Florizel, but all his looks were for Perdita. He saw how much she was
like the Queen Hermione, and said again and again--
“Such a sweet creature my daughter might have been, if I had not cruelly
sent her from me.”
When the old shepherd heard that the King had lost a baby daughter, who
had been left upon the coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that Perdita, the
child he had reared, must be the King's daughter, and when he told
his tale and showed the jewels and the paper, the King perceived that
Perdita was indeed his long-lost child. He welcomed her with joy, and
rewarded the good shepherd.
Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his marriage with
Perdita, but when he found that she was the daughter of his old friend,
he was only too glad to give his consent.
Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remembered how his fair Queen,
who should have been at his side to share his joy in his daughter's
happiness, was dead through his unkindness, and he could say nothing for
a long time but--
“Oh, thy mother! thy mother!” and ask forgiveness of the King of
Bohemia, and then kiss his daughter again, and then the Prince Florizel,
and then thank the old shepherd for all his goodness.
Then Paulina, who had been high all these years in the King's favor,
because of her kindness to the dead Queen Hermione, said--“I have a
statue made in the likeness of the dead Queen, a piece many years in
doing, and performed by the rare Italian master, Giulio Romano. I keep
it in a private house apart, and there, ever since you lost your Queen,
I have gone twice or thrice a day. Will it please your Majesty to go and
see the statue?”
So Leontes and Polixenes, and Florizel and Perdita, with Camillo and
their attendants, went to Paulina's house where there was a heavy purple
curtain screening off an alcove; and Paulina, with her hand on the
curtain, said--
“She was peerless when she was alive, and I do believe that her dead
likeness excels whatever yet you have looked upon, or that the hand
of man hath done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here it
is--behold, and say, 'tis well.”
And with that she drew back the curtain and showed them the statue. The
King gazed and gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead wife, but said
nothing.
“I like your silence,” said Paulina; “it the more shows off your wonder.
But speak, is it not like her?”
“It is almost herself,” said the King, “and yet, Paulina, Hermione was
not so much wrinkled, nothing so old as this seems.”
“Oh, not by much,” said Polixenes.
“Al,” said Paulina, “that is the cleverness of the carver, who shows her
to us as she would have been had she lived till now.”
And still Leontes looked at the statue and could not take his eyes away.
“If I had known,” said Paulina, “that this poor image would so have
stirred your grief, and love, I would not have shown it to you.”
But he only answered, “Do not draw the curtain.”
“No, you must not look any longer,” said Paulina, “or you will think it
moves.”
“Let be! let be!” said the King. “Would you not think it breathed?”
“I will draw the curtain,” said Paulina; “you will think it lives
presently.”
“Ah, sweet Paulina,” said Leontes, “make me to think so twenty years
together.”
“If you can bear it,” said Paulina, “I can make the statue move, make
it come down and take you by the hand. Only you would think it was by
wicked magic.”
“Whatever you can make her do, I am content to look on,” said the King.
And then, all folks there admiring and beholding, the statue moved from
its pedestal, and came down the steps and put its arms round the King's
neck, and he held her face and kissed her many times, for this was
no statue, but the real living Queen Hermione herself. She had lived
hidden, by Paulina's kindness, all these years, and would not discover
herself to her husband, though she knew he had repented, because she
could not quite forgive him till she knew what had become of her little
baby.
Now that Perdita was found, she forgave her husband everything, and it
was like a new and beautiful marriage to them, to be together once more.
Florizel and Perdita were married and lived long and happily.
To Leontes his many years of suffering were well paid for in the moment
when, after long grief and pain, he felt the arms of his true love
around him once again.
KING LEAR
King Lear was old and tired. He was aweary of the business of his
kingdom, and wished only to end his days quietly near his three
daughters. Two of his daughters were married to the Dukes of Albany
and Cornwall; and the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France were both
suitors for the hand of Cordelia, his youngest daughter.
Lear called his three daughters together, and told them that he proposed
to divide his kingdom between them. “But first,” said he, “I should like
to know how much you love me.”
Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, and did not love her father
at all, said she loved him more than words could say; she loved him
dearer than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life, grace, health,
beauty, and honor.
“I love you as much as my sister and more,” professed Regan, “since I
care for nothing but my father's love.”
Lear was very much pleased with Regan's professions, and turned to his
youngest daughter, Cordelia. “Now, our joy, though last not least,” he
said, “the best part of my kingdom have I kept for you. What can you
say?”
“Nothing, my lord,” answered Cordelia.
“Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again,” said the King.
And Cordelia answered, “I love your Majesty according to my duty--no
more, no less.”
And this she said, because she was disgusted with the way in which her
sisters professed love, when really they had not even a right sense of
duty to their old father.
“I am your daughter,” she went on, “and you have brought me up and loved
me, and I return you those duties back as are right and fit, obey you,
love you, and most honor you.”
Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her to make more extravagant
professions of love than her sisters. “Go,” he said, “be for ever a
stranger to my heart and me.”
The Earl of Kent, one of Lear's favorite courtiers and captains, tried
to say a word for Cordelia's sake, but Lear would not listen. He divided
the kingdom between Goneril and Regan, and told them that he should only
keep a hundred knights at arms, and would live with his daughters by
turns.
When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cordelia would have no share of the
kingdom, he gave up his courtship of her. But the King of France was
wiser, and said, “Thy dowerless daughter, King, is Queen of us--of ours,
and our fair France.”
“Take her, take her,” said the King; “for I will never see that face of
hers again.”
So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the Earl of Kent, for having
ventured to take her part, was banished from the kingdom. The King now
went to stay with his daughter Goneril, who had got everything from her
father that he had to give, and now began to grudge even the hundred
knights that he had reserved for himself. She was harsh and undutiful
to him, and her servants either refused to obey his orders or pretended
that they did not hear them.
Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, made as though he would
go into another country, but instead he came back in the disguise of
a servingman and took service with the King. The King had now two
friends--the Earl of Kent, whom he only knew as his servant, and his
Fool, who was faithful to him. Goneril told her father plainly that his
knights only served to fill her Court with riot and feasting; and so she
begged him only to keep a few old men about him such as himself.
“My train are men who know all parts of duty,” said Lear. “Goneril, I
will not trouble you further--yet I have left another daughter.”
And his horses being saddled, he set out with his followers for the
castle of Regan. But she, who had formerly outdone her sister in
professions of attachment to the King, now seemed to outdo her in
undutiful conduct, saying that fifty knights were too many to wait on
him, and Goneril (who had hurried thither to prevent Regan showing any
kindness to the old King) said five were too many, since her servants
could wait on him.
Then when Lear saw that what they really wanted was to drive him away,
he left them. It was a wild and stormy night, and he wandered about the
heath half mad with misery, and with no companion but the poor Fool.
But presently his servant, the good Earl of Kent, met him, and at last
persuaded him to lie down in a wretched little hovel. At daybreak the
Earl of Kent removed his royal master to Dover, and hurried to the Court
of France to tell Cordelia what had happened.
Cordelia's husband gave her an army and with it she landed at Dover.
Here she found poor King Lear, wandering about the fields, wearing a
crown of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and fed and clothed
him, and Cordelia came to him and kissed him.
“You must bear with me,” said Lear; “forget and forgive. I am old and
foolish.”
And now he knew at last which of his children it was that had loved him
best, and who was worthy of his love.
Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight Cordelia's army, and were
successful; and Cordelia and her father were thrown into prison. Then
Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany, who was a good man, and had not
known how wicked his wife was, heard the truth of the whole story; and
when Goneril found that her husband knew her for the wicked woman she
was, she killed herself, having a little time before given a deadly
poison to her sister, Regan, out of a spirit of jealousy.
But they had arranged that Cordelia should be hanged in prison, and
though the Duke of Albany sent messengers at once, it was too late. The
old King came staggering into the tent of the Duke of Albany, carrying
the body of his dear daughter Cordelia, in his arms.
And soon after, with words of love for her upon his lips, he fell with
her still in his arms, and died.
TWELFTH NIGHT
Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, was deeply in love with a beautiful
Countess named Olivia. Yet was all his love in vain, for she disdained
his suit; and when her brother died, she sent back a messenger from the
Duke, bidding him tell his master that for seven years she would not
let the very air behold her face, but that, like a nun, she would walk
veiled; and all this for the sake of a dead brother's love, which she
would keep fresh and lasting in her sad remembrance.
The Duke longed for someone to whom he could tell his sorrow, and repeat
over and over again the story of his love. And chance brought him such a
companion. For about this time a goodly ship was wrecked on the Illyrian
coast, and among those who reached land in safety were the captain and
a fair young maid, named Viola. But she was little grateful for being
rescued from the perils of the sea, since she feared that her twin
brother was drowned, Sebastian, as dear to her as the heart in her
bosom, and so like her that, but for the difference in their manner of
dress, one could hardly be told from the other. The captain, for her
comfort, told her that he had seen her brother bind himself “to a strong
mast that lived upon the sea,” and that thus there was hope that he
might be saved.
Viola now asked in whose country she was, and learning that the young
Duke Orsino ruled there, and was as noble in his nature as in his name,
she decided to disguise herself in male attire, and seek for employment
with him as a page.
In this she succeeded, and now from day to day she had to listen to the
story of Orsino's love. At first she sympathized very truly with him,
but soon her sympathy grew to love. At last it occurred to Orsino that
his hopeless love-suit might prosper better if he sent this pretty lad
to woo Olivia for him. Viola unwillingly went on this errand, but when
she came to the house, Malvolio, Olivia's steward, a vain, officious
man, sick, as his mistress told him, of self-love, forbade the messenger
admittance.
Viola, however (who was now called Cesario), refused to take any denial,
and vowed to have speech with the Countess. Olivia, hearing how her
instructions were defied and curious to see this daring youth, said,
“We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.”
When Viola was admitted to her presence and the servants had been sent
away, she listened patiently to the reproaches which this bold messenger
from the Duke poured upon her, and listening she fell in love with the
supposed Cesario; and when Cesario had gone, Olivia longed to send some
love-token after him. So, calling Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy.
“He left this ring behind him,” she said, taking one from her finger.
“Tell him I will none of it.”
Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew perfectly
well that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a woman's quickness
that Olivia loved her. Then she went back to the Duke, very sad at heart
for her lover, and for Olivia, and for herself.
It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to ease
the pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while Cesario
stood by his side.
“Ah,” said the Duke to his page that night, “you too have been in love.”
“A little,” answered Viola.
“What kind of woman is it?” he asked.
“Of your complexion,” she answered.
“What years, i' faith?” was his next question.
To this came the pretty answer, “About your years, my lord.”
“Too old, by Heaven!” cried the Duke. “Let still the woman take an elder
than herself.”
And Viola very meekly said, “I think it well, my lord.”
By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and to plead
his love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said--
“If some lady loved you as you love Olivia?”
“Ah! that cannot be,” said the Duke.
“But I know,” Viola went on, “what love woman may have for a man. My
father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be,” she added blushing,
“perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship.”
“And what is her history?” he asked.
“A blank, my lord,” Viola answered. “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. Was not this love indeed?”
“But died thy sister of her love, my boy?” the Duke asked; and Viola,
who had all the time been telling her own love for him in this pretty
fashion, said--
“I am all the daughters my father has and all the brothers-- Sir, shall
I go to the lady?”
“To her in haste,” said the Duke, at once forgetting all about the
story, “and give her this jewel.”
So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was unable to hide her love,
and openly confessed it with such passionate truth, that Viola left her
hastily, saying--
“Nevermore will I deplore my master's tears to you.”
But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender pity she would feel
for other's suffering. So when Olivia, in the violence of her love,
sent a messenger, praying Cesario to visit her once more, Cesario had no
heart to refuse the request.
But the favors which Olivia bestowed upon this mere page aroused the
jealousy of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a foolish, rejected lover of hers, who
at that time was staying at her house with her merry old uncle Sir Toby.
This same Sir Toby dearly loved a practical joke, and knowing Sir Andrew
to be an arrant coward, he thought that if he could bring off a duel
between him and Cesario, there would be rare sport indeed. So he induced
Sir Andrew to send a challenge, which he himself took to Cesario. The
poor page, in great terror, said--
“I will return again to the house, I am no fighter.”
“Back you shall not to the house,” said Sir Toby, “unless you fight me
first.”
And as he looked a very fierce old gentleman, Viola thought it best to
await Sir Andrew's coming; and when he at last made his appearance, in
a great fright, if the truth had been known, she tremblingly drew her
sword, and Sir Andrew in like fear followed her example. Happily for
them both, at this moment some officers of the Court came on the scene,
and stopped the intended duel. Viola gladly made off with what speed she
might, while Sir Toby called after her--
“A very paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare!”
Now, while these things were happening, Sebastian had escaped all
the dangers of the deep, and had landed safely in Illyria, where he
determined to make his way to the Duke's Court. On his way thither he
passed Olivia's house just as Viola had left it in such a hurry, and
whom should he meet but Sir Andrew and Sir Toby. Sir Andrew, mistaking
Sebastian for the cowardly Cesario, took his courage in both hands, and
walking up to him struck him, saying, “There's for you.”
“Why, there's for you; and there, and there!” said Sebastian, bitting
back a great deal harder, and again and again, till Sir Toby came to
the rescue of his friend. Sebastian, however, tore himself free from Sir
Toby's clutches, and drawing his sword would have fought them both, but
that Olivia herself, having heard of the quarrel, came running in, and
with many reproaches sent Sir Toby and his friend away. Then turning
to Sebastian, whom she too thought to be Cesario, she besought him with
many a pretty speech to come into the house with her.
Sebastian, half dazed and all delighted with her beauty and grace,
readily consented, and that very day, so great was Olivia's baste,
they were married before she had discovered that he was not Cesario, or
Sebastian was quite certain whether or not he was in a dream.
Meanwhile Orsino, hearing how ill Cesario sped with Olivia, visited her
himself, taking Cesario with him. Olivia met them both before her
door, and seeing, as she thought, her husband there, reproached him for
leaving her, while to the Duke she said that his suit was as fat and
wholesome to her as howling after music.
“Still so cruel?” said Orsino.
“Still so constant,” she answered.
Then Orsino's anger growing to cruelty, he vowed that, to be revenged on
her, he would kill Cesario, whom he knew she loved. “Come, boy,” he said
to the page.
And Viola, following him as he moved away, said, “I, to do you rest, a
thousand deaths would die.”
A great fear took hold on Olivia, and she cried aloud, “Cesario,
husband, stay!”
“Her husband?” asked the Duke angrily.
“No, my lord, not I,” said Viola.
“Call forth the holy father,” cried Olivia.
And the priest who had married Sebastian and Olivia, coming in, declared
Cesario to be the bridegroom.
“O thou dissembling cub!” the Duke exclaimed. “Farewell, and take her,
but go where thou and I henceforth may never meet.”
At this moment Sir Andrew came up with bleeding crown, complaining that
Cesario had broken his head, and Sir Toby's as well.
“I never hurt you,” said Viola, very positively; “you drew your sword on
me, but I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.”
Yet, for all her protesting, no one there believed her; but all their
thoughts were on a sudden changed to wonder, when Sebastian came in.
“I am sorry, madam,” he said to his wife, “I have hurt your kinsman.
Pardon me, sweet, even for the vows we made each other so late ago.”
“One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!” cried the Duke,
looking first at Viola, and then at Sebastian.
“An apple cleft in two,” said one who knew Sebastian, “is not more twin
than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?”
“I never had a brother,” said Sebastian. “I had a sister, whom the blind
waves and surges have devoured.” “Were you a woman,” he said to Viola,
“I should let my tears fall upon your cheek, and say, 'Thrice welcome,
drowned Viola!'”
Then Viola, rejoicing to see her dear brother alive, confessed that she
was indeed his sister, Viola. As she spoke, Orsino felt the pity that is
akin to love.
“Boy,” he said, “thou hast said to me a thousand times thou never
shouldst love woman like to me.”
“And all those sayings will I overswear,” Viola replied, “and all those
swearings keep true.”
“Give me thy hand,” Orsino cried in gladness. “Thou shalt be my wife,
and my fancy's queen.”
Thus was the gentle Viola made happy, while Olivia found in Sebastian
a constant lover, and a good husband, and he in her a true and loving
wife.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
In Sicily is a town called Messina, which is the scene of a curious
storm in a teacup that raged several hundred years ago.
It began with sunshine. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon, in Spain, had
gained so complete a victory over his foes that the very land whence
they came is forgotten. Feeling happy and playful after the fatigues of
war, Don Pedro came for a holiday to Messina, and in his suite were his
stepbrother Don John and two young Italian lords, Benedick and Claudio.
Benedick was a merry chatterbox, who had determined to live a bachelor.
Claudio, on the other hand, no sooner arrived at Messina than he fell in
love with Hero, the daughter of Leonato, Governor of Messina.
One July day, a perfumer called Borachio was burning dried lavender in
a musty room in Leonato's house, when the sound of conversation floated
through the open window.
“Give me your candid opinion of Hero,” Claudio, asked, and Borachio
settled himself for comfortable listening.
“Too short and brown for praise,” was Benedick's reply; “but alter her
color or height, and you spoil her.”
“In my eyes she is the sweetest of women,” said Claudio.
“Not in mine,” retorted Benedick, “and I have no need for glasses. She
is like the last day of December compared with the first of May if you
set her beside her cousin. Unfortunately, the Lady Beatrice is a fury.”
Beatrice was Leonato's niece. She amused herself by saying witty and
severe things about Benedick, who called her Dear Lady Disdain. She
was wont to say that she was born under a dancing star, and could not
therefore be dull.
Claudio and Benedick were still talking when Don Pedro came up and said
good-humoredly, “Well, gentlemen, what's the secret?”
“I am longing,” answered Benedick, “for your Grace to command me to
tell.”
“I charge you, then, on your allegiance to tell me,” said Don Pedro,
falling in with his humor.
“I can be as dumb as a mute,” apologized Benedick to Claudio, “but his
Grace commands my speech.” To Don Pedro he said, “Claudio is in love
with Hero, Leonato's short daughter.”
Don Pedro was pleased, for he admired Hero and was fond of Claudio. When
Benedick had departed, he said to Claudio, “Be steadfast in your love
for Hero, and I will help you to win her. To-night her father gives a
masquerade, and I will pretend I am Claudio, and tell her how Claudio
loves her, and if she be pleased, I will go to her father and ask his
consent to your union.”
Most men like to do their own wooing, but if you fall in love with a
Governor's only daughter, you are fortunate if you can trust a prince to
plead for you.
Claudio then was fortunate, but he was unfortunate as well, for he
had an enemy who was outwardly a friend. This enemy was Don Pedro's
stepbrother Don John, who was jealous of Claudio because Don Pedro
preferred him to Don John.
It was to Don John that Borachio came with the interesting conversation
which he had overheard.
“I shall have some fun at that masquerade myself,” said Don John when
Borachio ceased speaking.
On the night of the masquerade, Don Pedro, masked and pretending he was
Claudio, asked Hero if he might walk with her.
They moved away together, and Don John went up to Claudio and said,
“Signor Benedick, I believe?” “The same,” fibbed Claudio.
“I should be much obliged then,” said Don John, “if you would use your
influence with my brother to cure him of his love for Hero. She is
beneath him in rank.”
“How do you know he loves her?” inquired Claudio.
“I heard him swear his affection,” was the reply, and Borachio chimed in
with, “So did I too.”
Claudio was then left to himself, and his thought was that his Prince
had betrayed him. “Farewell, Hero,” he muttered; “I was a fool to trust
to an agent.”
Meanwhile Beatrice and Benedick (who was masked) were having a brisk
exchange of opinions.
“Did Benedick ever make you laugh?” asked she.
“Who is Benedick?” he inquired.
“A Prince's jester,” replied Beatrice, and she spoke so sharply that “I
would not marry her,” he declared afterwards, “if her estate were the
Garden of Eden.”
But the principal speaker at the masquerade was neither Beatrice nor
Benedick. It was Don Pedro, who carried out his plan to the letter, and
brought the light back to Claudio's face in a twinkling, by appearing
before him with Leonato and Hero, and saying, “Claudio, when would you
like to go to church?”