Antiochus, the powerful and wicked King of Antioch; and so great was the
danger in which he stood that, on the advice of his trusty counselor,
Lord Helicanus, he determined to travel about the world for a time. He
came to this decision despite the fact that, by the death of his father,
he was now King of Tyre. So he set sail for Tarsus, appointing Helicanus
Regent during his absence. That he did wisely in thus leaving his
kingdom was soon made clear.
Hardly had he sailed on his voyage, when Lord Thaliard arrived from
Antioch with instructions from his royal master to kill Pericles. The
faithful Helicanus soon discovered the deadly purpose of this wicked
lord, and at once sent messengers to Tarsus to warn the King of the
danger which threatened him.
The people of Tarsus were in such poverty and distress that Pericles,
feeling that he could find no safe refuge there, put to sea again. But
a dreadful storm overtook the ship in which he was, and the good vessel
was wrecked, while of all on board only Pericles was saved. Bruised
and wet and faint, he was flung upon the cruel rocks on the coast of
Pentapolis, the country of the good King Simonides. Worn out as he was,
he looked for nothing but death, and that speedily. But some fishermen,
coming down to the beach, found him there, and gave him clothes and bade
him be of good cheer.
“Thou shalt come home with me,” said one of them, “and we will have
flesh for holidays, fish for fasting days, and moreo'er, puddings and
flapjacks, and thou shalt be welcome.”
They told him that on the morrow many princes and knights were going
to the King's Court, there to joust and tourney for the love of his
daughter, the beautiful Princess Thaisa.
“Did but my fortunes equal my desires,” said Pericles, “I'd wish to make
one there.”
As he spoke, some of the fishermen came by, drawing their net, and it
dragged heavily, resisting all their efforts, but at last they hauled it
in, to find that it contained a suit of rusty armor; and looking at it,
he blessed Fortune for her kindness, for he saw that it was his own,
which had been given to him by his dead father. He begged the fishermen
to let him have it that he might go to Court and take part in the
tournament, promising that if ever his ill fortunes bettered, he would
reward them well. The fishermen readily consented, and being thus fully
equipped, Pericles set off in his rusty armor to the King's Court.
In the tournament none bore himself so well as Pericles, and he won the
wreath of victory, which the fair Princess herself placed on his brows.
Then at her father's command she asked him who he was, and whence he
came; and he answered that he was a knight of Tyre, by name Pericles,
but he did not tell her that he was the King of that country, for he
knew that if once his whereabouts became known to Antiochus, his life
would not be worth a pin's purchase.
Nevertheless Thaisa loved him dearly, and the King was so pleased with
his courage and graceful bearing that he gladly permitted his daughter
to have her own way, when she told him she would marry the stranger
knight or die.
Thus Pericles became the husband of the fair lady for whose sake he
had striven with the knights who came in all their bravery to joust and
tourney for her love.
Meanwhile the wicked King Antiochus had died, and the people in Tyre,
hearing no news of their King, urged Lord Helicanus to ascend the vacant
throne. But they could only get him to promise that he would become
their King, if at the end of a year Pericles did not come back.
Moreover, he sent forth messengers far and wide in search of the missing
Pericles.
Some of these made their way to Pentapolis, and finding their King
there, told him how discontented his people were at his long absence,
and that, Antiochus being dead, there was nothing now to hinder him from
returning to his kingdom. Then Pericles told his wife and father-in-law
who he really was, and they and all the subjects of Simonides greatly
rejoiced to know that the gallant husband of Thaisa was a King in his
own right. So Pericles set sail with his dear wife for his native land.
But once more the sea was cruel to him, for again a dreadful storm broke
out, and while it was at its height, a servant came to tell him that
a little daughter was born to him. This news would have made his heart
glad indeed, but that the servant went on to add that his wife--his
dear, dear Thaisa--was dead.
While he was praying the gods to be good to his little baby girl,
the sailors came to him, declaring that the dead Queen must be thrown
overboard, for they believed that the storm would never cease so long
as a dead body remained in the vessel. So Thaisa was laid in a big chest
with spices and jewels, and a scroll on which the sorrowful King wrote
these lines:
“Here I give to understand
(If e'er this coffin drive a-land),
I, King Pericles, have lost
This Queen worth all our mundane cost.
Who finds her, give her burying;
She was the daughter of a King;
Besides this treasure for a fee,
The gods requite his charity!”
Then the chest was cast into the sea, and the waves taking it, by and
by washed it ashore at Ephesus, where it was found by the servants of a
lord named Cerimon. He at once ordered it to be opened, and when he
saw how lovely Thaisa looked, he doubted if she were dead, and took
immediate steps to restore her. Then a great wonder happened, for she,
who had been thrown into the sea as dead, came back to life. But feeling
sure that she would never see her husband again, Thaisa retired from the
world, and became a priestess of the Goddess Diana.
While these things were happening, Pericles went on to Tarsus with his
little daughter, whom he called Marina, because she had been born at
sea. Leaving her in the hands of his old friend the Governor of Tarsus,
the King sailed for his own dominions.
Now Dionyza, the wife of the Governor of Tarsus, was a jealous and
wicked woman, and finding that the young Princess grew up a more
accomplished and charming girl than her own daughter, she determined to
take Marina's life. So when Marina was fourteen, Dionyza ordered one of
her servants to take her away and kill her. This villain would have done
so, but that he was interrupted by some pirates who came in and carried
Marina off to sea with them, and took her to Mitylene, where they sold
her as a slave. Yet such was her goodness, her grace, and her beauty,
that she soon became honored there, and Lysimachus, the young Governor,
fell deep in love with her, and would have married her, but that he
thought she must be of too humble parentage to become the wife of one in
his high position.
The wicked Dionyza believed, from her servant's report, that Marina was
really dead, and so she put up a monument to her memory, and showed it
to King Pericles, when after long years of absence he came to see
his much-loved child. When he heard that she was dead, his grief was
terrible to see. He set sail once more, and putting on sackcloth, vowed
never to wash his face or cut his hair again. There was a pavilion
erected on deck, and there he lay alone, and for three months he spoke
word to none.
At last it chanced that his ship came into the port of Mitylene, and
Lysimachus, the Governor, went on board to enquire whence the vessel
came. When he heard the story of Pericles' sorrow and silence, he
bethought him of Marina, and believing that she could rouse the King
from his stupor, sent for her and bade her try her utmost to persuade
the King to speak, promising whatever reward she would, if she
succeeded. Marina gladly obeyed, and sending the rest away, she sat and
sang to her poor grief-laden father, yet, sweet as was her voice, he
made no sign. So presently she spoke to him, saying that her grief might
equal his, for, though she was a slave, she came from ancestors that
stood equal to mighty kings.
Something in her voice and story touched the King's heart, and he looked
up at her, and as he looked, he saw with wonder how like she was to his
lost wife, so with a great hope springing up in his heart, he bade her
tell her story.
Then, with many interruptions from the King, she told him who she was
and how she had escaped from the cruel Dionyza. So Pericles knew that
this was indeed his daughter, and he kissed her again and again, crying
that his great seas of joy drowned him with their sweetness. “Give me my
robes,” he said: “O Heaven, bless my girl!”
Then there came to him, though none else could hear it, the sound of
heavenly music, and falling asleep, he beheld the goddess Diana, in a
vision.
“Go,” she said to him, “to my temple at Ephesus, and when my maiden
priests are met together, reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife.”
Pericles obeyed the goddess and told his tale before her altar. Hardly
had he made an end, when the chief priestess, crying out, “You are--you
are--O royal Pericles!” fell fainting to the ground, and presently
recovering, she spoke again to him, “O my lord, are you not Pericles?”
“The voice of dead Thaisa!” exclaimed the King in wonder. “That Thaisa
am I,” she said, and looking at her he saw that she spoke the very
truth.
Thus Pericles and Thaisa, after long and bitter suffering, found
happiness once more, and in the joy of their meeting they forgot the
pain of the past. To Marina great happiness was given, and not only
in being restored to her dear parents; for she married Lysimachus, and
became a princess in the land where she had been sold as a slave.
HAMLET
Hamlet was the only son of the King of Denmark. He loved his father and
mother dearly--and was happy in the love of a sweet lady named Ophelia.
Her father, Polonius, was the King's Chamberlain.
While Hamlet was away studying at Wittenberg, his father died. Young
Hamlet hastened home in great grief to hear that a serpent had stung
the King, and that he was dead. The young Prince had loved his father so
tenderly that you may judge what he felt when he found that the Queen,
before yet the King had been laid in the ground a month, had determined
to marry again--and to marry the dead King's brother.
Hamlet refused to put off mourning for the wedding.
“It is not only the black I wear on my body,” he said, “that proves my
loss. I wear mourning in my heart for my dead father. His son at least
remembers him, and grieves still.”
Then said Claudius the King's brother, “This grief is unreasonable. Of
course you must sorrow at the loss of your father, but--”
“Ah,” said Hamlet, bitterly, “I cannot in one little month forget those
I love.”
With that the Queen and Claudius left him, to make merry over their
wedding, forgetting the poor good King who had been so kind to them
both.
And Hamlet, left alone, began to wonder and to question as to what he
ought to do. For he could not believe the story about the snake-bite.
It seemed to him all too plain that the wicked Claudius had killed the
King, so as to get the crown and marry the Queen. Yet he had no proof,
and could not accuse Claudius.
And while he was thus thinking came Horatio, a fellow student of his,
from Wittenberg.
“What brought you here?” asked Hamlet, when he had greeted his friend
kindly.
“I came, my lord, to see your father's funeral.”
“I think it was to see my mother's wedding,” said Hamlet, bitterly. “My
father! We shall not look upon his like again.”
“My lord,” answered Horatio, “I think I saw him yesternight.”
Then, while Hamlet listened in surprise, Horatio told how he, with two
gentlemen of the guard, had seen the King's ghost on the battlements.
Hamlet went that night, and true enough, at midnight, the ghost of the
King, in the armor he had been wont to wear, appeared on the battlements
in the chill moonlight. Hamlet was a brave youth. Instead of running
away from the ghost he spoke to it--and when it beckoned him he followed
it to a quiet place, and there the ghost told him that what he had
suspected was true. The wicked Claudius had indeed killed his good
brother the King, by dropping poison into his ear as he slept in his
orchard in the afternoon.
“And you,” said the ghost, “must avenge this cruel murder-- on my wicked
brother. But do nothing against the Queen-- for I have loved her, and
she is your mother. Remember me.”
Then seeing the morning approach, the ghost vanished.
“Now,” said Hamlet, “there is nothing left but revenge. Remember thee--I
will remember nothing else--books, pleasure, youth--let all go--and your
commands alone live on my brain.”
So when his friends came back he made them swear to keep the secret of
the ghost, and then went in from the battlements, now gray with mingled
dawn and moonlight, to think how he might best avenge his murdered
father.
The shock of seeing and hearing his father's ghost made him feel almost
mad, and for fear that his uncle might notice that he was not himself,
he determined to hide his mad longing for revenge under a pretended
madness in other matters.
And when he met Ophelia, who loved him--and to whom he had given gifts,
and letters, and many loving words--he behaved so wildly to her, that
she could not but think him mad. For she loved him so that she could not
believe he would be as cruel as this, unless he were quite mad. So she
told her father, and showed him a pretty letter from Hamlet. And in the
letter was much folly, and this pretty verse--
“Doubt that the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”
And from that time everyone believed that the cause of Hamlet's supposed
madness was love.
Poor Hamlet was very unhappy. He longed to obey his father's ghost--and
yet he was too gentle and kindly to wish to kill another man, even his
father's murderer. And sometimes he wondered whether, after all, the
ghost spoke truly.
Just at this time some actors came to the Court, and Hamlet ordered them
to perform a certain play before the King and Queen. Now, this play
was the story of a man who had been murdered in his garden by a near
relation, who afterwards married the dead man's wife.
You may imagine the feelings of the wicked King, as he sat on his
throne, with the Queen beside him and all his Court around, and saw,
acted on the stage, the very wickedness that he had himself done. And
when, in the play, the wicked relation poured poison into the ear of the
sleeping man, the wicked Claudius suddenly rose, and staggered from the
room--the Queen and others following.
Then said Hamlet to his friends--
“Now I am sure the ghost spoke true. For if Claudius had not done this
murder, he could not have been so distressed to see it in a play.”
Now the Queen sent for Hamlet, by the King's desire, to scold him
for his conduct during the play, and for other matters; and Claudius,
wishing to know exactly what happened, told old Polonius to hide himself
behind the hangings in the Queen's room. And as they talked, the Queen
got frightened at Hamlet's rough, strange words, and cried for help, and
Polonius behind the curtain cried out too. Hamlet, thinking it was the
King who was hidden there, thrust with his sword at the hangings, and
killed, not the King, but poor old Polonius.
So now Hamlet had offended his uncle and his mother, and by bad hap
killed his true love's father.
“Oh! what a rash and bloody deed is this,” cried the Queen.
And Hamlet answered bitterly, “Almost as bad as to kill a king, and
marry his brother.” Then Hamlet told the Queen plainly all his thoughts
and how he knew of the murder, and begged her, at least, to have no more
friendship or kindness of the base Claudius, who had killed the good
King. And as they spoke the King's ghost again appeared before Hamlet,
but the Queen could not see it. So when the ghost had gone, they parted.
When the Queen told Claudius what had passed, and how Polonius was dead,
he said, “This shows plainly that Hamlet is mad, and since he has killed
the Chancellor, it is for his own safety that we must carry out our
plan, and send him away to England.”
So Hamlet was sent, under charge of two courtiers who served the King,
and these bore letters to the English Court, requiring that Hamlet
should be put to death. But Hamlet had the good sense to get at these
letters, and put in others instead, with the names of the two courtiers
who were so ready to betray him. Then, as the vessel went to England,
Hamlet escaped on board a pirate ship, and the two wicked courtiers left
him to his fate, and went on to meet theirs.
Hamlet hurried home, but in the meantime a dreadful thing had happened.
Poor pretty Ophelia, having lost her lover and her father, lost her wits
too, and went in sad madness about the Court, with straws, and weeds,
and flowers in her hair, singing strange scraps of songs, and talking
poor, foolish, pretty talk with no heart of meaning to it. And one
day, coming to a stream where willows grew, she tried to bang a flowery
garland on a willow, and fell into the water with all her flowers, and
so died.
And Hamlet had loved her, though his plan of seeming madness had made
him hide it; and when he came back, he found the King and Queen, and the
Court, weeping at the funeral of his dear love and lady.
Ophelia's brother, Laertes, had also just come to Court to ask justice
for the death of his father, old Polonius; and now, wild with grief, he
leaped into his sister's grave, to clasp her in his arms once more.
“I loved her more than forty thousand brothers,” cried Hamlet, and leapt
into the grave after him, and they fought till they were parted.
Afterwards Hamlet begged Laertes to forgive him.
“I could not bear,” he said, “that any, even a brother, should seem to
love her more than I.”
But the wicked Claudius would not let them be friends. He told Laertes
how Hamlet had killed old Polonius, and between them they made a plot to
slay Hamlet by treachery.
Laertes challenged him to a fencing match, and all the Court were
present. Hamlet had the blunt foil always used in fencing, but Laertes
had prepared for himself a sword, sharp, and tipped with poison. And the
wicked King had made ready a bowl of poisoned wine, which he meant
to give poor Hamlet when he should grow warm with the sword play, and
should call for drink.
So Laertes and Hamlet fought, and Laertes, after some fencing, gave
Hamlet a sharp sword thrust. Hamlet, angry at this treachery--for
they had been fencing, not as men fight, but as they play--closed with
Laertes in a struggle; both dropped their swords, and when they picked
them up again, Hamlet, without noticing it, had exchanged his own blunt
sword for Laertes' sharp and poisoned one. And with one thrust of it he
pierced Laertes, who fell dead by his own treachery.
At this moment the Queen cried out, “The drink, the drink! Oh, my dear
Hamlet! I am poisoned!”
She had drunk of the poisoned bowl the King had prepared for Hamlet, and
the King saw the Queen, whom, wicked as he was, he really loved, fall
dead by his means.
Then Ophelia being dead, and Polonius, and the Queen, and Laertes, and
the two courtiers who had been sent to England, Hamlet at last found
courage to do the ghost's bidding and avenge his father's murder--which,
if he had braced up his heart to do long before, all these lives
had been spared, and none had suffered but the wicked King, who well
deserved to die.
Hamlet, his heart at last being great enough to do the deed he ought,
turned the poisoned sword on the false King.
“Then--venom--do thy work!” he cried, and the King died.
So Hamlet in the end kept the promise he had made his father. And all
being now accomplished, he himself died. And those who stood by saw him
die, with prayers and tears, for his friends and his people loved him
with their whole hearts. Thus ends the tragic tale of Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark.
CYMBELINE
Cymbeline was the King of Britain. He had three children. The two sons
were stolen away from him when they were quite little children, and he
was left with only one daughter, Imogen. The King married a second
time, and brought up Leonatus, the son of a dear friend, as Imogen's
playfellow; and when Leonatus was old enough, Imogen secretly married
him. This made the King and Queen very angry, and the King, to punish
Leonatus, banished him from Britain.
Poor Imogen was nearly heart-broken at parting from Leonatus, and he was
not less unhappy. For they were not only lovers and husband and wife,
but they had been friends and comrades ever since they were quite little
children. With many tears and kisses they said “Good-bye.” They promised
never to forget each other, and that they would never care for anyone
else as long as they lived.
“This diamond was my mother's, love,” said Imogen; “take it, my heart,
and keep it as long as you love me.”
“Sweetest, fairest,” answered Leonatus, “wear this bracelet for my
sake.”
“Ah!” cried Imogen, weeping, “when shall we meet again?”
And while they were still in each other's arms, the King came in, and
Leonatus had to leave without more farewell.
When he was come to Rome, where he had gone to stay with an old friend
of his father's, he spent his days still in thinking of his dear Imogen,
and his nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some Italian and
French noblemen were talking of their sweethearts, and swearing that
they were the most faithful and honorable and beautiful ladies in the
world. And a Frenchman reminded Leonatus how he had said many times that
his wife Imogen was more fair, wise, and constant than any of the ladies
in France.
“I say so still,” said Leonatus.
“She is not so good but that she would deceive,” said Iachimo, one of
the Italian nobles.
“She never would deceive,” said Leonatus.
“I wager,” said Iachimo, “that, if I go to Britain, I can persuade your
wife to do whatever I wish, even if it should be against your wishes.”
“That you will never do,” said Leonatus. “I wager this ring upon my
finger,” which was the very ring Imogen had given him at parting, “that
my wife will keep all her vows to me, and that you will never persuade
her to do otherwise.”
So Iachimo wagered half his estate against the ring on Leonatus's
finger, and started forthwith for Britain, with a letter of introduction
to Leonatus's wife. When he reached there he was received with all
kindness; but he was still determined to win his wager.
He told Imogen that her husband thought no more of her, and went on to
tell many cruel lies about him. Imogen listened at first, but presently
perceived what a wicked person Iachimo was, and ordered him to leave
her. Then he said--
“Pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is untrue. I only told you
this to see whether you would believe me, or whether you were as much to
be trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive me?”
“I forgive you freely,” said Imogen.
“Then,” went on Iachimo, “perhaps you will prove it by taking charge of
a trunk, containing a number of jewels which your husband and I and some
other gentlemen have bought as a present for the Emperor of Rome.”
“I will indeed,” said Imogen, “do anything for my husband and a friend
of my husband's. Have the jewels sent into my room, and I will take care
of them.”
“It is only for one night,” said Iachimo, “for I leave Britain again
to-morrow.”
So the trunk was carried into Imogen's room, and that night she went to
bed and to sleep. When she was fast asleep, the lid of the trunk opened
and a man got out. It was Iachimo. The story about the jewels was as
untrue as the rest of the things he had said. He had only wished to get
into her room to win his wicked wager. He looked about him and noticed
the furniture, and then crept to the side of the bed where Imogen
was asleep and took from her arm the gold bracelet which had been the
parting gift of her husband. Then he crept back to the trunk, and next
morning sailed for Rome.
When he met Leonatus, he said--
“I have been to Britain and I have won the wager, for your wife no
longer thinks about you. She stayed talking with me all one night in her
room, which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chimney-piece, and
silver andirons in the shape of two winking Cupids.”
“I do not believe she has forgotten me; I do not believe she stayed
talking with you in her room. You have heard her room described by the
servants.”
“Ah!” said Iachimo, “but she gave me this bracelet. 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.”
“Take the ring,” cried Leonatus, “you have won; and you might have
won my life as well, for I care nothing for it now I know my lady has
forgotten me.”
And mad with anger, he wrote letters to Britain to his old servant,
Pisanio, ordering him to take Imogen to Milford Haven, and to murder
her, because she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At the same
time he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her to go with Pisanio, his old
servant, to Milford Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there to
meet her.