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The Shakespeare Story-Book
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.
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.
Meanwhile, inside the house, Luciana was not at all pleased with the way her supposed brother-in-law was behaving to his wife, and when they found themselves alone, she took him to task about it. Antipholus of Syracuse again persisted that Adriana was no wife of his; in fact, he said, he very much preferred Luciana herself. Luciana did not think it right to listen to such speeches, and went off to fetch her sister, leaving Antipholus more than ever charmed with her gentle grace, enchanting beauty, and wise discourse.
While he was musing over this, and thinking it high time that he should leave Ephesus, which seemed to him inhabited by none but witches, Angelo the goldsmith came that way, bringing the chain which Antipholus of Ephesus had ordered as a present for his wife. Antipholus of Syracuse, to whom he handed it in mistake, of course knew nothing about it, and declared he had never ordered it; but Angelo insisted on his keeping it, saying he would come back at five o’clock for the money.
Antipholus had already sent Dromio to find out if there were any ship sailing from Ephesus, for he did not want to stay a single night in such a queer place. He now resolved to go and wait for Dromio in the market, so that they could get off at the first possible moment.
Angelo the goldsmith was in debt to another merchant, and now the creditor began to press for his money. Angelo replied that the very sum he owed was due to him from Antipholus; he expected to receive the money at five o’clock that day, and if the merchant would walk down with him to the house, he would discharge the bond. Antipholus of Ephesus, however, saved them the trouble by walking up at that moment. Angelo asked him for payment for the chain, which, of course, this Antipholus declared he had never had. Angelo protested that he had given it him only half an hour before. Antipholus indignantly denied it.
The merchant creditor now lost patience, thinking Angelo only wished to escape by some false excuse, and he ordered an officer to arrest him. Angelo, feeling that his reputation was at stake, then ordered the officer to arrest Antipholus for not paying him the money for the chain. To add to the confusion, at that moment up came Dromio of Syracuse, who, mistaking this wrong Antipholus for his own master, told him that a ship was just ready to sail, he had got all their goods on board, and the vessel only waited for them and the skipper.
Antipholus of Ephesus thought this was his own Dromio, and that he must be losing his senses, but he had no time to debate the matter now. He bade him hasten home to Adriana and get from her a purse of ducats, which would serve to bail him from arrest. Dromio did as he was told. He rushed to the house, stammered out his confused story, got the purse from Adriana, and was returning with it, when he happened to meet his own master, Antipholus of Syracuse. To him he handed the purse. Antipholus was quite unable to understand this new freak, but not caring to waste time in explanations, asked if any ship were departing that night. Dromio replied that an hour ago he had brought him word that the bark Expedition was just ready to sail, when Antipholus was arrested.
“Here is the money you sent for to deliver you,” he concluded.
“The fellow is distracted, and so am I,” said Antipholus. “We wander here in illusions. Some blessed power deliver us hence!”
Adriana, with Luciana, hastened to the release of her husband, but when they found him he said such strange things – declaring that he had not dined at home, and that he had been locked out of his own house, while she and Luciana knew quite well that he had dined with them – that everyone thought he was mad, and he was bound and carried away home, and put under care of a doctor, his man Dromio being also treated in the same way.
Not long after this, Angelo and his merchant creditor met Antipholus of Syracuse, who this time, instead of denying he had had the chain, at once admitted it. Angelo reproached him with having denied it before. Antipholus declared he had never done so. The merchant said they had heard him with their own ears. The end of the matter was that they all got so angry that they drew their swords and began to fight. Adriana, coming up at that moment, thought it was her husband who had got free from his bondage, and called to the others not to hurt him, he was mad, but to seize him and take away his sword.
Antipholus of Syracuse, seeing that he was likely to be overpowered, slipped with Dromio for refuge inside a Priory, near which they were standing. The Abbess refused to give them up, as they had taken sanctuary there, though Adriana vehemently demanded her husband.
Luciana advised her sister to appeal to the Duke, and as it happened, the Duke himself now approached, on his way to attend the execution of the luckless Ægeon, who up to the present had not been able to obtain the money for his ransom.
Adriana told her story to the Duke, who thereupon commanded that the Lady Abbess should be summoned to his presence. At that instant a servant came rushing up in terror to Adriana saying that his master and Dromio had got loose, and had tied up the doctor, and were beating the servants.
“Peace, fool! Your master and his man are here,” said Adriana. “What you report to us is false.”
But the speedy appearance of Antipholus and Dromio of Ephesus showed that the servant had spoken truth.
“Unless the fear of death makes me doat,” said Ægeon, “I see my son Antipholus and Dromio.”
There was still some further confusion, for this Antipholus had no knowledge of his father. But when Antipholus of Syracuse came from the Priory, and the two sets of brothers stood face to face, matters were soon happily cleared up. To add to the general joy, the good Abbess turned out to be no other than the wife of Ægeon. There was no difficulty now about getting ransom for the merchant, and, in fact, the Duke pardoned his life without accepting the ducats which Antipholus of Ephesus offered.
Antipholus of Syracuse could now pay his court without rebuke to the lady who had so charmed his fancy; and Adriana, to whom the Duke had spoken some plain words, promised to be a less shrewish wife for the future.
Among the gay company none were merrier or more delighted than the two Dromios. They embraced vigorously, and gazed at each other with admiration.
“Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother,” said Dromio of Ephesus. “I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. Will you walk in to see their gossiping?”
But each brother was too modest to walk into the house first, so they settled the difficulty by going in hand in hand, not one before the other.
