The Shakespeare Story-Book · Mary Macleod
“HAMLET.”
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.”
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.
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. As for Dromio, he was told to act porter at the gate, and to let no one enter unless he wanted another beating. Confusion worse Confounded Dromio of Ephesus, who for the second time had been sent in search of his master, at last found him. Antipholus of Ephesus had been detained at the shop of a goldsmith, Angelo, who was making a chain for his wife. The chain was not yet completed, but was promised for a little later. Antipholus returned home, bringing with him as guests the goldsmith Angelo and a merchant called Balthazar, but when they reached the house they were refused admittance. No argument or entreaty would induce the porter or the servants inside to open the door. They said their master and Dromio were already at home, and that these must be impostors. Antipholus at last went away in a rage, saying that he would go and dine somewhere else, where he was treated with less disdain.
Ideas discussed in this chapter
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.