forth. Were you sent here to praise
me?" Viola replied, "I see what you are: you are too proud, but you are
fair. My lord and master loves you. O such a love could but be
recompensed, though you were crowned the queen of beauty: for Orsino
loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans that thunder love,
and sighs of fire."--"Your lord," said Olivia, "knows well my mind. I
cannot love him; yet I doubt not he is virtuous; I know him to be noble
and of high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. All voices proclaim
him learned, courteous, and valiant; yet I cannot love him, he might
have taken his answer long ago."--"If I did love you as my master does,"
said Viola, "I would make me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon
your name, I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in
the dead of the night; your name should sound among the hills, and I
would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out _Olivia_. O you
should not rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should
pity me."--"You might do much," said Olivia: "what is your parentage?"
Viola replied, "Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a
gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, "Go to your
master, and tell him, I cannot love him. Let him send no more, unless
perchance you come again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola
departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When
she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, _Above my fortunes, yet my
state is well. I am a gentleman._ And she said aloud, "I will be sworn
he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show
he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and
perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed
herself for her sudden love: but the gentle blame which people lay upon
their own faults has no deep root; and presently the noble Lady Olivia
so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of this
seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief
ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to court the love of
young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under
the pretence that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She
hoped by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she should
give him some intimation of her design; and truly it did make Viola
suspect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to
recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of admiration,
and she presently guessed her master's mistress had fallen in love with
her. "Alas," said she, "the poor lady might as well love a dream.
Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as
fruitless sighs for me as I do for Orsino."
Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the ill
success of the negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that the
duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping
that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to show
some pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to her again the next
day. In the meantime, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a
song which he loved to be sung; and he said, "My good Cesario, when I
heard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters
when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread
with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of
the innocence of love in the old times."
SONG
Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it!
My part of death no one so true did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strewn:
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!
Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such true
simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore
testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad
looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My life upon it,
Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face
that it loves: has it not, boy?"--"A little, with your leave," replied
Viola. "And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?" said Orsino.
"Of your age and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola; which made
the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older
than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant
Orsino, and not a woman like him.
When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty in
gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies delight
to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant Viola
arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page was shown
into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and when Viola told Olivia
that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf, this lady
said, "I desired you never to speak of him again; but if you would
undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than music from
the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained
herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her love; and when she
saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, "O
what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his
lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and by
truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit
nor reason to conceal my passion." But in vain the lady wooed; Viola
hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to plead
Orsino's love; and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond solicitation
was, a declaration of a resolution _Never to love any woman._
No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valour.
A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady
had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What
should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a manlike outside, had a
true woman's heart, and feared to look on her own sword?
[Illustration: SHE BEGAN TO THINK OF CONFESSING THAT SHE WAS A WOMAN]
When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with his sword
drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but she
was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery,
by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and as if he had
been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, said to her
opponent, "If this young gentleman has done offence, I will take the
fault on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy you."
Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the
reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with an enemy where
his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up
in that instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke's name, to answer
for an offence he had committed some years before: and he said to Viola,
"This comes with seeking you:" and then he asked her for a purse,
saying, "Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves me
much more for what I cannot do for you, than for what befalls myself.
You stand amazed, but be of comfort." His words did indeed amaze Viola,
and she protested she knew him not, nor had ever received a purse from
him; but for the kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a small
sum of money, being nearly the whole she possessed. And now the stranger
spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He
said, "This youth, whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death,
and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this
danger." But the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints
of their prisoner, and they hurried him on, saying, "What is that to
us?" And as he was carried away, he called Viola by the name of
Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend,
as long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called
Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask
an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise
from her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes
that it was her brother whose life this man said he had preserved. And
so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was a
sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, almost
exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which he had
fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for
Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him whithersoever he went; and
when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino's court, Antonio,
rather than part from him, came to Illyria, though he knew, if his
person should be known there, his life would be in danger, because in a
sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino's nephew. This
was the offence for which he was now made a prisoner.
Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Antonio
met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it
freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would
wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town; but Sebastian
not returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured out to look
for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in face so exactly
resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he thought) in
defence of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as he supposed)
disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of
ingratitude.
Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight,
slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone, when her
adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian,
who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, "Now, sir, have I met
with you again? There's for you;" and struck him a blow. Sebastian was
no coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.
A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house,
and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into
her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with.
Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as
at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into the
house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him)
become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features were
exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seen in
his face, which she had complained of when she told her love to Cesario.
Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished on
him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it had
come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in her
right senses; but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine house, and
that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her family discreetly,
and that in all but her sudden love for him she appeared in the full
possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship; and Olivia
finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing he might change his
mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the house, they should be
instantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal; and when the
marriage ceremony was over, he left his lady for a short time, intending
to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with.
In the meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia: and at the moment he
arrived before Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought their
prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master;
and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he
told the duke in what manner he had rescued this youth from the perils
of the sea; and after fully relating all the kindness he had really
shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that for three
months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. But
now the Lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could no
longer attend to Antonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess:
now Heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months has this youth attended on me:" and then he ordered Antonio
to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess soon gave the duke
cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Antonio had done, for
all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to
Cesario: and when he found his page had obtained this high place in
Olivia's favour, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just
revenge; and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow him,
saying, "Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." Though
it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant
death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would
most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia would not
so lose her husband, and she cried, "Where goes my Cesario?" Viola
replied, "After him I love more than my life." Olivia, however,
prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her
husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two hours had
passed since he had married the Lady Olivia to this young man. In vain
Viola protested she was not married to Olivia; the evidence of that lady
and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed him of the
treasure he prized above his life. But thinking that it was past recall,
he was bidding farewell to his faithless mistress, and the _young
dissembler_, her husband, as he called Viola, warning her never to come
in his sight again, when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for
another Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new
Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia; and when their wonder
had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, the same
voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to question each
other; for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother was living,
and Sebastian knew not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned
being found in the habit of a young man. But Viola presently
acknowledged that she was indeed Viola, and his sister, under that
disguise.
When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between
this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the Lady
Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a
woman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her exchange, when she found she
had wedded the brother instead of the sister.
The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by this marriage of Olivia,
and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and
all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite, young
Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with great
attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always thought
Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in a woman's
attire; and then he remembered how often she had said _she loved him_,
which at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful
page; but now he guessed that something more was meant, for many of her
pretty sayings, which were like riddles to him, came now into his mind,
and he no sooner remembered all these things than he resolved to make
Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling her
_Cesario_ and _boy_), "Boy, you have said to me a thousand times that
you should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service
you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breeding, and
since you have called me master so long, you shall now be your master's
mistress, and Orsino's true duchess."
Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had so
ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and
offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her to
Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remaining
part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister
were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, which had
separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their high and
mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, and
Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the Lady Olivia.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TIMON OF ATHENS
Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely fortune,
affected a humour of liberality which knew no limits. His almost
infinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster
upon all sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his
bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among his
dependants and followers. His table was resorted to by all the luxurious
feasters, and his house was open to all comers and goers at Athens. His
large wealth combined with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all
hearts to his love; men of all minds and dispositions tendered their
services to Lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face
reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron, to the rough
and unbending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men's persons, and an
indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand out against the
gracious manners and munificent soul of Lord Timon, but would come
(against his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments, and return
most rich in his own estimation if he had received a nod or a salutation
from Timon.
If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory introduction
to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it to Lord Timon, and
the poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse from the patron, and
daily access to his house and table. If a painter had a picture to
dispose of, he had only to take it to Lord Timon, and pretend to consult
his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was wanting to persuade
the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller had a stone of price,
or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their costliness lay upon his
hands, Lord Timon's house was a ready mart always open, where they might
get off their wares or their jewellery at any price, and the
good-natured lord would thank them into the bargain, as if they had done
him a piece of courtesy in letting him have the refusal of such precious
commodities. So that by this means his house was thronged with
superfluous purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious
pomp; and his person was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd of
these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords,
ladies, needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually filled his
lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears,
sacrificing to him with adulation as to a God, making sacred the very
stirrup by which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank
the free air but through his permission and bounty.
Some of these daily dependants were young men of birth, who (their means
not answering to their extravagance) had been put in prison by
creditors, and redeemed thence by Lord Timon; these young prodigals
thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy he
were necessarily endeared to all such spendthrifts and loose livers,
who, not being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier to copy
him in prodigality and copious spending of what was their own. One of
these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts, unjustly contracted,
Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five talents.
But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were more
conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It was
fortunate for these men if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, or
any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing so praised,
whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning with the
compliments of the giver for Lord Timon's acceptance, and apologies for
the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, or whatever it
might be, did not fail to produce from Timon's bounty, who would not be
outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of
far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew well enough, and that
their false presents were but the putting out of so much money at large
and speedy interest. In this way Lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a
present of four milk-white horses, trapped in silver, which this cunning
lord had observed Timon upon some occasion to commend; and another lord,
Lucullus, had bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift a
brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness Timon had been heard to
admire; these presents the easy-hearted lord accepted without suspicion
of the dishonest views of the presenters; and the givers of course were
rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty times
the value of their false and mercenary donation.
Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct way, and
with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was too
blind to see, would affect to admire and praise something that Timon
possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase, which
was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of the
thing commended, for no service in the world done for it but the easy
expense of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this way Timon but
the other day had given to one of these mean lords the bay courser which
he himself rode upon, because his lordship had been pleased to say that
it was a handsome beast and went well; and Timon knew that no man ever
justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For Lord Timon weighed
his friends' affection with his own, and so fond was he of bestowing,
that he could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed friends, and never
have been weary.
Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers; he
could do noble and praiseworthy actions; and when a servant of his once
loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope to obtain her
by reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so far above him, Lord
Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three Athenian talents, to make
his fortune equal with the dowry which the father of the young maid
demanded of him who should be her husband. But for the most part, knaves
and parasites had the command of his fortune, false friends whom he did
not know to be such, but, because they flocked around his person, he
thought they must needs love him; and because they smiled and flattered
him, he thought surely that his conduct was approved by all the wise and
good. And when he was feasting in the midst of all these flatterers and
mock friends, when they were eating him up, and draining his fortunes
dry with large draughts of richest wines drunk to his health and
prosperity, he could not perceive the difference of a friend from a
flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made proud with the sight) it seemed
a precious comfort to have so many like brothers commanding one
another's fortunes (though it was his own fortune which paid all the
costs), and with joy they would run over at the spectacle of such, as it
appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal meeting.
But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured out his
bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his steward; while
thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expense that he
would neither inquire how he could maintain it, nor cease his wild flow
of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, must needs melt away
before a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should tell him so?
his flatterers? they had an interest in shutting his eyes. In vain did
his honest steward Flavius try to represent to him his condition, laying
his accounts before him, begging of him, praying of him, with an
importunity that on any other occasion would have been unmannerly in a
servant, beseeching him with tears to look into the state of his
affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the discourse to
something else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches turned
to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothing so
incredulous to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse.
Often had this good steward, this honest creature, when all the rooms of
Timon's great house have been choked up with riotous feeders at his
master's cost, when the floors have wept with drunken spilling of wine,
and every apartment has blazed with lights and resounded with music and
feasting, often had he retired by himself to some solitary spot, and
wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful casks within, to see the
mad bounty of his lord, and to think, when the means were gone which
brought him praises from all sorts of people, how quickly the breath
would be gone of which the praise was made; praises won in feasting
would be lost in fasting, and at one cloud of winter-showers these flies
would disappear.
But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no longer to
the representations of this faithful steward. Money must be had; and
when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,
Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured at several times
before to make him listen to, that most of his land was already sold or
forfeited, and that all he possessed at present was not enough to pay
the one half of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this presentation,
Timon hastily replied, "My lands extend from Athens to Lacedaemon." "O
my good lord," said Flavius, "the world is but a world, and has bounds;
were it all yours to give in a breath, how quickly were it gone!"
Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty had yet come from him,
that if he had given his wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed
to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and he bade the
kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in the assurance
that his master could never lack means, while he had so many noble
friends; and this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had nothing
to do but to send and borrow, to use every man's fortune (that had ever
tasted his bounty) in this extremity, as freely as his own. Then with a
cheerful look, as if confident of the trial, he severally despatched
messengers to Lord Lucius, to Lords Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon
whom he had lavished his gifts in past times without measure or
moderation; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of prison
by paying his debts, and who, by the death of his father, was now come
into the possession of an ample fortune, and well enabled to requite
Timon's courtesy: to request of Ventidius the return of those five
talents which he had paid for him, and of each of those noble lords the
loan of fifty talents; nothing doubting that their gratitude would
supply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of five hundred times
fifty talents.
Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been dreaming
overnight of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's servant was
announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a
making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present: but
when he understood the truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted money,
the quality of his faint and watery friendship showed itself, for with
many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had long foreseen the
ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time had he come to dinner to
tell him of it, and had come again to supper to try to persuade him to
spend less, but he would take no counsel nor warning by his coming: and
true it was that he had been a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's
feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his bounty; but that he ever
came with that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon, was a
base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed up with meanly offering
the servant a bribe, to go home to his master and tell him that he had
not found Lucullus at home.
As little success had the messenger who was sent to Lord Lucius. This
lying lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to
bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind changed,
and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first could
hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected great regret
that he should not have it in his power to serve Lord Timon, for
unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a great purchase
the day before, which had quite disfurnished him of the means at
present, the more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his
power to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of his greatest
afflictions that his ability should fail him to pleasure such an
honourable gentleman.
Who can call any man friend that dips in the same dish with him? just of
this metal is every flatterer. In the recollection of everybody Timon
had been a father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with his purse;
Timon's money had gone to pay the wages of his servants, to pay the hire
of the labourers who had sweat to build the fine houses which Lucius's
pride had made necessary to him: yet, oh! the monster which man makes
himself when he proves ungrateful! this Lucius now denied to Timon a
sum, which, in respect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was less than
charitable men afford to beggars.
Sempronius, and every one of these mercenary lords to whom Timon applied
in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or direct denial; even
Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused to assist him
with the loan of those five talents which Timon had not lent but
generously given him in his distress.
Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as he had been courted and
resorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which had been loudest
in his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and open handed,
were not ashamed to censure that very bounty as folly, that liberality
as profuseness, though it had shown itself folly in nothing so truly as
in the selection of such unworthy creatures as themselves for its
objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion forsaken, and become a shunned
and hated place, a place for men to pass by, not a place, as formerly,
where every passenger must stop and taste of his wine and good cheer;
now, instead of being thronged with feasting and tumultuous guests, it
was beset with impatient and clamorous creditors, usurers, extortioners,
fierce and intolerable in their demands, pleading bonds, interest,
mortgages; iron-hearted men that would take no denial nor putting off,
that Timon's house was now his jail, which he could not pass, nor go in
nor out for them; one demanding his due of fifty talents, another
bringing in a bill of five thousand crowns, which if he would tell out
his blood by drops, and pay them so, he had not enough in his body to
discharge, drop by drop.
In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) of his affairs,
the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at a new and incredible
lustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more Lord Timon proclaimed
a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests, lords, ladies, all
that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lord Lucius and Lucullus came,
Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who more sorry now than these
fawning wretches, when they found (as they thought) that Lord Timon's
poverty was all pretence, and had been only put on to make trial of
their loves, to think that they should not have seen through the
artifice at the time, and have had the cheap credit of obliging his
lordship? yet who more glad to find the fountain of that noble bounty,
which they had thought dried up, still fresh and running? They came
dissembling, protesting, expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that when
his lordship sent to them, they should have been so unfortunate as to
want the present means to oblige so honourable a friend. But Timon
begged them not to give such trifles a thought, for he had altogether
forgotten it. And these base fawning lords, though they had denied him
money in his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at this new
blaze of his returning prosperity. For the swallow follows not summer
more willingly than men of these dispositions follow the good fortunes
of the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these shrink from
the first appearance of a reverse; such summer birds are men. But now
with music and state the banquet of smoking dishes was served up; and
when the guests had a little done admiring whence the bankrupt Timon
could find means to furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whether the
scene which they saw was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes; at a
signal given, the dishes were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared:
instead of those varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected,
that Timon's epicurean table in past times had so liberally presented,
now appeared under the covers of these dishes a preparation more
suitable to Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm
water, fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose professions were
indeed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery as the water with
which Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them, "Uncover,
dogs, and lap;" and before they could recover their surprise,
sprinkling it in their faces, that they might have enough, and throwing
dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out, lords, ladies, with
their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid confusion, Timon pursuing
them, still calling them what they were, "smooth smiling parasites,
destroyers under the mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools
of fortune, feast-friends, time-flies." They, crowding out to avoid him,
left the house more willingly than they had entered it; some losing
their gowns and caps, and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to
escape out of the presence of such a mad lord, and from the ridicule of
his mock banquet.
This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he took
farewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, he betook
himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon all
mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city might sink, and the
houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which infest
humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its
inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all Athenians, both young
and old, high and low; so wishing, he went to the woods, where he said
he should find the unkindest beast much kinder than mankind. He stripped
himself naked, that he might retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave
to live in, and lived solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the wild
roots, and drinking water, flying from the face of his kind, and
choosing rather to herd with wild beasts, as more harmless and friendly
than man.
What a change from Lord Timon the rich, Lord Timon the delight of
mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater! Where were his
flatterers now? Where were his attendants and retinue? Would the bleak
air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt on
warm? Would those stiff trees that had outlived the eagle, turn young
and airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? Would
the cool brook, when it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm
broths and caudles when sick of an overnight's surfeit? Or would the
creatures that lived in those wild woods come and lick his hand and
flatter him?
Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, his poor sustenance, his
spade struck against something heavy, which proved to be gold, a great
heap which some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm, thinking
to have come again, and taken it from its prison, but died before the
opportunity had arrived, without making any man privy to the
concealment; so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in the bowels of
the earth, its mother, as if it had never come from thence, till the
accidental striking of Timon's spade against it once more brought it to
light.
Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had retained his old mind,
was enough to have purchased him friends and flatterers again; but Timon
was sick of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous to his
eyes; and he would have restored it to the earth, but that, thinking of
the infinite calamities which by means of gold happen to mankind, how
the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice, briberies,
violence, and murder, among men, he had a pleasure in imagining (such a
rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that out of this heap, which
in digging he had discovered, might arise some mischief to plague
mankind. And some soldiers passing through the woods near to his cave at
that instant, which proved to be a part of the troops of the Athenian
captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust taken against the senators of
Athens (the Athenians were ever noted to be a thankless and ungrateful
people, giving disgust to their generals and best friends), was marching
at the head of the same triumphant army which he had formerly headed in
their defence, to war against them; Timon, who liked their business
well, bestowed upon their captain the gold to pay his soldiers,
requiring no other service from him, than that he should with his
conquering army lay Athens level with the ground, and burn, slay, kill
all her inhabitants; not sparing the old men for their white beards, for
(he said) they were usurers, nor the young children for their seeming
innocent smiles, for those (he said) would live, if they grew up, to be
traitors; but to steel his eyes and ears against any sights or sounds
that might awaken compassion; and not to let the cries of virgins,
babes, or mothers, hinder him from making one universal massacre of the
city, but to confound them all in his conquest; and when he had
conquered, he prayed that the gods would confound him also, the
conqueror: so thoroughly did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all
mankind.
While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life more brutal than
human, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance of a man
standing in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was Flavius,
the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection to his master had
led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and to offer his services;
and the first sight of his master, the once noble Timon, in that abject
condition, naked as he was born, living in the manner of a beast among
beasts, looking like his own sad ruins and a monument of decay, so
affected this good servant, that he stood speechless, wrapped up in
horror, and confounded. And when he found utterance at last to his
words, they were so choked with tears, that Timon had much ado to know
him again, or to make out who it was that had come (so contrary to the
experience he had had of mankind) to offer him service in extremity. And
being in the form and shape of a man, he suspected him for a traitor,
and his tears for false; but the good servant by so many tokens
confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made it clear that nothing but
love and zealous duty to his once dear master had brought him there,
that Timon was forced to confess that the world contained one honest
man; yet, being in the shape and form of a man, he could not look upon
his man's face without abhorrence, or hear words uttered from his man's
lips without loathing; and this singly honest man was forced to depart,
because he was a man, and because, with a heart more gentle and
compassionate than is usual to man, he bore man's detested form and
outward feature.
But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to interrupt the
savage quiet of Timon's solitude. For now the day was come when the
ungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice which they had
done to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an incensed wild boar, was
raging at the walls of their city, and with his hot siege threatened to
lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the memory of Lord Timon's former
prowess and military conduct came fresh into their forgetful minds, for
Timon had been their general in past times, and a valiant and expert
soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was deemed able to cope with a
besieging army such as then threatened them, or to drive back the
furious approaches of Alcibiades.
A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait upon
Timon. To him they come in their extremity, to whom, when he was in
extremity, they had shown but small regard; as if they presumed upon his
gratitude whom they had disobliged, and had derived a claim to his
courtesy from their own most discourteous and unpiteous treatment.
Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears, to return and
save that city, from which their ingratitude had so lately driven him;
now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past
injuries, and public honours, and the public love; their persons, lives,
and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if he will but come back and save
them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer Lord
Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, their defence in war,
their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon
cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and her
infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them; and that there was not a
knife in the unruly camp which he did not prize above the reverendest
throat in Athens.
This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping disappointed
senators; only at parting he bade them commend him to his countrymen,
and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and to
prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there was yet a
way left, which he would teach them, for he had yet so much affection
left for his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a kindness
before his death. These words a little revived the senators, who hoped
that his kindness for their city was returning. Then Timon told them
that he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should shortly
have occasion to cut down, and he invited all his friends in Athens,
high or low, of what degree soever, who wished to shun affliction, to
come and take a taste of his tree before he cut it down; meaning, that
they might come and hang themselves on it, and escape affliction that
way.
And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which Timon
showed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his countrymen
had: for not many days after, a poor soldier, passing by the sea-beach,
which was at a little distance from the woods which Timon frequented,
found a tomb on the verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it,
purporting that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater, who "While he
lived, did hate all living men, and dying wished a plague might consume
all caitiffs left!"
Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste of
life and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to his
conclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his
epitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a hater
of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in the very choice
which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of burial, where the
vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as in contempt of the
transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful mankind.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ROMEO AND JULIET
The two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets and the
Montagues. There had been an old quarrel between these families, which
was grown to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity between them,
that it extended to the remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers
of both sides, insomuch that a servant of the house of Montague could
not meet a servant of the house of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with
a Montague by chance, but fierce words and sometimes bloodshed ensued;
and frequent were the brawls from such accidental meetings, which
disturbed the happy quiet of Verona's streets.
Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies and many
noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of Verona were
present, and all comers were made welcome if they were not of the house
of Montague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son
to the old Lord Montague, was present; and though it was dangerous for a
Montague to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo,
persuaded the young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a
mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and seeing her, compare her with
some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would make him think his
swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's words; nevertheless,
for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. For Romeo was a
sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost his sleep for love, and
fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and
never requited his love, with the least show of courtesy or affection;
and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of this love by showing him
diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of Capulets then young
Romeo with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio went masked. Old Capulet
bid them welcome, and told them that ladies who had their toes unplagued
with corns would dance with them. And the old man was light hearted and
merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he was young, and could
have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear. And they fell to
dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a
lady who danced there, who seemed to him to teach the torches to burn
bright, and her beauty to show by night like a rich jewel worn by a
blackamoor; beauty too rich for use, too dear for earth! like a snowy
dove trooping with crows (he said), so richly did her beauty and
perfections shine above the ladies her companions. While he uttered
these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of Lord Capulet, who
knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a fiery and
passionate temper, could not endure that a Montague should come under
cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at their solemnities.
And he stormed and raged exceedingly, and would have struck young Romeo
dead. But his uncle, the old Lord Capulet, would not suffer him to do
any injury at that time, both out of respect to his guests, and because
Romeo had borne himself like a gentleman, and all tongues in Verona
bragged of him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced
to be patient against his will, restrained himself, but swore that this
vile Montague should at another time dearly pay for his intrusion.
The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the lady stood;
and under favour of his masking habit, which might seem to excuse in
part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by the
hand, calling it a shrine, which if he profaned by touching it, he was a
blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atonement. "Good pilgrim,"
answered the lady, "your devotion shows by far too mannerly and too
courtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss
not."--"Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?" said Romeo. "Ay," said
the lady, "lips which they must use in prayer."--"O then, my dear
saint," said Romeo, "hear my prayer, and grant it, lest I despair." In
such like allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady
was called away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring who her mother was,
discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much struck
with, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the Lord Capulet, the great
enemy of the Montagues; and that he had unknowingly engaged his heart to
his foe. This troubled him, but it could not dissuade him from loving.
As little rest had Juliet, when she found that the gentleman that she
had been talking with was Romeo and a Montague, for she had been
suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo,
which he had conceived for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed
to her, that she must love her enemy, and that her affections should
settle there, where family considerations should induce her chiefly to
hate.
It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they soon
missed him, for, unable to stay away from the house where he had left
his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back of
Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, ruminating on his new love,
when Juliet appeared above at a window, through which her exceeding
beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in the east; and the
moon, which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to Romeo
as if sick and pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new sun.
And she, leaning her cheek upon her hand, he passionately wished himself
a glove upon that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this
while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "Ah
me!" Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheard by
her, "O speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being over my
head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall back to gaze
upon." She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the new passion
which that night's adventure had given birth to, called upon her lover
by name (whom she supposed absent): "O Romeo, Romeo!" said she,
"wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name, for my
sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and I no longer will be
a Capulet." Romeo, having this encouragement, would fain have spoken,
but he was desirous of hearing more; and the lady continued her
passionate discourse with herself (as she thought), still chiding Romeo
for being Romeo and a Montague, and wishing him some other name, or that
he would put away that hated name, and for that name which was no part
of himself, he should take all herself. At this loving word Romeo could
no longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if her words had been
addressed to him personally, and not merely in fancy, he bade her call
him Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for he was no longer
Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a
man's voice in the garden, did not at first know who it was, that by
favour of the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of
her secret; but when he spoke again, though her ears had not yet drunk a
hundred words of that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's
hearing, that she immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she
expostulated with him on the danger to which he had exposed himself by
climbing the orchard walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find him
there, it would be death to him being a Montague. "Alack," said Romeo,
"there is more peril in your eye, than in twenty of their swords. Do you
but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against their enmity. Better
my life should be ended by their hate, than that hated life should be
prolonged, to live without your love."--"How came you into this place,"
said Juliet, "and by whose direction?"--"Love directed me," answered
Romeo: "I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that vast
shore which is washed with the farthest sea, I should venture for such
merchandise." A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen by
Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the discovery
which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her love to Romeo.
She would fain have recalled her words, but that was impossible: fain
would she have stood upon form, and have kept her lover at a distance,
as the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and be perverse, and give
their suitors harsh denials at first; to stand off, and affect a coyness
or indifference, where they most love, that their lovers may not think
them too lightly or too easily won; for the difficulty of attainment
increases the value of the object. But there was no room in her case for
denials, or puttings off, or any of the customary arts of delay and
protracted courtship. Romeo had heard from her own tongue, when she did
not dream that he was near her, a confession of her love. So with an
honest frankness, which the novelty of her situation excused, she
confirmed the truth of what he had before heard, and addressing him by
the name of _fair Montague_ (love can sweeten a sour name), she begged
him not to impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but
that he must lay the fault of it (if it were a fault) upon the accident
of the night which had so strangely discovered her thoughts. And she
added, that though her behaviour to him might not be sufficiently
prudent, measured by the custom of her sex, yet that she would prove
more true than many whose prudence was dissembling, and their modesty
artificial cunning.
Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness, that nothing was
farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishonour to such
an honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to swear; for
although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that night's contract:
it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But he being urgent with her
to exchange a vow of love with him that night, she said that she already
had given him hers before he requested it; meaning, when he overheard
her confession; but she would retract what she then bestowed, for the
pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty was as infinite as the sea,
and her love as deep. From this loving conference she was called away by
her nurse, who slept with her, and thought it time for her to be in bed,
for it was near to daybreak; but hastily returning, she said three or
four words more to Romeo, the purport of which was, that if his love was
indeed honourable, and his purpose marriage, she would send a messenger
to him to-morrow, to appoint a time for their marriage, when she would
lay all her fortunes at his feet, and follow him as her lord through the
world. While they were settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called
for by her nurse, and went in and returned, and went and returned again,
for she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her, as a young girl of
her bird, which she will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it
back with a silken thread; and Romeo was as loath to part as she; for
the sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues at
night. But at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest
for that night.
[Illustration: AT THE CELL OF FRIAR LAWRENCE]
The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who was too full of
thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow him to sleep,
instead of going home, bent his course to a monastery hard by, to find
Friar Lawrence. The good friar was already up at his devotions, but
seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he conjectured rightly that he had
not been abed that night, but that some distemper of youthful affection
had kept him waking. He was right in imputing the cause of Romeo's
wakefulness to love, but he made a wrong guess at the object, for he
thought that his love for Rosaline had kept him waking. But when Romeo
revealed his new passion for Juliet, and requested the assistance of the
friar to marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands
in a sort of wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he
had been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many complaints
of her disdain: and he said, that young men's love lay not truly in
their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo replying, that he himself had
often chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him again,
whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by him, the friar assented in
some measure to his reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial alliance
between young Juliet and Romeo might happily be the means of making up
the long breach between the Capulets and the Montagues; which no one
more lamented than this good friar, who was a friend to both the
families and had often interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel
without effect; partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for
young Romeo, to whom he could deny nothing, the old man consented to
join their hands in marriage.
Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent from a
messenger which she had despatched according to promise, did not fail to
be early at the cell of Friar Lawrence, where their hands were joined in
holy marriage; the good friar praying the heavens to smile upon that
act, and in the union of this young Montague and young Capulet to bury
the old strife and long dissensions of their families.
The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she stayed
impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to come
and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night before; and
the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night before some
great festival seems to an impatient child, that has got new finery
which it may not put on till the morning.
That same day, about noon, Romeo's friends, Benvolio and Mercutio,
walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a party of the
Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the same
angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at old Lord Capulet's
feast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of associating with
Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and youthful blood in
him as Tybalt, replied to this accusation with some sharpness; and in
spite of all Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel was
beginning, when Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybalt turned
from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful appellation of
villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above all men,
because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved by her; besides,
this young Montague had never thoroughly entered into the family
quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the name of a Capulet,
which was his dear lady's name, was now rather a charm to allay
resentment, than a watchword to excite fury. So he tried to reason with
Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the name of _good Capulet_, as if he,
though a Montague, had some secret pleasure in uttering that name: but
Tybalt, who hated all Montagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason,
but drew his weapon; and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo's secret motive
for desiring peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbearance
as a sort of calm dishonourable submission, with many disdainful words
provoked Tybalt to the prosecution of his first quarrel with him; and
Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving his death's
wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainly endeavouring to part the
combatants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but
returned the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt had given him;
and they fought till Tybalt was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil
falling out in the midst of Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly
brought a crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the old Lords
Capulet and Montague, with their wives; and soon after arrived the
prince himself, who being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain,
and having had the peace of his government often disturbed by these
brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came determined to put the law in
strictest force against those who should be found to be offenders.
Benvolio, who had been eye-witness to the fray, was commanded by the
prince to relate the origin of it; which he did, keeping as near the
truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the
part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for
the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her revenge,
exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his murderer, and to pay
no attention to Benvolio's representation, who, being Romeo's friend and
a Montague, spoke partially. Thus she pleaded against her new
son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her son-in-law and Juliet's
husband. On the other hand was to be seen Lady Montague pleading for her
child's life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had done nothing
worthy of punishment in taking the life of Tybalt, which was already
forfeited to the law by his having slain Mercutio. The prince, unmoved
by the passionate exclamations of these women, on a careful examination
of the facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that sentence Romeo was
banished from Verona.
Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a few hours a bride, and
now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced! When the tidings
reached her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo, who had slain
her dear cousin, she called him a beautiful tyrant, a fiend angelical, a
ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf's nature, a serpent-heart hid with a
flowering face, and other like contradictory names, which denoted the
struggles in her mind between her love and her resentment: but in the
end love got the mastery, and the tears which she shed for grief that
Romeo had slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her husband
lived whom Tybalt would have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they were
altogether of grief for Romeo's banishment. That word was more terrible
to her than the death of many Tybalts.
Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in Friar Lawrence's cell, where
he was first made acquainted with the prince's sentence, which seemed to
him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared there was no world
out of Verona's walls, no living out of the sight of Juliet. Heaven was
there where Juliet lived, and all beyond was purgatory, torture, hell.
The good friar would have applied the consolation of philosophy to his
griefs: but this frantic young man would hear of none, but like a madman
he tore his hair, and threw himself all along upon the ground, as he
said, to take the measure of his grave. From this unseemly state he was
roused by a message from his dear lady, which a little revived him; and
then the friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on the unmanly
weakness which he had shown. He had slain Tybalt, but would he also slay
himself, slay his dear lady, who lived but in his life? The noble form
of man, he said, was but a shape of wax, when it wanted the courage
which should keep it firm. The law had been lenient to him, that instead
of death, which he had incurred, had pronounced by the prince's mouth
only banishment. He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him:
there was a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all
hope) had become his dear wife; therein he was most happy. All these
blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did Romeo put from him
like a sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him beware, for such
as despaired (he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo was a little
calmed, he counselled him that he should go that night and secretly take
his leave of Juliet, and thence proceed straightways to Mantua, at which
place he should sojourn, till the friar found fit occasion to publish
his marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling their
families; and then he did not doubt but the prince would be moved to
pardon him, and he would return with twenty times more joy than he went
forth with grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the
friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady, proposing to stay
with her that night, and by daybreak pursue his journey alone to Mantua;
to which place the good friar promised to send him letters from time to
time, acquainting him with the state of affairs at home.
That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret admission to
her chamber, from the orchard in which he had heard her confession of
love the night before. That had been a night of unmixed joy and rapture;
but the pleasures of this night, and the delight which these lovers took
in each other's society, were sadly allayed with the prospect of
parting, and the fatal adventures of the past day. The unwelcome
daybreak seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the morning song
of the lark, she would have persuaded herself that it was the
nightingale, which sings by night; but it was too truly the lark which
sang, and a discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; and the
streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was time
for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave of his dear wife with a
heavy heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every hour in the
day; and when he had descended from her chamber-window, as he stood
below her on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in which
she was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a tomb.
Romeo's mind misgave him in like manner: but now he was forced hastily
to depart, for it was death for him to be found within the walls of
Verona after daybreak.
This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star-crossed
lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days, before the old Lord Capulet
proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, not
dreaming that she was married already, was Count Paris, a gallant,
young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet, if
she had never seen Romeo.
The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father's offer. She
pleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of Tybalt,
which had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any face of
joy, and how indecorous it would show for the family of the Capulets to
be celebrating a nuptial feast, when his funeral solemnities were hardly
over: she pleaded every reason against the match, but the true one,
namely, that she was married already. But Lord Capulet was deaf to all
her excuses, and in a peremptory manner ordered her to get ready, for by
the following Thursday she should be married to Paris: and having found
her a husband, rich, young, and noble, such as the proudest maid in
Verona might joyfully accept, he could not bear that out of an affected
coyness, as he construed her denial, she should oppose obstacles to her
own good fortune.
In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always her
counsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution to
undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would go into
the grave alive rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband living; he
directed her to go home, and appear merry, and give her consent to marry
Paris, according to her father's desire, and on the next night, which
was the night before the marriage, to drink off the contents of a phial
which he then gave her, the effect of which would be that for
two-and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear cold and
lifeless; and when the bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning, he
would find her to appearance dead; that then she would be borne, as the
manner in that country was, uncovered on a bier, to be buried in the
family vault; that if she could put off womanish fear, and consent to
this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid
(such was its certain operation) she would be sure to awake, as from a
dream; and before she should awake, he would let her husband know their
drift, and he should come in the night, and bear her thence to Mantua.
Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet strength to
undertake this horrible adventure; and she took the phial of the friar,
promising to observe his directions.
Going from the monastery, she met the young Count Paris, and modestly
dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joyful news to the
Lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into the old man; and
Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly, by her refusal of the count,
was his darling again, now she promised to be obedient. All things in
the house were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials. No cost was
spared to prepare such festival rejoicings as Verona had never before
witnessed.
On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had many
misgivings lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed to
him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he was
always known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before the time
that Romeo was to come for her; whether the terror of the place, a vault
full of dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay
festering in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her distracted:
again she thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting
the places where their bodies were bestowed. But then her love for
Romeo, and her aversion for Paris returned, and she desperately
swallowed the draught, and became insensible.
When young Paris came early in the morning with music to awaken his
bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the dreary
spectacle of a lifeless corse. What death to his hopes! What confusion
then reigned through the whole house! Poor Paris lamenting his bride,
whom most detestable death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him
even before their hands were joined. But still more piteous it was to
hear the mournings of the old Lord and Lady Capulet, who having but this
one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had
snatched her from their sight, just as these careful parents were on the
point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a promising and
advantageous match. Now all things that were ordained for the festival
were turned from their properties to do the office of a black funeral.
The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were
changed for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy
bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in the bride's
path, now served but to strew her corse. Now, instead of a priest to
marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was borne to church
indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell
the dreary numbers of the dead.
Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the dismal
story of his Juliet's death to Romeo, at Mantua, before the messenger
could arrive, who was sent from Friar Lawrence to apprise him that these
were mock funerals only, and but the shadow and representation of death,
and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but for a short while, expecting
when Romeo would come to release her from that dreary mansion. Just
before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and light-hearted. He had
dreamed in the night that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead
man leave to think), and that his lady came and found him dead, and
breathed such life with kisses in his lips, that he revived, and was an
emperor! And now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought surely it
was to confirm some good news which his dreams had presaged. But when
the contrary to this flattering vision appeared, and that it was his
lady who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by any kisses, he
ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined that night to visit
Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to
enter into the thoughts of desperate men, he called to mind a poor
apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the
beggarly appearance of the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched
show in his show of empty boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other
tokens of extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhaps having
some misgivings that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a
conclusion so desperate), "If a man were to need poison, which by the
law of Mantua it is death to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would
sell it him." These words of his now came into his mind, and he sought
out the apothecary, who after some pretended scruples, Romeo offering
him gold, which his poverty could not resist, sold him a poison, which,
if he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength of twenty men,
would quickly despatch him.
With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his dear lady
in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to swallow the
poison, and be buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight, and
found the churchyard, in the midst of which was situated the ancient
tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, and a spade, and
wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open the monument, when he
was interrupted by a voice, which by the name of _vile Montague_, bade
him desist from his unlawful business. It was the young Count Paris, who
had come to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable time of night, to
strew flowers and to weep over the grave of her that should have been
his bride. He knew not what an interest Romeo had in the dead, but
knowing him to be a Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all
the Capulets, he judged that he was come by night to do some villanous
shame to the dead bodies; therefore in an angry tone he bade him desist;
and as a criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona to die if he were
found within the walls of the city, he would have apprehended him. Romeo
urged Paris to leave him, and warned him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay
buried there, not to provoke his anger, or draw down another sin upon
his head, by forcing him to kill him. But the count in scorn refused his
warning, and laid hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, they
fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to see
who it was that he had slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his
way from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took the dead youth by
the hand, as one whom misfortune had made a companion, and said that he
would bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which he
now opened: and there lay his lady, as one whom death had no power upon
to change a feature or complexion, in her matchless beauty; or as if
Death were amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept her there for his
delight; for she lay yet fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep
when she swallowed that benumbing potion; and near her lay Tybalt in his
bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless corse,
and for Juliet's sake called him _cousin_, and said that he was about to
do him a favour by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last
leave of his lady's lips, kissing them; and here he shook the burden of
his cross stars from his weary body, swallowing that poison which the
apothecary had sold him, whose operation was fatal and real, not like
that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which
was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake to complain that Romeo
had not kept his time, or that he had come too soon.
For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that she
should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which he had sent
to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, had never reached
Romeo, came himself, provided with a pickaxe and lantern, to deliver the
lady from her confinement; but he was surprised to find a light already
burning in the Capulets' monument, and to see swords and blood near it,
and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the monument.
Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatal
accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing the
friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and the occasion
of her being there, and asked for Romeo, but the friar, hearing a noise,
bade her come out of that place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a
greater power than they could contradict had thwarted their intents; and
being frightened by the noise of people coming, he fled: but when Juliet
saw the cup closed in her true love's hands, she guessed that poison had
been the cause of his end, and she would have swallowed the dregs if any
had been left, and she kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison
yet did hang upon them; then hearing a nearer noise of people coming,
she quickly unsheathed a dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself,
died by her true Romeo's side.
The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging to
Count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master and Romeo,
had given the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went up
and down the streets of Verona confusedly exclaiming, A Paris! a Romeo!
a Juliet! as the rumour had imperfectly reached them, till the uproar
brought Lord Montague and Lord Capulet out of their beds, with the
prince, to inquire into the causes of the disturbance. The friar had
been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the churchyard,
trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A great
multitude being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar was
demanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and
disastrous accidents.
And there, in the presence of the old Lords Montague and Capulet, he
faithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the part he
took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union to end the
long quarrels between their families: how Romeo, there dead, was husband
to Juliet; and Juliet, there dead, was Romeo's faithful wife; how before
he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their marriage, another match
was projected for Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a second marriage,
swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised), and all thought her
dead; how meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and take her thence when
the force of the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate
miscarriage of the messenger the letters never reached Romeo: further
than this the friar could not follow the story, nor knew more than that
coming himself, to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found the
Count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of the transactions was
supplied by the narration of the page who had seen Paris and Romeo
fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo from Verona, to whom this
faithful lover had given letters to be delivered to his father in the
event of his death, which made good the friar's words, confessing his
marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his parents,
acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poor apothecary, and his
intent in coming to the monument, to die, and lie with Juliet. All these
circumstances agreed together to clear the friar from any hand he could
be supposed to have in these complicated slaughters, further than as the
unintended consequences of his own well meant, yet too artificial and
subtle contrivances.
And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague and Capulet,
rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed them
what a scourge Heaven had laid upon such offences, that it had found
means even through the love of their children to punish their unnatural
hate.
And these old rivals, no longer enemies, agreed to bury their long
strife in their children's graves; and Lord Capulet requested Lord
Montague to give him his hand, calling him by the name of brother, as if
in acknowledgment of the union of their families, by the marriage of the
young Capulet and Montague; and saying that Lord Montague's hand (in
token of reconcilement) was all he demanded for his daughter's jointure:
but Lord Montague said he would give him more, for he would raise her a
statue of pure gold, that while Verona kept its name, no figure should
be so esteemed for its richness and workmanship as that of the true and
faithful Juliet. And Lord Capulet in return said that he would raise
another statue to Romeo. So did these poor old lords, when it was too
late, strive to outgo each other in mutual courtesies: while so deadly
had been their rage and enmity in past times, that nothing but the
fearful overthrow of their children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels
and dissensions) could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the
noble families.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by the sudden death of King
Hamlet, in less than two months after his death married his brother
Claudius, which was noted by all people at the time for a strange act of
indiscretion, or unfeelingness, or worse: for this Claudius did no ways
resemble her late husband in the qualities of his person or his mind,
but was as contemptible in outward appearance, as he was base and
unworthy in disposition; and suspicions did not fail to arise in the
minds of some, that he had privately made away with his brother, the
late king, with the view of marrying his widow, and ascending the throne
of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the son of the buried
king, and lawful successor to the throne.
But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen make such
impression as upon this young prince, who loved and venerated the memory
of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice sense of
honour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety himself, did sorely
take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother Gertrude: insomuch
that, between grief for his father's death and shame for his mother's
marriage, this young prince was overclouded with a deep melancholy, and
lost all his mirth and all his good looks; all his customary pleasure in
books forsook him, his princely exercises and sports, proper to his
youth, were no longer acceptable; he grew weary of the world, which
seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all the wholesome flowers were
choked up, and nothing but weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of
exclusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, weighed so much upon
his spirits, though that to a young and high-minded prince was a bitter
wound and a sore indignity; but what so galled him, and took away all
his cheerful spirits, was, that his mother had shown herself so
forgetful to his father's memory: and such a father! who had been to her
so loving and so gentle a husband! and then she always appeared as
loving and obedient a wife to him, and would hang upon him as if her
affection grew to him: and now within two months, or as it seemed to
young Hamlet, less than two months, she had married again, married his
uncle, her dear husband's brother, in itself a highly improper and
unlawful marriage, from the nearness of relationship, but made much more
so by the indecent haste with which it was concluded, and the unkingly
character of the man whom she had chosen to be the partner of her throne
and bed. This it was, which more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed
the spirits and brought a cloud over the mind of this honourable young
prince.
In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king could do to
contrive to divert him; he still appeared in court in a suit of deep
black, as mourning for the king his father's death, which mode of dress
he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his mother upon the
day she was married, nor could he be brought to join in any of the
festivities or rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) disgraceful day.
What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner of his
father's death. It was given out by Claudius that a serpent had stung
him; but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself was
the serpent; in plain English, that he had murdered him for his crown,
and that the serpent who stung his father did now sit on the throne.
How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to think of
his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and whether by her
consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, were the doubts which
continually harassed and distracted him.
A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, that an apparition,
exactly resembling the dead king his father, had been seen by the
soldiers upon watch, on the platform before the palace at midnight, for
two or three nights successively. The figure came constantly clad in the
same suit of armour, from head to foot, which the dead king was known to
have worn: and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom friend Horatio was one)
agreed in their testimony as to the time and manner of its appearance:
that it came just as the clock struck twelve; that it looked pale, with
a face more of sorrow than of anger; that its beard was grisly, and the
colour a _sable silvered_, as they had seen it in his lifetime: that it
made no answer when they spoke to it; yet once they thought it lifted up
its head, and addressed itself to motion, as if it were about to speak;
but in that moment the morning cock crew, and it shrunk in haste away,
and vanished out of their sight.
The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was too
consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it was
his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take his watch
with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance of seeing it;
for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance did not come for
nothing, but that the ghost had something to impart, and though it had
been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. And he waited with
impatience for the coming of night.
When night came he took his stand with Horatio, and Marcellus, one of
the guard, upon the platform, where this apparition was accustomed to
walk: and it being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and nipping,
Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell into some talk about the
coldness of the night, which was suddenly broken off by Horatio
announcing that the ghost was coming.
At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a sudden
surprise and fear. He at first called upon the angels and heavenly
ministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were a good spirit
or bad; whether it came for good or evil: but he gradually assumed more
courage; and his father (as it seemed to him) looked upon him so
piteously, and as it were desiring to have conversation with him, and
did in all respects appear so like himself as he was when he lived, that
Hamlet could not help addressing him: he called him by his name, Hamlet,
King, Father! and conjured him that he would tell the reason why he had
left his grave, where they had seen him quietly bestowed, to come again
and visit the earth and the moonlight: and besought him that he would
let them know if there was anything which they could do to give peace to
his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet, that he should go with him
to some more removed place, where they might be alone; and Horatio and
Marcellus would have dissuaded the young prince from following it, for
they feared lest it should be some evil spirit, who would tempt him to
the the neighbouring sea, or to the top of some dreadful cliff, and
there put on some horrible shape which might deprive the prince of his
reason. But their counsels and entreaties could not alter Hamlet's
determination, who cared too little about life to fear the losing of
it; and as to his soul, he said, what could the spirit do to that, being
a thing immortal as itself? And he felt as hardy as a lion, and bursting
from them, who did all they could to hold him, he followed whithersoever
the spirit led him.
And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and told
him that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly
murdered, and he told the manner of it; that it was done by his own
brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already but too much
suspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. That as he
was sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the afternoon, his
treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice of
poisonous henbane into his ears, which has such an antipathy to the life
of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through all the veins of
the body, baking up the blood, and spreading a crustlike leprosy all
over the skin: thus sleeping, by a brother's hand he was cut off at once
from his crown, his queen, and his life: and he adjured Hamlet, if he
did ever his dear father love, that he would revenge his foul murder.
And the ghost lamented to his son, that his mother should so fall off
from virtue, as to prove false to the wedded love of her first husband,
and to marry his murderer; but he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he
proceeded in his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no means to act
any violence against the person of his mother, but to leave her to
heaven, and to the stings and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet promised
to observe the ghost's direction in all things, and the ghost vanished.
And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution, that all
he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books or
observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live in
his brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him, and enjoined
him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the conversation which
had passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined both to
him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen that
night.
The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses of
Hamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged his mind,
and drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would continue
to have this effect, which might subject him to observation, and set his
uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he was meditating anything
against him, or that Hamlet really knew more of his father's death than
he professed, took up a strange resolution, from that time to
counterfeit as if he were really and truly mad; thinking that he would
be less an object of suspicion when his uncle should believe him
incapable of any serious project, and that his real perturbation of mind
would be best covered and pass concealed under a disguise of pretended
lunacy.
From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strangeness in his
apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently counterfeit
the madman, that the king and queen were both deceived, and not thinking
his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause to produce such a
distemper, for they knew not of the appearance of the ghost, they
concluded that his malady was love, and they thought they had found out
the object.
[Illustration: TO THIS BROOK OPHELIA CAME]
Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been related, he
had dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius,
the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had sent her letters
and rings, and made many tenders of his affection to her, and importuned
her with love in honourable fashion: and she had given belief to his
vows and importunities. But the melancholy which he fell into latterly
had made him neglect her, and from the time he conceived the project of
counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat her with unkindness, and a
sort of rudeness: but she, good lady, rather than reproach him with
being false to her, persuaded herself that it was nothing but the
disease in his mind, and no settled unkindness, which had made him less
observant of her than formerly; and she compared the faculties of his
once noble mind and excellent understanding, impaired as they were with
the deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet bells which in
themselves are capable of most exquisite music, but when jangled out of
tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and unpleasing sound.
Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the revenging of his
father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with the playful state of
courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion as love now
seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts of his
Ophelia would come between, and in one of these moments, when he thought
that his treatment of this gentle lady had been unreasonably harsh, he
wrote her a letter full of wild starts of passion, and in extravagant
terms, such as agreed with his supposed madness, but mixed with some
gentle touches of affection, which could not but show to this honoured
lady that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. He
bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that the sun did
move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he loved;
with more of such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia dutifully
showed to her father, and the old man thought himself bound to
communicate it to the king and queen, who from that time supposed that
the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And the queen wished that
the good beauties of Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wildness,
for so she hoped that her virtues might happily restore him to his
accustomed way again, to both their honours.
But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could be so
cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his
imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him no
rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a sin,
and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the death
of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, was no
easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet's
mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint upon his
purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very
circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him with
some remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere act of
putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and terrible to
a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melancholy,
and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in, produced an
irresoluteness and wavering of purpose, which kept him from proceeding
to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having some scruples upon
his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen was indeed his father, or
whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard has power to take
any form he pleases, and who might have assumed his father's shape only
to take advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, to drive him to
the doing of so desperate an act as murder. And he determined that he
would have more certain grounds to go upon than a vision, or apparition,
which might be a delusion.
While he was in this irresolute mind there came to the court certain
players, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and particularly
to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing the death of old
Priam, King of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba his queen. Hamlet welcomed
his old friends, the players, and remembering how that speech had
formerly given him pleasure, requested the player to repeat it; which he
did in so lively a manner, setting forth the cruel murder of the feeble
old king, with the destruction of his people and city by fire, and the
mad grief of the old queen, running barefoot up and down the palace,
with a poor clout upon that head where a crown had been, and with
nothing but a blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, where she
had worn a royal robe; that not only it drew tears from all that stood
by, who thought they saw the real scene, so lively was it represented,
but even the player himself delivered it with a broken voice and real
tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player could so work
himself up to passion by a mere fictitious speech, to weep for one that
he had never seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead so many hundred years,
how dull was he, who having a real motive and cue for passion, a real
king and a dear father murdered, was yet so little moved, that his
revenge all this while had seemed to have slept in dull and muddy
forgetfulness! and while he meditated on actors and acting, and the
powerful effects which a good play, represented to the life, has upon
the spectator, he remembered the instance of some murderer, who seeing a
murder on the stage, was by the mere force of the scene and resemblance
of circumstances so affected, that on the spot he confessed the crime
which he had committed. And he determined that these players should play
something like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he would
watch narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from his looks he
would be able to gather with more certainty if he were the murderer or
not. To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, to the
representation of which he invited the king and queen.
The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna upon a duke. The
duke's name was Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play showed how one
Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned him in his garden for
his estate, and how the murderer in a short time after got the love of
Gonzago's wife.
At the representation of this play, the king, who did not know the trap
which was laid for him, was present, with his queen and the whole court:
Hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. The play began
with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, in which the lady
made many protestations of love, and of never marrying a second husband,
if she should outlive Gonzago; wishing she might be accursed if she ever
took a second husband, and adding that no woman did so, but those wicked
women who kill their first husbands. Hamlet observed the king his uncle
change colour at this expression, and that it was as bad as wormwood
both to him and to the queen. But when Lucianus, according to the story,
came to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden, the strong resemblance
which it bore to his own wicked act upon the late king, his brother,
whom he had poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the conscience of
this usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest of the play, but on
a sudden calling for lights to his chamber, and affecting or partly
feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The king being
departed, the play was given over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to be
satisfied that the words of the ghost were true, and no illusion; and in
a fit of gaiety, like that which comes over a man who suddenly has some
great doubt or scruple resolved, he swore to Horatio, that he would take
the ghost's word for a thousand pounds. But before he could make up his
resolution as to what measures of revenge he should take, now he was
certainly informed that his uncle was his father's murderer, he was sent
for by the queen his mother, to a private conference in her closet.
It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that she
might signify to her son how much his late behaviour had displeased them
both, and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that conference,
and thinking that the too partial report of a mother might let slip some
part of Hamlet's words, which it might much import the king to know,
Polonius, the old counsellor of state, was ordered to plant himself
behind the hangings in the queen's closet, where he might unseen hear
all that passed. This artifice was particularly adapted to the
disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maxims and
policies of state, and delighted to get at the knowledge of matters in
an indirect and cunning way.
Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the roundest
way with his actions and behaviour, and she told him that he had given
great offence to _his father_, meaning the king, his uncle, whom,
because he had married her, she called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely
indignant that she should give so dear and honoured a name as father
seemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed no better than the murderer of
his true father, with some sharpness replied, "Mother, _you_ have much
offended _my father_." The queen said that was but an idle answer. "As
good as the question deserved," said Hamlet. The queen asked him if he
had forgotten who it was he was speaking to? "Alas!" replied Hamlet, "I
wish I could forget. You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;
and you are my mother: I wish you were not what you are." "Nay, then,"
said the queen, "if you show me so little respect, I will set those to
you that can speak," and was going to send the king or Polonius to him.
But Hamlet would not let her go, now he had her alone, till he had tried
if his words could not bring her to some sense of her wicked life; and,
taking her by the wrist, he held her fast, and made her sit down. She,
affrighted at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he
should do her a mischief, cried out; and a voice was heard from behind
the hangings, "Help, help, the queen!" which Hamlet hearing, and verily
thinking that it was the king himself there concealed, he drew his sword
and stabbed at the place where the voice came from, as he would have
stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice ceasing, he concluded the
person to be dead. But when he dragged for the body, it was not the
king, but Polonius, the old officious counsellor, that had planted
himself as a spy behind the hangings. "Oh me!" exclaimed the queen,
"what a rash and bloody deed have you done!" "A bloody deed, mother,"
replied Hamlet, "but not so bad as yours, who killed a king, and married
his brother." Hamlet had gone too far to leave off here. He was now in
the humour to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And though
the faults of parents are to be tenderly treated by their children, yet
in the case of great crimes the son may have leave to speak even to his
own mother with some harshness, so as that harshness is meant for her
good, and to turn her from her wicked ways, and not done for the purpose
of upbraiding. And now this virtuous prince did in moving terms
represent to the queen the heinousness of her offence, in being so
forgetful of the dead king, his father, as in so short a space of time
to marry with his brother and reputed murderer: such an act as, after
the vows which she had sworn to her first husband, was enough to make
all vows of women suspected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy,
wedding contracts to be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be a
mockery and a mere form of words. He said she had done such a deed, that
the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her because of it.
And he showed her two pictures, the one of the late king, her first
husband, and the other of the present king, her second husband, and he
bade her mark the difference; what a grace was on the brow of his
father, how like a god he looked! the curls of Apollo, the forehead of
Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture like to Mercury newly alighted
on some heaven-kissing hill! this man, he said, _had been_ her husband.
And then he showed her whom she had got in his stead: how like a blight
or a mildew he looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome brother. And
the queen was sore ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward upon
her soul, which she now saw so black and deformed. And he asked her how
she could continue to live with this man, and be a wife to him, who had
murdered her first husband, and got the crown by as false means as a
thief----and just as he spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he was
in his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, entered the room,
and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it would have; and the ghost
said that it came to remind him of the revenge he had promised, which
Hamlet seemed to have forgot; and the ghost bade him speak to his
mother, for the grief and terror she was in would else kill her. It then
vanished, and was seen by none but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing
to where it stood, or by any description, make his mother perceive it;
who was terribly frightened all this while to hear him conversing, as it
seemed to her, with nothing; and she imputed it to the disorder of his
mind. But Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a
manner as to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences,
which had brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade
her feel his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And he
begged of her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what was
past, and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be no
more as a wife to him: and when she should show herself a mother to him,
by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a blessing of her as a
son. And she promising to observe his directions, the conference ended.
And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his
unfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it was
Polonius, the father of the Lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, he
drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being now a little quieter,
he wept for what he had done.
The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pretence for sending
Hamlet out of the kingdom. He would willingly have put him to death,
fearing him as dangerous; but he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet,
and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted upon the prince, her son.
So this subtle king, under pretence of providing for Hamlet's safety,
that he might not be called to account for Polonius' death, caused him
to be conveyed on board a ship bound for England, under the care of two
courtiers, by whom he despatched letters to the English court, which in
that time was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring for
special reasons there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to death as
soon as he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery,
in the night-time secretly got at the letters, and skilfully erasing
his own name, he in the stead of it put in the names of those two
courtiers, who had the charge of him, to be put to death: then sealing
up the letters, he put them into their place again. Soon after the ship
was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight commenced; in the course of
which Hamlet, desirous to show his valour, with sword in hand singly
boarded the enemy's vessel; while his own ship, in a cowardly manner,
bore away, and leaving him to his fate, the two courtiers made the best
of their way to England, charged with those letters the sense of which
Hamlet had altered to their own deserved destruction.
The pirates, who had the prince in their power, showed themselves gentle
enemies; and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the hope that the
prince might do them a good turn at court in recompense for any favour
they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore at the nearest port in
Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquainting him with
the strange chance which had brought him back to his own country, and
saying that on the next day he should present himself before his
majesty. When he got home, a sad spectacle offered itself the first
thing to his eyes.
This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once dear
mistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever since her
poor father's death. That he should die a violent death, and by the
hands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this tender young maid,
that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, and would go about
giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and saying that they
were for her father's burial, singing songs about love and about death,
and sometimes such as had no meaning at all, as if she had no memory of
what happened to her. There was a willow which grew slanting over a
brook, and reflected its leaves on the stream. To this brook she came
one day when she was unwatched, with garlands she had been making, mixed
up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds together, and clambering up
to hang her garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough broke, and
precipitated this fair young maid, garland, and all that she had
gathered, into the water, where her clothes bore her up for a while,
during which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her
own distress, or as if she were a creature natural to that element: but
long it was not before her garments, heavy with the wet, pulled her in
from her melodious singing to a muddy and miserable death. It was the
funeral of this fair maid which her brother Laertes was celebrating, the
king and queen and whole court being present, when Hamlet arrived. He
knew not what all this show imported, but stood on one side, not
inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her
grave, as the custom was in maiden burials, which the queen herself
threw in; and as she threw them she said, "Sweets to the sweet! I
thought to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid, not to have strewed
thy grave. Thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard her
brother wish that violets might spring from her grave: and he saw him
leap into the grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile
mountains of earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And
Hamlet's love for this fair maid came back to him, and he could not bear
that a brother should show so much transport of grief, for he thought
that he loved Ophelia better than forty thousand brothers. Then
discovering himself, he leaped into the grave where Laertes was, all as
frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertes knowing him to be Hamlet,
who had been the cause of his father's and his sister's death, grappled
him by the throat as an enemy, till the attendants parted them: and
Hamlet, after the funeral, excused his hasty act in throwing himself
into the grave as if to brave Laertes; but he said he could not bear
that any one should seem to outgo him in grief for the death of the fair
Ophelia. And for the time these two noble youths seemed reconciled.
But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his father
and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived destruction for
Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and reconciliation, to
challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at fencing, which Hamlet
accepting, a day was appointed to try the match. At this match all the
court was present, and Laertes, by direction of the king, prepared a
poisoned weapon. Upon this match great wagers were laid by the
courtiers, as both Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at this sword
play; and Hamlet taking up the foils chose one, not at all suspecting
the treachery of Laertes, or being careful to examine Laertes' weapon,
who, instead of a foil or blunted sword, which the laws of fencing
require, made use of one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertes
did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him to gain some advantages,
which the dissembling king magnified and extolled beyond measure,
drinking to Hamlet's success, and wagering rich bets upon the issue: but
after a few pauses, Laertes growing warm made a deadly thrust at Hamlet
with his poisoned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet incensed,
but not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his
own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and with a thrust of
Laertes' own sword repaid Laertes home, who was thus justly caught in
his own treachery. In this instant the queen shrieked out that she was
poisoned. She had inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the king had
prepared for Hamlet, in case, that being warm in fencing, he should call
for drink: into this the treacherous king had infused a deadly poison,
to make sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn
the queen of the bowl, which she drank of, and immediately died,
exclaiming with her last breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet,
suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be shut, while he sought
it out. Laertes told him to seek no farther, for he was the traitor; and
feeling his life go away with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he
made confession of the treachery he had used, and how he had fallen a
victim to it: and he told Hamlet of the envenomed point, and said that
Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine could cure him; and
begging forgiveness of Hamlet, he died, with his last words accusing the
king of being the contriver of the mischief. When Hamlet saw his end
draw near, there being yet some venom left upon the sword, he suddenly
turned upon his false uncle, and thrust the point of it to his heart,
fulfilling the promise which he had made to his father's spirit, whose
injunction was now accomplished, and his foul murder revenged upon the
murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail and life departing,
turned to his dear friend Horatio, who had been spectator of this fatal
tragedy; and with his dying breath requested him that he would live to
tell his story to the world (for Horatio had made a motion as if he
would slay himself to accompany the prince in death), and Horatio
promised that he would make a true report, as one that was privy to all
the circumstances. And, thus satisfied, the noble heart of Hamlet
cracked; and Horatio and the bystanders with many tears commended the
spirit of this sweet prince to the guardianship of angels. For Hamlet
was a loving and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble
and princelike qualities; and if he had lived, would no doubt have
proved a most royal and complete king to Denmark.
[Illustration]
OTHELLO
Brabantio, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair daughter, the gentle
Desdemona. She was sought to by divers suitors, both on account of her
many virtuous qualities, and for her rich expectations. But among the
suitors of her own clime and complexion, she saw none whom she could
affect: for this noble lady, who regarded the mind more than the
features of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than imitated,
had chosen for the object of her affections, a Moor, a black, whom her
father loved, and often invited to his house.
Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned for the unsuitableness
of the person whom she selected for her lover. Bating that Othello was
black, the noble Moor wanted nothing which might recommend him to the
affections of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, and a brave one; and
by his conduct in bloody wars against the Turks, had risen to the rank
of general in the Venetian service, and was esteemed and trusted by the
state.
He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the manner of ladies)
loved to hear him tell the story of his adventures, which he would run
through from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges, and
encounters, which he had passed through; the perils he had been exposed
to by land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he had entered
a breach, or marched up to the mouth of a cannon; and how he had been
taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to slavery; how he
demeaned himself in that state, and how he escaped: all these accounts,
added to the narration of the strange things he had seen in foreign
countries, the vast wilderness and romantic caverns, the quarries, the
rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the clouds; of the savage
nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and a race of people in
Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders: these travellers'
stories would so enchain the attention of Desdemona, that if she were
called off at any time by household affairs, she would despatch with all
haste that business, and return, and with a greedy ear devour Othello's
discourse. And once he took advantage of a pliant hour, and drew from
her a prayer, that he would tell her the whole story of his life at
large, of which she had heard so much, but only by parts: to which he
consented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when he spoke of some
distressful stroke which his youth had suffered.
His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs: she
swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful,
wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she
wished that heaven had made her such a man; and then she thanked him,
and told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to teach him
how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint, delivered
not with more frankness than modesty, accompanied with certain
bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello could not but
understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden
opportunity gained the consent of the generous Lady Desdemona privately
to marry him.
Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such that it could be
hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his
daughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian
ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank or
expectations; but in this he was deceived; Desdemona loved the Moor,
though he was black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant
parts and qualities; so was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion to
the man she had selected for a husband, that his very colour, which to
all but this discerning lady would have proved an insurmountable
objection, was by her esteemed above all the white skins and clear
complexions of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors.
Their marriage, which, though privately carried, could not long be kept
a secret, came to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in a
solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor Othello, who by
spells and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced the affections of the
fair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of her father, and
against the obligations of hospitality.
At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice had
immediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that the
Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was bending
its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that strong
post from the Venetians, who then held it; in this emergency the state
turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate to conduct
the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So that Othello, now summoned
before the senate, stood in their presence at once as a candidate for a
great state employment, and as a culprit, charged with offences which by
the laws of Venice were made capital.
The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio, commanded a most
patient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed father
conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, producing
likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was called
upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the course
of his love; which he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting the
whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, and delivered
his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of truth), that the
duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help confessing that a tale so
told would have won his daughter too: and the spells and conjurations
which Othello had used in his courtship, plainly appeared to have been
no more than the honest arts of men in love; and the only witchcraft
which he had used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to win a lady's
ear.
This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the Lady
Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a duty to her
father for life and education, challenged leave of him to profess a yet
higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much as her mother had
shown in preferring him (Brabantio) above _her_ father.
The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the Moor to him
with many expressions of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, bestowed
upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her (he
told him), he would with all his heart have kept from him; adding, that
he was glad at soul that he had no other child, for this behaviour of
Desdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs on them
for her desertion.
This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom custom had rendered the
hardships of a military life as natural as food and rest are to other
men, readily undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus: and
Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord (though with danger) before
the indulgence of those idle delights in which new-married people
usually waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going.
No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than news arrived,
that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus the
island was secure from any immediate apprehension of an attack. But the
war, which Othello was to suffer, was now beginning; and the enemies,
which malice stirred up against his innocent lady, proved in their
nature more deadly than strangers or infidels.
Among all the general's friends no one possessed the confidence of
Othello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young soldier, a
Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite qualities
with women; he was handsome and eloquent, and exactly such a person as
might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced in years (as Othello in some
measure was), who had married a young and beautiful wife; but Othello
was as free from jealousy as he was noble, and as incapable of
suspecting as of doing a base action. He had employed this Cassio in his
love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sort of go-between in
his suit: for Othello, fearing that himself had not those soft parts of
conversation which please ladies, and finding these qualities in his
friend, would often depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a courting
for him: such innocent simplicity being rather an honour than a blemish
to the character of the valiant Moor. So that no wonder, if next to
Othello himself (but at far distance, as beseems a virtuous wife) the
gentle Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this
couple made any difference in their behaviour to Michael Cassio. He
frequented their house, and his free and rattling talk was no unpleasing
variety to Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper: for such
tempers are observed often to delight in their contraries, as a relief
from the oppressive excess of their own: and Desdemona and Cassio would
talk and laugh together, as in the days when he went a courting for his
friend.
Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieutenant, a place of
trust, and nearest to the general's person. This promotion gave great
offence to Iago, an older officer who thought he had a better claim than
Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio as a fellow fit only for the
company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the art of war or how to
set an army in array for battle, than a girl. Iago hated Cassio, and he
hated Othello, as well for favouring Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion,
which he had lightly taken up against Othello, that the Moor was too
fond of Iago's wife Emilia. From these imaginary provocations, the
plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid scheme of revenge, which should
involve both Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona, in one common ruin.
Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply, and he knew that
of all the torments which afflict the mind of man (and far beyond bodily
torture), the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, and had the
sorest sting. If he could succeed in making Othello jealous of Cassio,
he thought it would be an exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in
the death of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not.
The arrival of the general and his lady, in Cyprus, meeting with the
news of the dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday in
the island. Everybody gave themselves up to feasting and making merry.
Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went round to the health of the black
Othello, and his lady the fair Desdemona.
Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge from
Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl
might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with the
new-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of
mischief: under colour of loyalty and love to the general, he enticed
Cassio to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault in an
officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long
hold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how to put on, but
kept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied him with drink
and encouraging songs), and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the
Lady Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirming that she was
a most exquisite lady: until at last the enemy which he put into his
mouth stole away his brains; and upon some provocation given him by a
fellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthy
officer, who interfered to appease the dispute, was wounded in the
scuffle. The riot now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on foot
the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing the
castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a slight
drunken quarrel had arisen): the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello,
who, dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questioned
Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of the
wine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed to reply; and
Iago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but, as it were,
forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, gave an
account of the whole matter (leaving out his own share in it, which
Cassio was too far gone to remember) in such a manner, as while he
seemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it appear greater
than it was. The result was, that Othello, who was a strict observer of
discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's place of lieutenant from
him.
Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely; he had now undermined
his hated rival, and thrust him out of his place: but a further use was
hereafter to be made of the adventure of this disastrous night.
Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, now lamented to his
seeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as to transform
himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask the general
for his place again? he would tell him he was a drunkard. He despised
himself. Iago, affecting to make light of it, said, that he, or any man
living, might be drunk upon occasion; it remained now to make the best
of a bad bargain; the general's wife was now the general, and could do
anything with Othello; that he were best to apply to the Lady Desdemona
to mediate for him with her lord; that she was of a frank, obliging
disposition, and would readily undertake a good office of this sort, and
set Cassio right again in the general's favour; and then this crack in
their love would be made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, if
it had not been given for wicked purposes, which will after appear.
Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the Lady
Desdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit; and she
promised Cassio that she should be his solicitor with her lord, and
rather die than give up his cause. This she immediately set about in so
earnest and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally offended
with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded delay, and that it
was too soon to pardon such an offender, she would not be beat back, but
insisted that it should be the next night, or the morning after, or the
next morning to that at farthest. Then she showed how penitent and
humbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence did not deserve so sharp a
check. And when Othello still hung back, "What! my lord," said she,
"that I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio,
that came a courting for you, and oftentimes, when I have spoken in
dispraise of you, has taken your part! I count this but a little thing
to ask of you. When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a
weighty matter." Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only
requesting that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to
receive Michael Cassio again in favour.
It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room where
Desdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her intercession,
was departing at the opposite door: and Iago, who was full of art, said
in a low voice, as if to himself, "I like not that." Othello took no
great notice of what he said; indeed, the conference which immediately
took place with his lady put it out of his head; but he remembered it
afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as if for mere
satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello whether Michael Cassio,
when Othello was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this the
general answering in the affirmative, and adding, that he had gone
between them very often during the courtship, Iago knitted his brow, as
if he had got fresh light on some terrible matter, and cried, "Indeed!"
This brought into Othello's mind the words which Iago had let fall upon
entering the room, and seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to
think there was some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to be a
just man, and full of love and honesty, and what in a false knave would
be tricks, in him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest mind,
big with something too great for utterance: and Othello prayed Iago to
speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words. "And what,"
said Iago, "if some thoughts very vile should have intruded into my
breast, as where is the palace into which foul things do not enter?"
Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were, if any trouble should
arise to Othello out of his imperfect observations; that it would not be
for Othello's peace to know his thoughts; that people's good names were
not to be taken away for slight suspicions; and when Othello's curiosity
was raised almost to distraction with these hints and scattered words,
Iago, as if in earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to
beware of jealousy: with such art did this villain raise suspicions in
the unguarded Othello, by the very caution which he pretended to give
him against suspicion. "I know," said Othello, "that my wife is fair,
loves company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances
well: but where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must have
proof before I think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if glad that Othello
was slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he had no
proof, but begged Othello to observe her behaviour well, when Cassio was
by; not to be jealous nor too secure neither, for that he (Iago) knew
the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his country-women, better than
Othello could do; and that in Venice the wives let heaven see many
pranks they dared not show their husbands. Then he artfully insinuated
that Desdemona deceived her father in marrying with Othello, and carried
it so closely, that the poor old man thought that witchcraft had been
used. Othello was much moved with this argument, which brought the
matter home to him, for if she had deceived her father, why might she
not deceive her husband?
Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but Othello, assuming an
indifference, while he was really shaken with inward grief at Iago's
words, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if
unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom he called his friend:
he then came strongly to the point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona
had refused many suitable matches of her own clime and complexion, and
had married him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her, and proved her
to have a headstrong will; and when her better judgment returned, how
probable it was she should fall upon comparing Othello with the fine
forms and clear white complexions of the young Italians her countrymen.
He concluded with advising Othello to put off his reconcilement with
Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile to note with what
earnestness Desdemona should intercede in his behalf; for that much
would be seen in that. So mischievously did this artful villain lay his
plots to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady into her
destruction, and make a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap
her: first setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and then out of
that very mediation contriving stratagems for her ruin.
The conference ended with Iago's begging Othello to account his wife
innocent, until he had more decisive proof; and Othello promised to be
patient; but from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted content
of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor all the sleeping
potions in the world, could ever again restore to him that sweet rest,
which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation sickened upon him. He
no longer took delight in arms. His heart, that used to be roused at the
sight of troops, and banners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap
at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, seemed to
have lost all that pride and ambition which are a soldier's virtue; and
his military ardour and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he
thought his wife honest, and at times he thought her not so; sometimes
he thought Iago just, and at times he thought him not so; then he would
wish that he had never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving
Cassio, so long as he knew it not: torn to pieces with these distracting
thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's throat, and demanded proof of
Desdemona's guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied
her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be taken for a
vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a handkerchief spotted
with strawberries in his wife's hand. Othello answered, that he had
given her such a one, and that it was his first gift. "That same
handkerchief," said Iago, "did I see Michael Cassio this day wipe his
face with." "If it be as you say," said Othello, "I will not rest till a
wide revenge swallow them up: and first, for a token of your fidelity, I
expect that Cassio shall be put to death within three days; and for that
fair devil (meaning his lady), I will withdraw and devise some swift
means of death for her."
Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong as holy writ. A
handkerchief of his wife's seen in Cassio's hand, was motive enough to
the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them both, without
once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given such a
present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have wronged her lord
with doing so naughty a thing as giving his presents to another man;
both Cassio and Desdemona were innocent of any offence against Othello:
but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance of
villany, had made his wife (a good, but a weak woman) steal this
handkerchief from Desdemona, under pretence of getting the work copied,
but in reality to drop it in Cassio's way, where he might find it, and
give a handle to Iago's suggestion that it was Desdemona's present.
Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a headache
(as he might indeed with truth), and desired her to lend him her
handkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. "Not this," said
Othello, "but that handkerchief I gave you." Desdemona had it not about
her (for indeed it was stolen, as we have related). "How?" said Othello,
"this is a fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian woman gave to my
mother; the woman was a witch and could read people's thoughts: she told
my mother, while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my father
would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave it away, my father's fancy
would turn, and he would loathe her as much as he had loved her. She
dying gave it to me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to my
wife. I did so; take heed of it. Make it a darling as precious as your
eye." "Is it possible?" said the frighted lady. "'Tis true," continued
Othello; "it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that had lived in the
world two hundred years, in a fit of prophetic fury worked it; the
silkworms that furnished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in a
mummy of maidens' hearts conserved." Desdemona, hearing the wondrous
virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die with fear, for she plainly
perceived she had lost it, and with it, she feared, the affections of
her husband. Then Othello started, and looked as if he were going to do
some rash thing, and still he demanded the handkerchief, which when she
could not produce, she tried to divert her husband from too serious
thoughts, and cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about the
handkerchief was only to put her off from her suit about Michael Cassio,
whom she went on to praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in
perfect distraction burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though
unwillingly, began to suspect that her lord was jealous.
What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and then she
accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be sure
that some untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles had puddled
his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And she said,
"Men are not gods, and we must not look for that observance from them
when they are married, which they show us on the bridal day." And she
beshrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his unkindness.
Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more plainly of
being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did not name whom:
and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, "Alas! the heavy day! why do you
weep?" And Othello told her, he could have borne all sorts of evils with
fortitude--poverty, and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had
broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that looked so fair, and
smelled so sweet, that the sense ached at it; and wished she had never
been born. And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so stupefied
with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-like
sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to make her bed,
and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when people teach
their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello
might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but a child when she
was chidden. And this was all the complaint which this gentle lady
made.
Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord would follow her, soon
fell into a slumber, the effect of her troubled spirits, when Othello
entered the chamber, full of the black purpose which he had meditated of
putting his lady to death. But when he saw her asleep, he thought he
would not shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more white
than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die; else (as he said)
she would live to betray more men, as she had done him. Then he kissed
her for the last time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, that he
must needs kiss her again: and he wept, but he said they were cruel
tears.
Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon Othello, and
she saw him gnaw his under lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was
always fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death, and
to say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And this innocent
wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for compassion, and to know her
fault, and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said)
she had given him; and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear
herself he suddenly would hear no more, but covering her up in the
bed-clothes, stifled her till she died.
In this instant of time was brought into the house Cassio, wounded and
bleeding, whom Iago had set one of his creatures on to assassinate; but
the fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom he
wounded, but not mortally,) and being himself killed by Iago to prevent
discovery, in his pockets were found certain letters, which made the
guilt of Iago, and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; and
Cassio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had
offended him, that he had employed Iago to murder him.
This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, who now plainly saw
that he was no better than a murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent
lady) had been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of which
discovery making life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and
throwing himself upon the body of his dear injured lady, expired.
These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement in the
bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till he was
wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble nature never
gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband. He had
loved not wisely, but too well; and his manly eyes (when he learned his
mistake), though not used to weep on every small occasion, dropped tears
as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And when he was dead all his
former merits and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now remained
for his successor but to put the utmost censure of the law in force
against Iago, who was executed with strict tortures; and to send word to
the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned general.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE
Pericles, Prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile from his dominions,
to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of
Greece, threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, in
revenge for a discovery which the prince had made of a shocking deed
which the emperor had done in secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to
pry into the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his
people in the hands of his able and honest minister, Helicanus, Pericles
set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrath of
Antiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased.
The first place which the prince directed his course to was Tarsus, and
hearing that the city of Tarsus was at that time suffering under a
severe famine, he took with him store of provisions for its relief. On
his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost distress; and, he
coming like a messenger from heaven with his unhoped-for succour, Cleon,
the governor of Tarsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks. Pericles
had not been here many days, before letters came from his faithful
minister, warning him that it was not safe for him to stay at Tarsus,
for Antiochus knew of his abode, and by secret emissaries despatched for
that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put
out to sea again, amidst the blessings and prayers of a whole people who
had been fed by his bounty.
He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken by a dreadful storm,
and every man on board perished except Pericles, who was cast by the
sea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had not wandered long
before he met with some poor fishermen, who invited him to their homes,
giving him clothes and provisions. The fishermen told Pericles the name
of their country was Pentapolis, and that their king was Simonides,
commonly called the good Simonides, because of his peaceable reign and
good government. From them he also learned that King Simonides had a
fair young daughter, and that the following day was her birthday, when a
grand tournament was to be held at court, many princes and knights being
come from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of Thaisa,
this fair princess. While the prince was listening to this account, and
secretly lamenting the loss of his good armour, which disabled him from
making one among these valiant knights, another fisherman brought in a
complete suit of armour that he had taken out of the sea with his
fishing-net, which proved to be the very armour he had lost. When
Pericles beheld his own armour, he said, "Thanks, Fortune; after all my
crosses you give me somewhat to repair myself. This armour was
bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose dear sake I have so loved
it, that whithersoever I went, I still have kept it by me, and the rough
sea that parted it from me, having now become calm, hath given it back
again, for which I thank it, for, since I have my father's gift again, I
think my shipwreck no misfortune."
The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's armour, repaired to
the royal court of Simonides, where he performed wonders at the
tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights and valiant
princes who contended with him in arms for the honour of Thaisa's love.
When brave warriors contended at court tournaments for the love of
kings' daughters, if one proved sole victor over all the rest, it was
usual for the great lady for whose sake these deeds of valour were
undertaken, to bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisa did
not depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed all the princes
and knights whom Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished him by her
especial favour and regard, crowning him with the wreath of victory, as
king of that day's happiness; and Pericles became a most passionate
lover of this beauteous princess from the first moment he beheld her.
The good Simonides so well approved of the valour and noble qualities of
Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well learned
in all excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of this royal
stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out that he was a
private gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Simonides disdain to accept of
the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's
affections were firmly fixed upon him.
Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he received
intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects of
Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, and talked of
placing Helicanus upon his vacant throne. This news came from Helicanus
himself, who, being a loyal subject to his royal master, would not
accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to let Pericles know
their intentions, that he might return home and resume his lawful right.
It was matter of great surprise and joy to Simonides, to find that his
son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renowned Prince of Tyre; yet
again he regretted that he was not the private gentleman he supposed him
to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired son-in-law
and his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to the perils of the
sea, because Thaisa was with child; and Pericles himself wished her to
remain with her father till after her confinement, but the poor lady so
earnestly desired to go with her husband, that at last they consented,
hoping she would reach Tyre before she was brought to bed.
The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles, for long before
they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified
Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurse
Lychorida came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, to tell the
prince the sad tidings that his wife died the moment her little babe was
born. She held the babe towards its father, saying, "Here is a thing too
young for such a place. This is the child of your dead queen." No tongue
can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when he heard his wife was
dead. As soon as he could speak, he said, "O you gods, why do you make
us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch those gifts away?" "Patience,
good sir," said Lychorida, "here is all that is left alive of our dead
queen, a little daughter, and for your child's sake be more manly.
Patience, good sir, even for the sake of this precious charge." Pericles
took the new-born infant in his arms, and he said to the little babe,
"Now may your life be mild, for a more blusterous birth had never babe!
May your condition be mild and gentle, for you have had the rudest
welcome that ever prince's child did meet with! May that which follows
be happy, for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire, air, water,
earth, and heaven could make to herald you from the womb! Even at the
first, your loss," meaning in the death of her mother, "is more than all
the joys, which you shall find upon this earth to which you are come a
new visitor, shall be able to recompense."
The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors having a
superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the storm
would never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his queen should
be thrown overboard; and they said, "What courage, sir? God save you!"
"Courage enough," said the sorrowing prince: "I do not fear the storm;
it has done to me its worst; yet for the love of this poor infant, this
fresh new seafarer, I wish the storm was over." "Sir," said the sailors,
"your queen must overboard. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and
the storm will not abate till the ship be cleared of the dead." Though
Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he
patiently submitted, saying, "As you think meet. Then she must
overboard, most wretched queen!" And now this unhappy prince went to
take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his Thaisa, he
said, "A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; no light, no fire;
the unfriendly elements forget thee utterly, nor have I time to bring
thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely coffined into
the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones the humming waters must
overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor
bring me spices, ink, and paper, my casket and my jewels, and bid
Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go
about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my
Thaisa."
They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapped in a satin
shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over
her, and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a written paper, telling
who she was, and praying if haply any one should find the chest which
contained the body of his wife, they would give her burial: and then
with his own hands he cast the chest into the sea. When the storm was
over, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tarsus. "For," said
Pericles, "the babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre. At Tarsus I
will leave it at careful nursing."
After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was thrown into the sea, and
while it was yet early morning, as Cerimon a worthy gentleman of
Ephesus, and a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side, his
servants brought to him a chest, which they said the sea-waves had
thrown on the land. "I never saw," said one of them, "so huge a billow
as cast it on our shore." Cerimon ordered the chest to be conveyed to
his own house, and when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body of
a young and lovely lady; and the sweet-smelling spices and rich casket
of jewels made him conclude it was some great person who was thus
strangely entombed: searching farther, he discovered a paper, from which
he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had been a
queen, and wife to Pericles, Prince of Tyre; and much admiring at the
strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband who had lost
this sweet lady, he said, "If you are living, Pericles, you have a heart
that even cracks with woe." Then observing attentively Thaisa's face, he
saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were, and he said, "They were
too hasty that threw you into the sea:" for he did not believe her to be
dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and proper cordials to be brought,
and soft music to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits
if she should revive; and he said to those who crowded round her,
wondering at what they saw, "I pray you, gentlemen, give her air; the
queen will live; she has not been entranced above five hours; and see,
she begins to blow into life again; she is alive; behold, her eyelids
move; this fair creature will live to make us weep to hear her fate."
Thaisa had never died, but after the birth of her little baby had fallen
into a deep swoon, which made all that saw her conclude her to be dead;
and now by the care of this kind gentleman she once more revived to
light and life; and opening her eyes, she said, "Where am I? Where is my
lord? What world is this?" By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand
what had befallen her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to
bear the sight, he showed her the paper written by her husband, and the
jewels; and she looked on the paper, and said, "It is my lord's writing.
That I was shipped at sea, I well remember, but whether there delivered
of my babe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say; but since my wedded
lord I never shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery, and never
more have joy." "Madam," said Cerimon, "if you purpose as you speak, the
temple of Diana is not far distant from hence; there you may abide as a
vestal. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attend
you." This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa; and when she was
perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the temple of Diana, where
she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and passed her days in
sorrowing for her husband's supposed loss, and in the most devout
exercises of those times.
Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named Marina, because she
was born at sea) to Tarsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the
governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, for the good he
had done to them at the time of their famine, they would be kind to his
little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw Prince Pericles, and heard of
the great loss which had befallen him, he said, "O your sweet queen,
that it had pleased Heaven you could have brought her hither to have
blessed my eyes with the sight of her!" Pericles replied, "We must obey
the powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does in which my
Thaisa lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here,
I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant of your
care, beseeching you to give her princely training." And then turning to
Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, "Good madam, make me blessed in your
care in bringing up my child:" and she answered, "I have a child myself
who shall not be more dear to my respect than yours, my lord;" and
Cleon made the like promise, saying, "Your noble services, Prince
Pericles, in feeding my whole people with your corn (for which in their
prayers they daily remember you) must in your child be thought on. If I
should neglect your child, my whole people that were by you relieved
would force me to my duty; but if to that I need a spur, the gods
revenge it on me and mine to the end of generation." Pericles, being
thus assured that his child would be carefully attended to, left her to
the protection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he left the
nurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina knew not her loss,
but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her royal master. "O, no tears,
Lychorida," said Pericles: "no tears; look to your little mistress, on
whose grace you may depend hereafter."
Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once more settled in the
quiet possession of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he thought
dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, whom this hapless
mother had never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a manner suitable to
her high birth. He gave her the most careful education, so that by the
time Marina attained the age of fourteen years, the most deeply-learned
men were not more studied in the learning of those times than was
Marina. She sang like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like, and with
her needle she was so skilful that she seemed to compose nature's own
shapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely
more like to each other than they were to Marina's silken flowers. But
when she had gained from education all these graces, which made her the
general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her mortal enemy
from jealousy, by reason that her own daughter, from the slowness of her
mind, was not able to attain to that perfection wherein Marina excelled:
and finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina, whilst her daughter,
who was of the same age, and had been educated with the same care as
Marina, though not with the same success, was in comparison disregarded,
she formed a project to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagining
that her untoward daughter would be more respected when Marina was no
more seen. To encompass this she employed a man to murder Marina, and
she well timed her wicked design, when Lychorida, the faithful nurse,
had just died. Dionysia was discoursing with the man she had commanded
to commit this murder, when the young Marina was weeping over the dead
Lychorida. Leonine, the man she employed to do this bad deed, though he
was a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to undertake it, so had
Marina won all hearts to love her. He said, "She is a goodly creature!"
"The fitter then the gods should have her," replied her merciless enemy:
"here she comes weeping for the death of her nurse Lychorida: are you
resolved to obey me?" Leonine, fearing to disobey her, replied, "I am
resolved." And so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina
doomed to an untimely death. She now approached, with a basket of
flowers in her hand, which she said she would daily strew over the grave
of good Lychorida. The purple violet and the marigold should as a carpet
hang upon her grave, while summer days did last. "Alas, for me!" she
said, "poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my mother died. This
world to me is like a lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends." "How
now, Marina," said the dissembling Dionysia, "do you weep alone? How
does it chance my daughter is not with you? Do not sorrow for Lychorida,
you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite changed with this
unprofitable woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will spoil
them; and walk with Leonine: the air is fine, and will enliven you.
Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, and walk with her." "No madam," said
Marina, "I pray you let me not deprive you of your servant:" for Leonine
was one of Dionysia's attendants. "Come, come," said this artful woman,
who wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leonine, "I love the
prince, your father, and I love you. We every day expect your father
here; and when he comes, and finds you so changed by grief from the
paragon of beauty we reported you, he will think we have taken no care
of you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheerful once again. Be careful of
that excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old and young."
Marina, being thus importuned, said, "Well, I will go, but yet I have no
desire to it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leonine, "_Remember
what I have said!_"--shocking words, for their meaning was that he
should remember to kill Marina.
Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said, "Is the wind
westerly that blows?" "South-west," replied Leonine. "When I was born
the wind was north," said she: and then the storm and tempest, and all
her father's sorrows, and her mother's death, came full into her mind;
and she said, "My father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, but
cried, _Courage, good seamen_, to the sailors, galling his princely
hands with the ropes, and, clasping to the masts, he endured a sea that
almost split the deck." "When was this?" said Leonine. "When I was
born," replied Marina: "never were wind and waves more violent;" and
then she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain's
whistle, and the loud call of the master, "which," said she, "trebled
the confusion of the ship." Lychorida had so often recounted to Marina
the story of her hapless birth that these things seemed ever present to
her imagination. But here Leonine interrupted her with desiring her to
say her prayers. "What mean you?" said Marina, who began to fear, she
knew not why. "If you require a little space for prayer, I grant it,"
said Leonine; "but be not tedious, the gods are quick of ear, and I am
sworn to do my work in haste." "Will you kill me?" said Marina: "alas!
why?" "To satisfy my lady," replied Leonine. "Why would she have me
killed?" said Marina: "now, as I can remember, I never hurt her in all
my life. I never spake bad word, nor did any ill turn to any living
creature. Believe me now, I never killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod
upon a worm once against my will, but I wept for it. How have I
offended?" The murderer replied, "My commission is not to reason on the
deed, but to do it." And he was just going to kill her, when certain
pirates happened to land at that very moment, who seeing Marina, bore
her off as a prize to their ship.
The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Mitylene, and
sold her for a slave, where, though in that humble condition, Marina
soon became known throughout the whole city of Mitylene for her beauty
and her virtues; and the person to whom she was sold became rich by the
money she earned for him. She taught music, dancing, and fine
needleworks, and the money she got by her scholars she gave to her
master and mistress; and the fame of her learning and her great industry
came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was governor
of Mitylene, and Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina
dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the city praised so
highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyond measure, for though
he had heard much of this admired maiden, he did not expect to find her
so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good, as he perceived Marina to
be; and he left her, saying, he hoped she would persevere in her
industrious and virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from him
again it should be for her good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a
miracle for sense, fine breeding, and excellent qualities, as well as
for beauty and all outward graces, that he wished to marry her, and
notwithstanding her humble situation, he hoped to find that her birth
was noble; but ever when they asked her parentage she would sit still
and weep.
Meantime, at Tarsus, Leonine, fearing the anger of Dionysia, told her he
had killed Marina; and that wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and
made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately monument; and
shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his loyal minister Helicanus,
made a voyage from Tyre to Tarsus, on purpose to see his daughter,
intending to take her home with him: and he never having beheld her
since he left her an infant in the care of Cleon and his wife, how did
this good prince rejoice at the thought of seeing this dear child of his
buried queen! but when they told him Marina was dead, and showed the
monument they had erected for her, great was the misery this most
wretched father endured, and not being able to bear the sight of that
country where his last hope and only memory of his dear Thaisa was
entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from Tarsus. From the day
he entered the ship a dull and heavy melancholy seized him. He never
spoke, and seemed totally insensible to everything around him.
Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed by Mitylene,
where Marina dwelt; the governor of which place, Lysimachus, observing
this royal vessel from the shore, and desirous of knowing who was on
board, went in a barge to the side of the ship, to satisfy his
curiosity. Helicanus received him very courteously and told him that the
ship came from Tyre, and that they were conducting thither Pericles,
their prince; "A man, sir," said Helicanus, "who has not spoken to any
one these three months, nor taken any sustenance, but just to prolong
his grief; it would be tedious to repeat the whole ground of his
distemper, but the main springs from the loss of a beloved daughter and
a wife." Lysimachus begged to see this afflicted prince, and when he
beheld Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodly person, and he said to
him, "Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail, royal sir!" But
in vain Lysimachus spoke to him; Pericles made no answer, nor did he
appear to perceive any stranger approached. And then Lysimachus
bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, that haply with her sweet
tongue she might win some answer from the silent prince: and with the
consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina, and when she entered the ship
in which her own father sat motionless with grief, they welcomed her on
board as if they had known she was their princess; and they cried, "She
is a gallant lady." Lysimachus was well pleased to hear their
commendations, and he said, "She is such a one, that were I well assured
she came of noble birth, I would wish no better choice, and think me
rarely blessed in a wife." And then he addressed her in courtly terms,
as if the lowly-seeming maid had been the high-born lady he wished to
find her, calling her _Fair and beautiful Marina_, telling her a great
prince on board that ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence;
and, as if Marina had the power of conferring health and felicity, he
begged she would undertake to cure the royal stranger of his melancholy.
"Sir," said Marina, "I will use my utmost skill in his recovery,
provided none but I and my maid be suffered to come near him."
She, who at Mitylene had so carefully concealed her birth, ashamed to
tell that one of royal ancestry was now a slave, first began to speak to
Pericles of the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him from what a
high estate herself had fallen. As if she had known it was her royal
father she stood before, all the words she spoke were of her own
sorrows; but her reason for so doing was, that she knew nothing more
wins the attention of the unfortunate than the recital of some sad
calamity to match their own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused the
drooping prince; he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long fixed and
motionless; and Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother,
presented to his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. The
long-silent prince was once more heard to speak. "My dearest wife," said
the awakened Pericles, "was like this maid, and such a one might my
daughter have been. My queen's square brows, her stature to an inch, as
wand-like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes as jewel-like. Where do
you live, young maid? Report your parentage. I think you said you had
been tossed from wrong to injury, and that you thought your griefs would
equal mine, if both were opened." "Some such thing I said," replied
Marina, "and said no more than what my thoughts did warrant me as
likely." "Tell me your story," answered Pericles; "if I find you have
known the thousandth part of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows
like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you do look like
Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling extremity out of act. How
lost you your name, my most kind virgin? Recount your story I beseech
you. Come, sit by me." How was Pericles surprised when she said her name
was _Marina_, for he knew it was no usual name, but had been invented by
himself for his own child to signify _seaborn_: "O, I am mocked," said
he, "and you are sent hither by some incensed god to make the world
laugh at me." "Patience, good sir," said Marina, "or I must cease here."
"Nay," said Pericles, "I will be patient; you little know how you do
startle me, to call yourself Marina." "The name," she replied, "was
given me by one that had some power, my father, and a king." "How, a
king's daughter!" said Pericles, "and called Marina! But are you flesh
and blood? Are you no fairy? Speak on; where were you born? and
wherefore called Marina?" She replied, "I was called Marina, because I
was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of a king; she died the
minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida has often told me weeping.
The king, my father, left me at Tarsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon
sought to murder me. A crew of pirates came and rescued me, and brought
me here to Mitylene. But, good sir, why do you weep? It may be, you
think me an impostor. But, indeed, sir, I am the daughter to King
Pericles, if good King Pericles be living." Then Pericles, terrified as
he seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real,
loudly called for his attendants, who rejoiced at the sound of their
beloved king's voice; and he said to Helicanus, "O Helicanus, strike me,
give me a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys
rushing upon me, overbear the shores of my mortality. O come hither,
thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, and found at sea again. O
Helicanus, down on your knees, thank the holy gods! This is Marina. Now
blessings on thee, my child! Give me fresh garments, mine own Helicanus!
She is not dead at Tarsus as she should have been by the savage
Dionysia. She shall tell you all, when you shall kneel to her and call
her your very princess. Who is this?" (observing Lysimachus for the
first time). "Sir," said Helicanus, "it is the governor of Mitylene,
who, hearing of your melancholy, came to see you." "I embrace you, sir,"
said Pericles. "Give me my robes! I am well with beholding----O heaven
bless my girl! But hark, what music is that?"--for now, either sent by
some kind god, or by his own delighted fancy deceived, he seemed to hear
soft music. "My lord, I hear none," replied Helicanus. "None?" said
Pericles; "why it is the music of the spheres." As there was no music to
be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the sudden joy had unsettled the
prince's understanding; and he said, "It is not good to cross him: let
him have his way:" and then they told him they heard the music; and he
now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him, Lysimachus
persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow under his head,
he, quite overpowered with excess of joy, sank into a sound sleep, and
Marina watched in silence by the couch of her sleeping parent.
While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which made him resolve to go to
Ephesus. His dream was, that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians,
appeared to him, and commanded him to go to her temple at Ephesus, and
there before her altar to declare the story of his life and misfortunes;
and by her silver bow she swore, that if he performed her injunction, he
should meet with some rare felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously
refreshed, he told his dream, and that his resolution was to obey the
bidding of the goddess.
Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore, and refresh himself
with such entertainment as he should find at Mitylene, which courteous
offer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the space of a
day or two. During which time we may well suppose what feastings, what
rejoicings, what costly shows and entertainments the governor made in
Mitylene, to greet the royal father of his dear Marina, whom in her
obscure fortunes he had so respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon
Lysimachus's suit, when he understood how he had honoured his child in
the days of her low estate, and that Marina showed herself not averse to
his proposals; only he made it a condition, before he gave his consent,
that they should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian Diana: to
whose temple they shortly after all three undertook a voyage; and, the
goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous winds, after a few
weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus.
There was standing near the altar of the goddess, when Pericles with his
train entered the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very aged) who had
restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; and Thaisa, now a
priestess of the temple, was standing before the altar; and though the
many years he had passed in sorrow for her loss had much altered
Pericles, Thaisa thought she knew her husband's features, and when he
approached the altar and began to speak, she remembered his voice, and
listened to his words with wonder and a joyful amazement. And these were
the words that Pericles spoke before the altar: "Hail, Diana! to perform
thy just commands, I here confess myself the Prince of Tyre, who,
frighted from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa: she died
at sea in childbed, but brought forth a maid-child called Marina. She at
Tarsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at fourteen years thought to kill
her, but her better stars brought her to Mitylene, by whose shores as I
sailed, her good fortunes brought this maid on board, where by her most
clear remembrance she made herself known to be my daughter."
Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his words had raised in her,
cried out, "You are, you are, O royal Pericles"----and fainted. "What
means this woman?" said Pericles: "she dies! gentlemen, help."--"Sir,"
said Cerimon, "if you have told Diana's altar true, this is your wife."
"Reverend gentleman, no," said Pericles: "I threw her overboard with
these very arms." Cerimon then recounted how, early one tempestuous
morning, this lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore; how, opening the
coffin, he found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how, happily, he
recovered her, and placed her here in Diana's temple. And now, Thaisa
being restored from her swoon said, "O my lord, are you not Pericles?
Like him you speak, like him you are. Did you not name a tempest, a
birth, and death?" He astonished said, "The voice of dead Thaisa!" "That
Thaisa am I," she replied, "supposed dead and drowned." "O true Diana!"
exclaimed Pericles, in a passion of devout astonishment. "And now," said
Thaisa, "I know you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did the
king my father give you, when we with tears parted from him at
Pentapolis." "Enough, you gods!" cried Pericles, "your present kindness
makes my past miseries sport. O come, Thaisa, be buried a second time
within these arms."
And Marina said, "My heart leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom."
Then did Pericles show his daughter to her mother, saying, "Look who
kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea, and called Marina,
because she was yielded there." "Blessed and my own!" said Thaisa: and
while she hung in rapturous joy over her child, Pericles knelt before
the altar, saying, "Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision. For this, I
will offer oblations nightly to thee." And then and there did Pericles,
with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daughter, the
virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving Lysimachus in marriage.
Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and daughter, a famous example
of virtue assailed by calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to
teach patience and constancy to men), under the same guidance becoming
finally successful, and triumphing over chance and change. In Helicanus
we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, of faith, and loyalty, who,
when he might have succeeded to a throne, chose rather to recall the
rightful owner to his possession, than to become great by another's
wrong. In the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are
instructed how goodness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits
upon mankind, approaches to the nature of the gods. It only remains to
be told, that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end
proportionable to her deserts; the inhabitants of Tarsus, when her cruel
attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to revenge the daughter
of their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of Cleon, burnt both
him and her, and their whole household: the gods seeming well pleased,
that so foul a murder, though but intentional, and never carried into
act, should be punished in a way befitting its enormity.
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