Chapter XII: Part 12

But there came a day when Imogen could not attend as usual to her little household duties; she was very ill. Belarius bade her remain in the cave, and said they would come back to her after their hunting. Guiderius offered to remain at home with her, but Imogen would not hear of it. So, with many parting words of affection at last they left her. Remembering the little box of drugs that Pisanio had given her as a wonderful cordial, Imogen now resolved to try its power. But instead of curing her at once, the effect, as the good physician Cornelius had foreseen, was to send her off into a heavy sleep which seemed exactly like death.

On their return from hunting, Arviragus, running into the cave to look for Imogen, found her lying on the floor, her hands clasped, her right cheek reposing on a cushion. Thinking her asleep, Arviragus took off his rough brogues, in order that he might tread softly. But alas, he soon found that no step or voice could awaken Fidele from the smiling slumber in which he lay.

Stricken with grief, the two Princes prepared a bier to carry their dear young comrade to the place of burial, Arviragus saying that while summer lasted, and as long as he lived near, he would sweeten the sad grave with fairest flowers.

Then, as they bore him on the bier, they spoke in turn a tender dirge, for their hearts were too full of grief to allow them to sing it.

“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

“Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak;
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

“Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone,
Fear not slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

“No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!”

Grief for the loss of Imogen had for a moment caused the death of Cloten to be forgotten; but Belarius reminded the young Princes that, after all, he was a Queen’s son, and though they had killed him as a foe, they must bury him as a Prince. Fetching the dead body, therefore, they placed it not far from the bier where Imogen lay, and strewed both with flowers.

Soon after the mourners had retired, Imogen woke from the sleep into which the drug had thrown her. As she recovered her dazed senses, she presently became aware that near at hand lay a dead man, and recognising the garments of Leonatus, she at once took for granted that it was indeed her husband who had been thus cruelly slain. Struck to the heart by this new sorrow, she flung herself half fainting on the body, and there soon afterwards she was found by the Roman General, Lucius. Pitying her desolate condition, for he thought this lad in his page’s dress was weeping over his dead master, Lucius took Imogen into his own service.

On hearing of Cymbeline’s refusal to pay tribute, the Roman Emperor lost no time in sending over an army to enforce his demand. The rival forces met near Milford Haven, not far from the cave of Belarius. Hearing the noise of warfare, Belarius first suggested flight to the upper mountains for better security, but the noble spirit of the two young Princes scorned such cowardly counsel, and they boldly determined to throw in their lot with the British in fighting the enemy of their country.

Leonatus also at this crisis had returned from Rome, and, disguised as a poor soldier, he fought in the ranks of the British. Meeting Iachimo, who was commanding the Roman troops, Leonatus fought with him on the battle-field and vanquished him. The proud Roman was deeply mortified that a noble knight like himself should be overcome and disarmed by one whom he imagined to be a low churl. Repentance for the base way in which he had behaved to Imogen stirred in his heart; he thought it was the guilt and heaviness of his own soul that in this combat had unnerved his manhood and enfeebled his arm. As for Leonatus, he fought in reckless despair, his grief for Imogen’s murder, which he believed Pisanio to have carried out, making him long for the death which seemed to shun him.

The valour of Guiderius and Arviragus had soon an opportunity of displaying itself. The British, sorely bested, were in act of flight, and Cymbeline had been captured by the Romans, when Belarius and the two Princes went to his assistance, and with the aid of Leonatus succeeded in rescuing the King. By their desperate courage they drove back the flying Britons, and forced them to rally and resist the foe, and finally achieve a brilliant victory.

After the skirmish, some British soldiers coming across Leonatus, took him for a fugitive from the Romans, and put him into prison. Leonatus was ready to welcome bondage, for it was a way, as he looked at it, to liberty. Death was the key that would unbar those locks; his conscience was more heavily fettered than his limbs. It was not enough to be sorry; he longed to die. For Imogen’s dear life, which he had stolen from her, he would gladly yield up his own.

When, therefore, the gaolers came the following morning to lead him forth to death, Leonatus told them he was more than ready--he was merrier to die than they to live. Another messenger arriving with an order that his fetters were to be knocked off, and that he was to be conducted to the King. Leonatus followed him willingly, believing that at last the moment for death had come.

Cymbeline was seated in his tent, and at his side stood his three preservers--the aged warrior, with white flowing beard, and the two gallant striplings. A fourth was missing, and Cymbeline lamented for him--a poor soldier, he said, who fought so nobly that his rags shamed gilded arms. Anyone who found him should receive the highest favour from the King. No one could give tidings of this hero, but Cymbeline proceeded to confer the honour of knighthood on the three other champions, and to appoint them companions to his own person, with dignities becoming their estate.

At this moment there came an interruption,--Cornelius, the physician, entered; he brought the news that the wicked Queen’s life was ended, and that before her death she had confessed all her villainy--her duplicity towards Imogen, and her intention of poisoning both her and Cymbeline, in order to secure the crown for her own son. The strange disappearance of Cloten, for whose sake she had wrought so much evil, and the consequent failure of all her schemes, made her grow desperate, and so in despair she died. Cymbeline could not but be moved by the account of this unsuspected treachery on the part of his wife, for she was as beautiful in person as she was wicked in mind, and he had been quite deceived by her. His thoughts now began to turn with tenderness to the innocent daughter whom he had treated with such unjust severity.

Lucius, the Roman General, was next led as prisoner before the King. He was ready to accept with manly dignity the doom of death which he presumed would be meted out to him, but he petitioned as a last favour that the life of his little page might be spared.

“Never master had a page so kind, so duteous, diligent, so tender on occasion, so deft and careful,” pleaded Lucius. “He hath done no Briton harm, though he hath served a Roman. Save him, sir, and spare no blood beside.”

Lucius’s generous plea was scarcely needed, for Cymbeline, touched by some deep feeling which he could not explain, had already been won over to the boy’s side, and now not only granted him his life, but said he might ask what favour he chose, even if it were to demand the noblest prisoner taken.

Lucius naturally expected that Fidele would take this opportunity to beg for his master’s life, but Imogen had seen Iachimo standing among the other prisoners, and noticing on his finger the diamond ring which she had given to Leonatus, she begged as her favour of the King that Iachimo should be bidden to say of whom he had received the ring.

Iachimo, who had long bitterly repented of his unworthy deed, now made a true confession of all that had happened, lavishing praise on Leonatus and his peerless wife, and heaping all the blame upon himself. Leonatus, who had been standing in the background, unable to contain himself when he heard how cruelly he had been tricked, would gladly have killed Iachimo on the spot, and then died, himself, with grief and shame.

“O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife!” he cried, frantic with despair at the tragedy he had himself wrought. “O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!”

But, happily, the calamity was not past remedy. Imogen herself was at hand, and soon everything was put right. Belarius restored to Cymbeline the two boys stolen in infancy, and in the joy of finding them again, Cymbeline pardoned the offender.

“I lost my children,” he said; “if these be they, I know not how to wish a pair of worthier sons.”

The young Princes welcomed with rapture their dear young comrade Fidele, whom they had mourned as dead, and who was now given back to them as their own beloved sister.

To Caius Lucius, the Roman General, Cymbeline, with royal generosity, announced that though the victor, he would henceforth pay to Augustus Cæsar the rightful tribute he demanded, which his wicked Queen had dissuaded him from doing.

The poor soldier whom Cymbeline was desirous of thanking turned out to be no other than Leonatus, his own son-in-law.

Even Iachimo met with mercy. In deep contrition he knelt before Leonatus, saying humbly:

“Take that life, I beseech you, which I owe you; but your ring first; and here the bracelet of the truest Princess that ever swore her faith.”

“Kneel not to me,” said Leonatus. “The power that I have over you is to spare you; the malice towards you, to forgive you; live, and deal with others better.”

“Nobly doomed!” pronounced Cymbeline. “We will learn generosity of our son-in-law. Pardon’s the word to all.”

The Winter’s Tale

At the Palace of Leontes

Leontes, King of Sicilia, and Polixenes, King of Bohemia, had always been the closest and dearest friends. Trained together in childhood, and as boys never apart, a deep-rooted affection had sprung up between them, and when the necessities of their royal birth and dignities made separation necessary, by calling each to rule over his own kingdom, they still kept up the warmest intercourse by gifts, letters, and loving embassies. Both in due course married. Hermione, wife of Leontes, was a noble and beautiful woman, and they had one child, a princely boy called Mamillius. Polixenes, in Bohemia, had also one boy, Florizel, within a month of the same age as Mamillius. When the children were five years old, Polixenes came to pay a visit to Leontes, and for many months he remained in Sicilia, renewing the happy days of boyhood with his old friend, and made cordially welcome by Hermione for the sake of her husband.

But at last the time came when Polixenes must turn his steps homeward; he had been long absent from Bohemia, and matters of state required his presence. Leontes pressed him warmly to remain, even if it were only for a few days longer, but Polixenes was firm. Then Leontes bade his wife try her powers of persuasion. Glad to please her husband, and liking their visitor for his own sake, Hermione merrily announced that she absolutely refused to let Polixenes go. It was useless for him to pretend excuses; Bohemia was getting on very well without him. Polixenes must learn, she said, that a lady’s “Verily” was just as potent as a lord’s; and she had said “Verily” he must stay, either as her prisoner or her guest--he could take his choice, whichever he preferred, but one of them he certainly should be.

Polixenes could not be so churlish as to resist such a sweet pleader, and accordingly he said he would stay for another week. But no sooner was this point settled than a strange fit of jealous rage took possession of Leontes. To his unhappy temper it seemed that Hermione was showing far too much affection to this friend of his, and he was enraged that Polixenes had consented to do for her what he had refused to do for himself. With growing wrath he watched their light-hearted cordiality, for Hermione was gay and joyous by nature, and her innocent playfulness was always ready to sparkle forth in merry words. Instead of trying to banish his sullen suspicions Leontes chose to keep brooding over them, and presently they overmastered his reason to such an extent that he confided them to one of his lords, called Camillo, and ordered him to find means of poisoning Polixenes.

In vain did the honest old courtier try to argue with Leontes, begging him to put aside such delusions, for they were most dangerous, and protesting there was no truth whatever in them. Leontes refused to listen to reason, and Camillo thought the best plan was to appear to yield. He therefore said he would undertake to get rid of Polixenes, provided that after he was gone, Leontes would promise to treat his Queen exactly the same as formerly. This, Leontes replied, it was his intention to do.

Camillo, however, instead of poisoning Polixenes, warned him of the danger he was in, and the King of Bohemia, already put on his guard by the frowning looks which met him in all directions, determined to leave at once. Knowing that it would be impossible to continue in the service of Leontes when the latter discovered what he had done, Camillo accepted an offer from Polixenes to join his followers, and the two left Sicilia that very night.

Leontes, hearing of their hasty departure, was more convinced than ever in his suspicions, and in spite of the indignant remonstrances of all his lords, his next step was to order the imprisonment of his noble Queen. Not long after she was shut up in prison, Hermione had a little baby girl, but in his fury against his wife Leontes refused to see his little daughter, or to treat her in any way as a child of his own.

All the Court ladies were devoted to their beloved Queen, and not one of them but believed in her innocence, and was indignant at the cruel way in which she was treated. But not contented with simply pitying her, one of them, Paulina, wife of the lord Antigonus, determined to make an effort to get justice done. She thought that perhaps at the sight of the innocent little child, the King’s stubborn heart might relent. Paulina was a woman of firm and dauntless character. She went to the prison, calmly carried off the infant in the face of some feeble objections from the gaoler, then, proceeding to the palace, she insisted on making her way into the presence of the King. Leontes ordered her to be removed, but the spirited lady drew herself up with such an air of defiance that for a moment no man dared lay hands on her.

“Of my own accord I will go, but first I’ll do my errand,” she said haughtily. Then, kneeling before the King, she placed the child at his feet. “The good Queen--for she is good--hath brought you forth a daughter,” she said. “Here it is; she commends it to your blessing.”

But her appeal was useless. With uncontrolled fury Leontes bade her be gone, and to take the child with her. Paulina cared nothing for his wild torrent of abuse, but unflinchingly expressed her opinion that he was acting in a most senseless manner, and said that his cruel usage of the Queen would make him scandalous to the world.

The outspoken lady was at last hustled away, but she left the child behind her, bidding the King look to it. Paulina’s husband, Antigonus, had taken up the infant in pity, and now Leontes turned on him with fury, accusing him of having set on his wife, and ordering him to take away the child and kill it.

Antigonus respectfully denied that he had set on his wife, and the other lords confirmed what he said, and further besought on their knees that Leontes would relent from his horrible purpose. Softening a little, Leontes grudgingly consented that the child might live, but he forthwith commanded Antigonus, on his allegiance, to carry it away to some remote and desert place quite out of his dominions, and there leave it, without more mercy, to its own protection and the favour of the climate. Chance might nurse it, or end it.

Antigonus, though sore at heart, did as he had sworn to the King he would do, and carried away the child. That night, as he was in the ship that conveyed them away from the domain of Sicilia, there came to him a dream. The spirit of Hermione stood before him, clad in pure white robes, her eyes flashing fire. When their fury was spent, she spoke thus:

“Good Antigonus, since Fate, against thy better disposition, had made thy person for the thrower-out of my poor babe, according to thine oath, there are places remote enough in Bohemia; there weep, and leave it crying. And because the babe is counted lost for ever, prithee call it Perdita. For this ungentle business, put on thee by my lord, thou never more shalt see thy wife Paulina.”

And so, wailing, the vision melted into the air.

In accordance with this dream, Antigonus carried the babe into the country of Bohemia. Unable to weep, but his heart bleeding for pity at the cruel deed which his oath enjoined on him, he placed it tenderly on the ground. As he turned away he was pursued by a savage bear, which made him take to instant flight. He had not, therefore, the happiness of knowing that the little child found a speedy preserver, for within a few minutes an aged shepherd, in search of some strayed sheep, came that way.

“Good luck, what have we here?” he cried in astonishment. “Mercy on us, a bairn!--a very pretty bairn! A boy or a girl I wonder. A pretty one--a very pretty one! I’ll take it up for pity; yet I’ll tarry till my son come. He hallooed but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa!”

The shepherd’s son, coming up to wonder over the strange discovery, soon noticed there was a heap of gold hidden away in the costly wrappings of the little foundling, and rejoicing in their luck, the rustics carried Perdita home to their shepherd’s cottage.

The Oracle Speaks

Leontes, in order to avoid the reproach of tyranny which he feared his people had only too much reason to fasten on him, decreed that the Queen should be openly tried in a court of justice, and herself appear in person to answer the charges he had seen fit to bring against her. He had despatched messengers to the Temple of Apollo, at Delphos, to consult the Oracle, and on their return the trial was appointed to take place. The messengers had brought back the answer of the Oracle in a sealed cover, and at the proper moment during the trial the seals would be broken and the verdict would be read in open court.

Hermione’s answer to the accusations brought against her was an indignant denial. She declared that she had never had for Polixenes more affection than was right and fitting for any honourable lady to have for her guest, such an affection as Leontes himself had commanded her to bestow on the friend who had loved him from infancy. She had never conspired with Camillo against Leontes; all she knew was that Camillo was an honest man, and she was entirely ignorant why he had left the court.

The only effect these words had on Leontes was to make him more violent than before. He told his wife that as she had already been past all shame, so she was now past all truth, and he threatened her with the punishment of death.

“Sir, spare your threats,” said Hermione with noble dignity. “The spectre you would frighten me with, I seek. To me life is no great thing to be desired. The crown and comfort of my life--your favour--is lost, for I feel it to be gone, though I know not how it went. My second joy--my first-born child--I am debarred from his presence, like one infectious. My third comfort--my dear little innocent baby--has been torn from me. I have myself been branded with disgrace on every hand. And, lastly, I have been hurried here to this place, in the open court, while I am still weak and ill, and unfitted to appear. Now, my liege, tell me what blessings I have here while I am alive, that I should fear to die? Therefore proceed. But yet, hear this: mistake me not, I do not beg for life; I prize it not a straw. But for mine honour, I will not have that condemned without any proof except what your jealous surmises awake. My lords, I refer me to the Oracle. Apollo be my judge!”

The councillors present declared that Hermione’s request was altogether just, and ordered the messengers from Delphos to be summoned. The latter then handed to the officer of the court the sealed letter from the Oracle, which he forthwith opened and read in the presence of all.

The Oracle spoke thus:

“Hermione is innocent; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; the innocent babe is his daughter; and the King shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found.”

“Now blessed be the great Apollo!” shouted all the lords.

“Praised!” cried Hermione.

“Hast thou read truth?” demanded Leontes.

“Ay, my lord, even so as it is here set down,” said the officer of the court.

“There is no truth at all in the Oracle,” exclaimed Leontes. “The trial shall proceed; this is mere falsehood.”

But at that instant came a terrible shock to the headstrong King. A servant entered with the mournful tidings that the young Prince, the noble boy Mamillius, was dead. The separation from his beloved mother, and dread as to her possible fate, had so wrought on the imagination of the sensitive child that he had died of grief.

On hearing of this new calamity, Hermione’s fortitude gave way, and she fell fainting to the ground.

Leontes’s stubborn spirit began to quail. He saw in this blow the wrath of heaven against his injustice. He admitted that he had too much believed his suspicions; he ordered that the Queen should be carried away, and every remedy tenderly applied to restore her to life.

In his new terror he hastily began to make good resolutions. He would be reconciled with Polixenes; he would woo the Queen again; he would recall Camillo, whom he forthwith proclaimed a man of mercy and truth, for by his piety and humanity he had saved the life of Polixenes when Leontes would have poisoned him.

But these good resolves came too late. Even as Leontes was speaking, Paulina rushed back into the court, weeping and wringing her hands. With burning words that went straight to the truth, she hurled the bitterest reproaches at the King, denouncing his tyranny and worse than childish jealousy, which had led to one evil after another. He had betrayed Polixenes, attempted to poison Camillo’s honour, cast forth to the crows his baby daughter, had indirectly brought about the death of the young Prince. But last, beyond all these things--worst of all--the Queen was dead!

“O, thou tyrant!” she cried, almost distracted with grief. “Do not repent these things, for they are heavier than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee to nothing but despair. A thousand knees, ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, upon a barren mountain, and still winter, in storm perpetual, could not move the gods to look on thee with pity.”

“Go on, go on,” murmured the conscience-stricken Leontes. “I have deserved all tongues to talk their bitterest.”

Paulina, seeing that Leontes was sincere in his repentance, now softened, and in her impulsive fashion asked pardon for her rash and impetuous words. But Leontes was honest enough to own that she had spoken nothing but truth, and he would not let her retract what she had said.

“Prithee, bring me to the dead bodies of my wife and son,” he said. “One grave shall be for both; on it shall appear the cause of their death, for my perpetual shame. Once a day I’ll visit the chapel where they lie, and tears shed there shall be my recreation.”

So the unhappy King strove in vain by a tardy penance to atone for the wrongs he had done.

A Queen of Curds and Cream

Sixteen years had rolled away since the day when the shepherd had found the little deserted baby, and taken it to his own cottage. The old man had prospered since those days, and from having almost nothing had risen to large estates. The maiden who passed as his daughter had grown into such rare loveliness that the report of her beauty spread through all the country of Bohemia, and even reached the palace of the King.

Polixenes, it will be remembered, had one son, Florizel, who was the same age as the young Prince Mamillius of Sicilia, dead sixteen years before. Prince Florizel at this time was about twenty-one years old.

It happened one day when he was out hawking that his falcon flew across the land belonging to the shepherd, and seeing Perdita, Florizel was so struck by her charm and beauty that he at once fell in love with her. From that day he was a constant visitor at the shepherd’s house, so much so that the King, his father, noticed his frequent absence from home, and taking counsel with Camillo, they decided to go themselves to the shepherd’s house in disguise to see what could be the attraction that was always taking the Prince to this homely dwelling.

The day they chose for their expedition was the great feast of the sheep-shearing, when all the shepherds and shepherdesses collected together to make merry. Among the company, in the guise of a shepherd, came Florizel, who was only known to the adopted father of Perdita as Doricles, and whom he imagined to be nothing but a humble swain.

The old shepherd had provided a goodly entertainment for his guests, and seeing that Perdita was inclined to be too shy and retiring, he insisted on her taking full direction of everything, reminding her that she was the hostess of the meeting, and that she must bid all these unknown friends welcome.

“Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself that which you are, mistress of the feast,” he said. “Come on, and bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing; so your good flock shall prosper.”

Thus urged, Perdita made a brave effort to conquer her girlish shyness, and with the prettiest grace possible she went up to the two strangers whom her father had pointed out, and bade them welcome. These strangers were Polixenes and Camillo. Calling to her a shepherdess who was carrying a basket of flowers, Perdita selected some and gave a little posy to each of the strangers.

“Reverend sirs, for you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savour all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you both, and welcome to our shearing.”

Polixenes and Camillo were enchanted with the loveliness and modest grace of this lowly-born damsel, who, in spite of her bashfulness, showed that she could answer with wit and intelligence when they began to converse with her. For the King and Camillo, Perdita had chosen the flowers of middle summer--hot lavender, mint, savory, marjoram, the marigold that goes to bed with the sun and with him rises weeping. These are the flowers of middle summer, and these she thought suitable to give to men of middle age. But when a bevy of fair young shepherdesses approached, in all the first sweet bloom of early girlhood, she longed to have some flowers of the spring that would become their time of day.

“O Proserpina, for the flowers now, that frighted thou let’st fall from Dis’s waggon!” she cried. “Daffodils, that come before the swallow dares, and take the winds of March with beauty; violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, that die unmarried ere they can behold bright Phœbus in his strength; bold oxlips, and the crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, the flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack, to make you garlands of!”

“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on green-sward!” cried Polixenes when, a few minutes later, Perdita led off with Florizel the rustic dance of shepherds and shepherdesses. “Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater than herself, too noble for this place.”

“Good sooth,” agreed Camillo, “she is the Queen of curds and cream.”

“Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this who dances with your daughter?” asked Polixenes of their aged host.

The shepherd replied that he was called Doricles, and boasted that he was well off; he had it only on the young man’s own report, but he believed it, for he looked like truth.

“He says he loves my daughter; I think so too. And, to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose which loves the other best.”

“She dances featly,” said the King.

“So she does everything, though I report it who should be silent. If young Doricles do light upon her, she shall bring him that which he dreams not of.”

But in spite of the King’s admiration for Perdita, he had no mind that the heir to the throne of Bohemia should wed the daughter of a lowly shepherd. As the feast went on and became merrier and more uproarious, Florizel could no longer restrain his affection; and calling the two strangers as witness, he begged that the contract of marriage between himself and Perdita should be there and then concluded.

The aged shepherd was quite willing to join their hands, but Polixenes bade the young man pause. Had he no father, he asked, and did he know of this?

“He neither does nor shall,” replied Florizel.

“Methinks a father is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest that best becomes the table,” said Polixenes. Was the father incapable, stupid with age or illness, crazy, childish?

“No,” answered Florizel to all this; but he nevertheless persisted in refusing to let him know what was taking place.

Then Polixenes threw off his disguise and revealed himself as the King. All was now consternation. He terrified the shepherd by saying he would probably be hanged for letting his daughter entrap the young Prince; he commanded Florizel to part instantly from Perdita, and follow him to the Court; and he threatened the maiden with cruel death if ever she dared henceforth to encourage his son by the slightest word or caress.

The old shepherd was in despair at the King’s displeasure, for it meant ruin to them all, and perhaps a shameful death for himself. Perdita prepared with a breaking heart to give up her lover. She had often warned him what would come of this; she was no fitting mate for a Prince. Her dream of happiness was over.

“Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch further, but milk my ewes and weep,” she murmured sorrowfully.

But Florizel had no intention of giving up the bride to whom he had plighted his troth. Not for Bohemia, nor for all the pomp that the sun saw, or the earth held, or the sea hid, would he break his oath to his beloved.

Camillo, who had remained behind when Polixenes wrathfully departed, tried to reason with the Prince. But Florizel was resolute. For some time, fearing a possible event such as had now happened, he had had a ship prepared for flight, which was riding at anchor close by. He bade Camillo return to Court and inform Polixenes that he had put to sea with Perdita; what course he meant to hold it would be better for Camillo not to know or the Prince to tell.

A plan now occurred to the good Camillo by which he hoped to benefit every one concerned. He still kept a warm feeling of affection for his late master, Leontes, and often during his sixteen years of exile he had longed to return to Sicilia. He now proposed to Florizel that he should carry Perdita to the Court of Leontes, where they would be certain to receive the warmest welcome from the repentant King, who would be anxious to make every possible amends to the son for the way in which he had treated the father. Camillo, meanwhile, would stay with Polixenes, and do everything in his power to soften his resentment and reconcile him to his son’s marriage.

The Oracle Fulfilled

After the departure of Florizel and Perdita, the shepherd’s son, seeing the despair of the old man because of the disgrace he had fallen into, counselled him to go and tell the King that Perdita was no daughter of his.

“There is no other way but to tell the King she is a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood,” he declared. “She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the King, and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her. This being done, let the law go whistle, I warrant you.”

“I will tell the King all, every word,” said the timorous old man. “Yea, and his son’s pranks, too, who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the King’s brother-in-law.”

The worthy rustics at once put their intention into practice, and hearing that the King had already left the palace in pursuit of his son, they followed him to the seaside, to deliver over the things which had been found with the deserted infant.

* * * * *

Since the death of Hermione, Leontes had lived a life of penance and gravity, devoting himself to the memory of his lost wife and son. Some of his councillors would fain have persuaded the King to marry again, but the impetuous lady, Paulina, faithful to her deeply-wronged mistress, declared that there was no lady living that could be compared with her, or was fit to take her position as Queen. Paulina reminded Leontes also of the words of the Oracle, which had said that there would be no heir to the throne until that which was lost was found.

Leontes, who was much more tractable than of old, and who knew now how to value the unflinching honesty of this outspoken lady, replied that he would never marry again until Paulina herself bade him do so.

“That shall be when your first Queen breathes again--never till then,” said Paulina. And matters were in this state when Florizel and Perdita reached Sicilia.

The young pair received the warmest welcome from Leontes, but closely following their arrival came a messenger from Polixenes, begging Leontes to seize hold of the Prince, who, casting off both his dignity and duty, had fled from his father, and from his hopes, with a shepherd’s daughter. Polixenes himself had arrived in Sicilia, bringing with him the old shepherd, the seeming father of Perdita.

But the momentary cloud was soon dispelled, and great and unexpected joy filled the whole country. The things which the aged shepherd had taken to Polixenes furnished full proof that the rescued little babe was no other than the long-lost daughter of Leontes. The mantle of Queen Hermione; her jewel on the neck of it; letters of Antigonus found with it, which they knew to be in his handwriting; the majesty of Perdita herself, which so closely resembled her mother; the nobility of her bearing, which nature showed was above her breeding, and many other evidences, proclaimed her with all certainty to be the King’s daughter.

All was now rejoicing. Bonfires were lighted, and crowds ran about the streets, gossiping over the news, and wondering at all the strange things that were taking place. The meeting of the two Kings, it was reported, was a sight never to be forgotten--such a weeping for joy, casting up of eyes, and holding up of hands. Leontes, overcome with rapture at finding his daughter again, one moment embraced her, the next cried, “O, thy mother, thy mother!” Then he asked forgiveness of Polixenes; then embraced his son-in-law; once more flung his arms round his daughter; now thanked the old shepherd, who stood by like a weather-beaten relic of many Kings’ reigns.

So with Paulina, joy and sorrow strove for utterance at the sight of the young Princess. One moment she wept for the loss of her husband, whom the shepherd’s son had seen killed by the bear, the next she was filled with rapture that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the Princess from the ground, and so locked her in an embrace, as if she would pin her to her heart that she might no more be in danger of losing her.

The Princess was told of her mother’s death, with the manner how she came by it, bravely confessed and lamented by the King himself. Hearing that there was a wonderful statue of the Queen, which had taken many years to make, and which was just completed, and in the keeping of Paulina, Perdita was most desirous to see it, and thither the royal party and all their company of lords and ladies now went.

On arriving at Paulina’s house, Leontes looked all about for the statue, but though Paulina led them through a gallery rich with many rare and beautiful objects, they did not see there what Perdita had come to look upon--the statue of her mother. At last they reached the chapel, and Leontes ventured to remind Paulina of the object of their visit.

“As she lived peerless,” replied Paulina, “so her dead likeness, I do well believe, excels whatever yet you looked upon, or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here it is; prepare to see the life as vividly mocked as ever still sleep mocked death; behold, and say ’tis well!”

Paulina drew back a curtain, and there, beautiful and motionless before their eyes, stood the majestic image of the dead Queen.

For a moment they stood mute and breathless, gazing in amazement, for surely artist’s cunning had never wrought so wonderful a representation of life.

“I like your silence,” said Paulina; “it the more shows off your wonder. But yet, speak. First you, my liege; comes it not something near?”

“Her natural posture!” murmured Leontes. “Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed thou art Hermione; or, rather, thou art she in thy not chiding, for she was as tender as infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing so aged, as this seems.”

“O, not by much,” said Polixenes.

“So much the more our carver’s excellence,” said Paulina, “which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her as if she lived now.”

“As now she might have done,” sighed Leontes. “O, thus she stood, even with such life of majesty, warm life, as now it coldly stands, when first I wooed her!”

“Give me leave,” said Perdita, “and do not say ’tis superstition that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, dear Queen, that ended when I but began, give me that hand of yours to kiss.”

“O, patience!” said Paulina. “The statue is but newly fixed; the colour is not dry.”

She made a movement to draw the curtain, saying that if they looked much longer they would presently think the statue moved. But Leontes implored her to let him gaze at it longer, for the more he did so, the more lifelike it appeared; it seemed to breathe; there was light in the eyes; it recalled to him all his love and sorrow for the lost Hermione.

“Let no man mock me,” he said, “for I will kiss it.”

Paulina begged him to forbear, and again offered to draw the curtain, and again he prevented her.

“Either forbear, and at once leave the chapel, or prepare for further amazement,” said Paulina. “If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, and take you by the hand. But then you’ll think--which I protest against--I am assisted by wicked powers.”

“What you can make her do, I am content to look on,” said Leontes; “what to speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move.”

Then Paulina bade music sound, and as the soft strains floated through the chapel, the statue of Hermione stirred, stepped down from its place, and took Leontes by the hand.

Yes, it was indeed Hermione, living and breathing, as she had parted from her husband sixteen years ago. His long sorrow and penance were over; henceforth he would live in tenderest affection with his deeply-cherished wife.

The faithful Paulina was not left to spend her latter years in loneliness. Antigonus was dead, but Leontes reminded her that as she had found a second wife for him, so he would find a second husband for her.

“I’ll not seek far,” he said, “to find thee an honourable husband, for I partly know his mind. Come, Camillo, and take by the hand this lady, whose worth and honesty are richly noted and here proclaimed by us, a pair of Kings.”

The Comedy of Errors

A Walk through Ephesus

There was once a merchant of Syracuse called Ægeon, who had two baby sons, the one so like the other that it was impossible to tell them apart. At the time these children were born Ægeon was travelling, for his business often compelled him to make long journeys. It happened that on the same day, and in the self-same inn, a poor woman had also twin sons. The parents being extremely poor, and those being the days of slavery, Ægeon bought and brought up these children to attend on his own sons. When they were still quite young, Ægeon and his wife started to return home. On the voyage back a dreadful storm arose; the sailors saved themselves in a boat, but left the merchant, his wife, and the children on the doomed vessel. The wife, seeing the fate that threatened them, bound one of her children and one of the twin slaves to a small mast; the merchant was equally heedful of the other two boys, and the children being thus disposed of, the father and mother also bound themselves one to each mast.

Presently the storm abated; the sun again shone forth, and by his light the merchant saw two ships in the distance, making towards them, one of which seemed to be from Corinth, the other from Epidaurus. But before they could reach them, their own ship was driven violently against a huge rock and split in two. Parents and children were tossed into the sea; the mother and the two elder boys were picked up by the fishermen of Corinth, and at length the merchant and the other boys were rescued by the other ship. The latter would have pursued the fishermen and reft them of their prey, but that their ship was too slow of sail, so that they had to pursue their way homeward.

At eighteen years of age the youngest boy became inquisitive after his brother, and begged his father to let him go in quest of him, taking with him his attendant, who was in the like plight as himself. Ægeon, himself longing to behold once more the wife and son whom he had lost, at last gave a reluctant consent. So Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse departed on their voyage of discovery; but time passed, and they did not return. At last Ægeon determined to go himself in search of them. Five years he spent in furthest Greece, roaming through the bounds of Asia, till at last, coasting homeward, he came to Ephesus, hopeless of finding the lost boys, yet loath to leave unsought either that or any place which harboured men.

It happened at that time, owing to the enmity and discord between the towns of Ephesus and Syracuse, that it had been agreed in solemn synod by the citizens of both to admit no traffic with the adverse town. If any native of Ephesus were seen at Syracuse, or if any native of Syracuse came to the Bay of Ephesus, he was to die, and his goods were to be confiscated at the disposal of the Duke, unless he could levy a thousand marks to pay the penalty and ransom himself.

Ægeon, being a native of Syracuse, on arriving at Ephesus was arrested under this law, and brought before the Duke. His possessions not amounting to the value of even a hundred marks, he was condemned to die. The Duke of Ephesus, on hearing the pitiful tale which Ægeon related, would gladly, out of compassion, have released him, but it was not possible to recall the sentence of death which had been passed, unless the fine were paid. The Duke granted what favour lay in his power, and gave the merchant a day’s grace, bidding him seek all the friends he had in Ephesus, and try to beg or borrow the sum required in order to save his life.

Unknown to Ægeon, it happened that not only the son of whom he was in search, but also the other son whom he had lost years before, was at that time in Ephesus. The latter had been settled there for many years, and was married to a wife called Adriana. Both sons of the merchant were known by the same name--“Antipholus,” and both their slave attendants were called “Dromio.” The resemblance which had been so strong in the infancy of the two sets of twins still continued, and after the arrival in Ephesus of Antipholus and Dromio from Syracuse this resemblance was to lead to endless confusion.

The news that a merchant of Syracuse had been arrested soon spread through the city. Antipholus, who had just arrived after a long journey, was warned by a friendly merchant, who, paying him a large sum of money which he had in keeping for him, counselled Antipholus not to let it be known he came from Syracuse. Antipholus despatched his servant Dromio with the money back to the inn--the “Centaur”--where they were lodging, saying he would return there in an hour to dinner. In the meantime he intended to walk about and view the city, lamenting the while that he had not yet found the lost mother and brother of whom he was in search.

Much to the surprise of Antipholus, he presently saw a man approaching whom he took to be his servant Dromio. As a matter of fact, it was his servant’s twin brother, who, for his part, mistook Antipholus for his own master.

“What now? How chances it you are returned so soon?” demanded Antipholus of Syracuse.

“Returned so soon? Rather approached too late,” retorted Dromio of Ephesus. “The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit, the clock hath struck twelve----” And he went on to say that his mistress was very angry because the dinner was getting cold, and his master had not returned.

“Stop, sir!” said Antipholus, checking his rapid flow of words. “Tell me this, I pray: where have you left the money I gave you?”

“O--sixpence that I had on Wednesday last to pay the saddler for my mistress’s crupper? The saddler had it, sir; I did not keep it.”

“I am not in a sportive humour now,” said Antipholus sternly, for he knew that Dromio was a merry fellow, who loved a jest. “Tell me, and dally not, where is the money? We being strangers here, how dare you trust so great a charge out of your own custody?”

But Dromio persisted that Antipholus had given him no money, and kept on begging him to come home to his wife, who was waiting dinner for him at the Phœnix. Antipholus, at last quite losing his temper at what he imagined was his servant’s impertinence, fell on him and began to beat him, whereupon Dromio took to his heels and disappeared.

“Upon my life,” thought Antipholus, “the villain has been over-reached of all my money. They say this town is full of trickery--such as simple jugglers who deceive the eye, sorcerers and witches, disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, and many such-like sinners. If it prove so, I will the sooner be gone. I’ll go to the Centaur to seek this slave. I greatly fear my money is not safe.”

Adriana, meanwhile, was greatly annoyed with her husband for not returning, and it was useless for her sister Luciana to counsel patience. When Dromio came back, and instead of bringing his master reported his strange behaviour, Adriana became more incensed than ever.

“Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home,” she commanded angrily.

“Go back again, and be new beaten home?” said poor Dromio. “For heaven’s sake, send some other messenger.”

“Hence, prating peasant, fetch thy master home,” cried the irate lady, threatening to strike him.

Dromio thought it discreet to obey, but he went off grumbling.

“You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither; if I continue in this service, you must case me in leather.”

When the man had gone Luciana rebuked her sister for her impatience, saying that probably her husband was kept by business. But Adriana would not be soothed. She was full of jealous anger, declaring that she stayed at home neglected, while her husband amused himself abroad with merry companions; he was certainly tired of her, and had found some one he liked better.

“Self-harming jealousy! Fie, beat it hence!” said Luciana; but Adriana paid no heed to her wise counsels, preferring to make herself unhappy with groundless jealousy.

Antipholus of Syracuse, on reaching the Centaur Inn, found that his gold was perfectly safe, but he was still extremely annoyed with Dromio for his ill-timed jesting, and when the slave appeared, he asked him what he meant by behaving in such a fashion. Was he mad that he had answered him so madly?

Dromio, of course, replied that he had never seen his master since he parted from him until that moment; and he further asked, what did his master mean by such a jest? Enraged by this apparent fresh impudence on the part of his slave, Antipholus began to beat him soundly.

But both master and man were to be still further bewildered, for at this moment up came two ladies, one of whom addressed Antipholus as if he were her husband, and began to reproach him for his unkind behaviour.

“Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown!” she said. “Some other lady has your sweet expression; I am not Adriana nor your wife. The time was once when you would vow that never words were music to your ear, that never object was pleasing to your eye, that never touch was welcome to your hand, that never meat was savoury to your taste, unless I spake, or looked, or touched, or carved it to you. How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it, that you are thus estranged from yourself? Ah, do not tear yourself away from me!”

“Plead you to me, fair dame? I do not know you,” answered the bewildered Antipholus. “I have only been in Ephesus two hours; I am as strange to your town as to your talk; I cannot understand one word of what you say.”

“Fie, brother, how the world is changed with you!” said Luciana. “When were you wont to treat my sister thus? She sent a message by Dromio to tell you to come home to dinner.”

“By Dromio?” said Antipholus.

“By me?” echoed Dromio, who, of course, was not the one she had sent.

“By thee,” retorted Adriana; and she repeated the answer her own servant had brought back.

Antipholus began to think he must be dreaming, and had been married to Adriana in his sleep; but when both the ladies insisted on his going back with them to dinner, he allowed himself to be persuaded, and determined to see what would be the end of this strange adventure.