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.