The Shakespeare Story-Book

Page 242.

“Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!”

INTRODUCTION

Literary critics have many times during the past two thousand years waged battle with one another over the question whether drama owes its excellence chiefly to plot or chiefly to character. Is it the business of the dramatist, critics ask successively through the ages, to inspire the playgoer with a deeper interest in the external circumstances which mould the fortunes of his heroes and heroines than in their individual temperaments and the inner workings of their minds and hearts? But critics commonly “count it a bondage to fix a belief,” and after clothing their question in the complexity of disquisition, they rarely “stay” for a clear and decisive answer. The glimmering light of dialectics usually involves in shadow one or other commanding phase of the problem. To the plain observer it would seem that both plot and character are essential constituents of perfect drama; that the strength of the one depends on the strength of the other; and that, except to the questioning critic, it is a matter of small practical consequence to which the greater importance be attached by the refinements of theory. In the best plays of Shakespeare the interest evoked respectively by plot and character is so evenly balanced that he must be exceptionally short-sighted who would set the value of the one above the value of the other. The external circumstances that mould the fortunes of Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, Othello, rivet the playgoer’s and the reader’s attention in no less a degree than the individual temperaments of these great dramatic personages or the inner workings of their minds and hearts. It is the perfectly harmonious co-operation of plot and character that is responsible for Shakespeare’s noblest triumphs.

Close and constant study of the great plays of Shakespeare must ultimately rouse in the student a more absorbing interest in their characters than in their plots. That is the final effect of supreme dramatic genius. But the full appreciation of Shakespeare’s sure and illimitable insight into character can never be reached until we have made ourselves thoroughly familiar with the plot in which the character has its substantive being. It follows, therefore, that if one would realise completely in due time the whole eminence of Shakespeare’s dramatic achievement, one should be encouraged at the outset to study closely the stories of the plays rather than the characters apart from their settings. When the youthful mind has grasped the manner and matter of the plots, it will in adult age be in a far better position than it could be otherwise to comprehend all the excellences, all the subtleties of the characters. Only when plot and character have received equally full attention will Shakespeare stand revealed to the mature student in his manifold glory.

It was this point of view that led Charles Lamb and his sister Mary to prepare their “Tales from Shakespeare, designed for the use of young persons.” Their volume was first published in 1807. The two writers narrated, in simple language for the most part, the plots of twenty of Shakespeare’s plays, fourteen comedies and six tragedies. None of the historical dramas, whether English or Roman, were included, nor was a place found for the comedies of Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Merry Wives of Windsor, nor for the tragedies of Troilus and Cressida, and Titus Andronicus. The greater part of the volume was the work of Mary Lamb. Although Charles Lamb’s name alone appeared upon the title-page, he was responsible for no more than six of the tales—those of the six tragedies.

Mary Lamb had little of her brother’s literary power. She was in sympathy with his literary tastes, she had something of his shrewdness of judgment, but she had none of his wealth of fancy, his pliancy of style, his humorous insight, or his learning. Although Mary Lamb’s renderings of the plots of the comedies have the charm of matter-of-fact simplicity, they cannot be held on a close scrutiny to satisfy all the needs of the situation. They often trace the course of the stories too faintly and imperfectly to recall Shakespeare’s own image. Frequently in Mary Lamb’s work pertinent intricacies of plot are blurred by a silent omission of details, knowledge of which is essential to a complete understanding of the Shakespearean theme. For example, the story of the caskets is excluded altogether from Mary Lamb’s version of the plot of The Merchant of Venice. Of Bottom and his allies in Midsummer Night’s Dream she has nothing to tell; Titania falls in love with a nameless sleeping “clown who had lost his way in the wood.” And when (in Mary Lamb’s version) the ass’s head which Puck sets on the clown’s neck is removed, he is “left to finish his nap with his own fool’s head upon his shoulders.” Nothing more is vouchsafed about the “rude mechanicals” of Theseus’s Athens. Mary Lamb’s rendering of As You Like It admits no mention of the melancholy Jaques, of the shrewdly witty Touchstone, or of the rustic Audrey. The ludicrously self-centred Malvolio and his comically tragic self-deception disappear from her version of Twelfth Night. Elsewhere in the comedies, and even in Charles Lamb’s own work on the tragedies, Shakespeare’s text is at times misinterpreted. Consequently, however fascinating in themselves the narratives of the Lambs may prove to young readers, Lamb’s Tales offer them a very fragmentary knowledge of the scope of Shakespeare’s plots. An endeavour to supply young readers with a fuller and more accurate account of them is therefore well justified, and this endeavour is made in the present volume.

In studying the stories on which Shakespeare based his plays, it is always worth bearing in mind that he cannot be credited with the whole invention of any of them, except in the case of one play—the comedy of Love’s Labour’s Lost. In accordance with the custom of all dramatists of the day, it was his practice to seek the main lines of his plots in prose-fictions, or in historical chronicles by other hands.

Romantic fiction was born for modern Europe on Italian soil. Boccaccio of fourteenth-century Florence and Boccaccio’s long line of disciples—Bandello of Milan, Giraldi Cinthio of Ferrara, and many writers of less familiar name of the sixteenth century—had for generations before Shakespeare’s epoch furnished not only Italy, but all the Western countries of Europe with their chief recreative literature in prose. The Italian novels were through the second half of the sixteenth century constantly translated into English and French, and it was to those English or French translations of the Italian romances that Shakespeare owed the main suggestion for all the plots of his comedies (save Love’s Labour’s Lost) and for many of those of his tragedies. Belleforest’s “Histoires Tragiques,” a collection of French versions of the Italian stories of Bandello, was very often in his hands. Novels by Bandello are the ultimate sources of the stories of Romeo and Juliet, of Much Ado about Nothing, and of Twelfth Night. All’s Well that Ends Well and Cymbeline largely rest on foundations laid by Boccaccio. The tales of Othello and Measure for Measure are traceable to Giraldi Cinthio.

But although Shakespeare’s borrowings from the frank and vivacious fiction of sunny Italy were large and open-handed, his debt was greater in appearance than it was in reality. He freely altered and adapted the borrowed stories in accordance with his sense of dramatic and artistic fitness, so that the finished plays present them in shapes which bear little relation to their original forms. At times he intertwined one borrowed story with a second, and his marvellous ingenuity completely changed the aspect of both; each assumed new and unexpected point and consistency. With such effect did he combine in The Merchant of Venice the story of the caskets with the story of Shylock’s bond with Antonio. His capacity of assimilating all that he read was as omnipotent as his power of assimilating all that passed in life within range of his eye or ear. The stories that he drew from books on which to found his plays can only be likened to base ore, which the magic of his genius had the faculty of transmuting into gold.

But for young readers, who approach Shakespeare’s work for the first time through the present narration of the stories of his plays, it is not necessary to learn whence Shakespeare derived their bare lineaments, or how he breathed into them the glowing spirit of life. It is essential that young readers should find delight and recreation in the tales as he finally presented them in his plays. Such delight and recreation I believe the contents of this volume is fitted to afford them.

It only remains to express the wish that the knowledge here conveyed to young readers of Shakespeare’s plots may lead them to become in future years loving students of the text of his plays. The words employed by Charles Lamb in a like connection when he first sent into the world his and his sister’s “Tales from Shakespeare” may fitly be echoed here. Young men and women cannot learn too early, in life how the study of Shakespeare’s work may, in a far higher degree than the study of other literature, enrich their fancy, strengthen them in virtue, withdraw them from selfish and mercenary thoughts. Life will bring them no better instructor in the doing of sweet and honourable action, no better teacher of courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; for of both stories and characters proffering the counsel to seek what is good and true and to shun what is bad and false Shakespeare’s pages are full.

SIDNEY LEE.

“Some have greatness thrust upon them.”

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Tempest

The Magician’s Isle

There was once a lonely island far away in the midst of a wide sea. Only four beings lived on this island: an elderly man called Prospero, noble, grave and learned; his daughter Miranda; and two attendants. One of these attendants was a beautiful and dainty spirit called Ariel, the other a sullen monster called Caliban. For Prospero had more than worldly learning; he knew the art of magic, and by his mighty spells he could control not only the spirits of light and darkness, but also the forces of Nature.

No travellers ever came to the island, and since the day when Miranda had been brought thither, a little baby girl, she had never seen the face of any man except her father. Peacefully the years slipped by, and Miranda had grown into a beautiful young maiden, when one day a terrible storm of thunder and lightning burst over the island. In the midst of the tempest a noble vessel seemed to be sinking, and Miranda ran to entreat her father that, if by his magic arts he had put the waves into such an uproar, he would now allay them.

“Be comforted, dear child; there is no harm done,” said her father. “What I have done is only in care for you, and I have so safely ordered this wreck that not a hair of anyone on board shall suffer hurt. Until now we have lived peacefully in this little spot, and you know nothing of what you are, nor that I am anything more than Prospero, the master of a poor enough cell, and your father.”

“It never entered into my thoughts to inquire further,” said Miranda.

“The time has come when you must know everything,” said Prospero; and laying aside his magic mantle, he bade his daughter sit down beside him, and then he told her the story of their life.

“Can you remember a time before we came to this island?” he began. “I do not think you can, for you were then only a few years old.”

“Certainly I can,” replied Miranda. “It is far off, and more like a dream than a remembrance. Had I not four or five women once that waited on me?”

“You had, Miranda, and more. Twelve years ago your father was the Duke of Milan, and a Prince of power.”

“Oh, heaven! what foul play had we that we came from thence? Or was it a blessing that we did?”

“Both, both, my girl. By foul play, as you say, were we driven from Milan, but blessedly helped thither. In those days Milan was the first State in Italy, and everywhere renowned for its splendour. I had so great a love for art and learning that I devoted much of my time to study, and left the government of the State to my brother Antonio, whom I loved best in the world and trusted beyond measure. But he was false to the confidence reposed in him, and soon began to think that he was Duke in reality. He therefore entered into a plot with an inveterate enemy of mine, Alonso, King of Naples, and by promise of a large bribe obtained his assistance. A treacherous army was levied, and one midnight Antonio opened the gates of Milan to the King of Naples. In the dead of darkness you and I were seized and hurried away. So great was the love borne me by my people that the traitors dared not kill us, but we were cast adrift in a rotten boat, without sail, mast, or tackle. By the kindness of a noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, rich stuffs, foods, and necessaries, had been placed in the boat, together with many valuable books from my library, which I prize more than my dukedom. The waves bore us to this island, and here we have lived ever since, and I have given such care to your teaching that you know more than many other Princesses with more leisure time and less careful tutors.”

“Heaven thank you for it, dear father!” said Miranda. “And now, I pray you, tell me your reason for raising this storm.”

By his magic art, Prospero replied, he knew that by chance his enemies had come near the island, and unless he seized this happy moment his fortunes would droop, never to recover.

“But ask no more questions, Miranda,” he ended. “You are weary; rest here and sleep a little.”

As soon as Miranda was asleep, Prospero summoned his dainty and nimble little sprite, Ariel, and asked whether he had performed his bidding.

“In every particular,” replied Ariel; and he told his master how, in the guise of a flame, he had danced all over the storm-driven ship till the whole vessel seemed on fire, and every one on board except the mariners had plunged affrighted into the sea.

“But are they safe, Ariel?”

“Not a hair perished, not a thread of their garments hurt. I have scattered them in troops about the island, as you bade me. The King of Naples’ son, Ferdinand, I have landed by himself, and now he is sitting and sighing alone in an odd corner of the isle.”

“And the King’s ship?”

“Safely in harbour, hidden in a deep nook. The mariners, already weary with their labour, I have charmed away to sleep. The rest of the fleet which I scattered have now all met again, and are in the Mediterranean, bound sadly home for Naples. They believe that they have seen the King’s ship wrecked, and that all on board have perished.”

Prospero was much pleased with the way Ariel had performed his charge, but he said there was still some further work to do. He promised that if all went well Ariel in two days should be set free from service, and henceforward should be his own master. He bade Ariel now take a new shape—that of a nymph of the sea, invisible to all but his own master. In this guise Ariel approached the young Prince of Naples, and began to sing in the sweetest fashion:

“Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones a’e coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.”

Lured by the sound of this sweet singing, which came he knew not whence, Ferdinand followed the unseen Ariel into the presence of Prospero and Miranda.

Now, excepting her father, Miranda had never seen a man, and at first she did not know what Ferdinand was.

“Is it a spirit, father?” she asked.

“No, child; it eats and sleeps, and has the same senses that we have. This gallant whom you see was in the wreck, and except that his handsome face is somewhat worn with grief and trouble, you might call him a goodly person. He has lost his companions, and wanders about to find them.”

“I might call him a thing divine,” replied Miranda warmly, “for I never saw anything so noble.”

Ferdinand, in his turn, was equally enchanted with the sight of Miranda, and declared on the spot that, if there were no one else whom she already loved, he would make her Queen of Naples.

Prospero was delighted with the way matters were going, for it was his desire that the young people should love each other; but fearing that a prize so easily won would be held too light, he began to throw some difficulties in the way. He pretended to believe that Ferdinand was not really a King’s son, and had come to the island as a spy. He declared he would put him into fetters, and give him only the coarsest food to eat. In vain Miranda implored her father to treat the young Prince less harshly. Prospero told her to be silent, and roughly bade Ferdinand to follow him.

The Prince was naturally indignant at such uncourteous treatment, and hastily drew his sword in defiance. But Prospero threw a sudden spell over the young man, and he stood motionless, unable to stir.

“What? Put thy sword up, traitor!” commanded Prospero sternly.

And Ferdinand, feeling himself powerless to resist, and happy that in his prison he should at least have the pleasure of beholding the beautiful maiden who had so kindly pleaded for him, followed obediently when the magician again summoned him.

The Shipwrecked Wanderers

Meanwhile the rest of the royal party who had plunged into the sea from the King’s ship were wandering in another part of the island. Among them were Alonso, King of Naples, and his brother Sebastian; Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan; Gonzalo, an honest old counsellor of the King of Naples, with Adrian and Francisco, two of his lords.

“What? Put thy sword up, traitor.”

Exhausted with the labour they had undergone, the whole party, with the exception of Sebastian and Antonio, presently fell asleep. Antonio, not content with having driven his own brother from the dukedom of Milan, now began to suggest treachery to Sebastian, the brother of the King of Naples. Ferdinand, the son of the King of Naples, he said, must certainly have been drowned, his only daughter, Claribel, was married, and far away in Africa—in fact, they were at this moment on their way home from her wedding festivities—there was therefore no near heir to the throne of Naples. Antonio suggested that Sebastian should seize the kingdom of Naples, as he himself had usurped that of Milan. He pointed out how easy it would be to slay King Alonso as he lay there asleep; in fact, he offered to do the deed himself, while Sebastian at the same moment was to put an end to the faithful Gonzalo. The other lords would offer no resistance, but would willingly agree to any suggestions made to them.

Sebastian was only too ready to fall in with this wicked scheme, but in the meanwhile, invisible to them, Ariel came near, and at the very moment when the traitors had drawn their swords and were about to kill Alonso and Gonzalo he sang in the ear of the latter and awakened him.

“Good angels save the King!” cried Gonzalo; and Alonso started awake at the shout.

“Why! how now? Ho, awake!” cried the King. “Why are your swords drawn? Why do you look so ghastly?”

“What’s the matter?” added Gonzalo, still dazed with sleep.

“While we stood here guarding your repose just now,” said Sebastian, with a ready lie, “we heard a hollow burst of bellowing like bulls, or, rather, lions. Did it not wake you? It struck my ear most terribly.”

“I heard nothing,” said the King.

“Oh, it was din enough to frighten a monster—to make an earthquake!” said Antonio. “Surely it was the roar of a whole herd of lions.”

“Did you hear this, Gonzalo?” asked the King.

“Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, and that a strange one, too, which wakened me. I shook you, sir, and cried out. As my eyes opened I saw their weapons. There certainly was a noise. We had better stand on guard, or leave this place. Let us draw our weapons.”

“Lead away from here,” commanded the King. “Let us make further search for my poor son.”

“Heaven keep him from these beasts!” said Gonzalo. “For he is surely in the island.”

“Lead away,” repeated Alonso.

“Prospero shall know what I have done,” said Ariel, as Alonso and his companions started again on their wanderings. “Go, King—go safely on to seek thy son.”

The King’s Son

Prospero, in order to carry out his plans, pretended to be very harsh and severe with the young Prince of Naples, and he set him a heavy task—to remove and pile up some thousands of logs. For the sake of the love he already bore to Miranda, Ferdinand obeyed patiently, and it sweetened and refreshed his labour to see how distressed the gentle maiden was at the sight of his toil.

“Alas! I pray you, do not work so hard,” entreated Miranda, as she met him bearing a log. “I would the lightning had burnt up all these logs! Pray set that down and rest you. My father is hard at study: pray, now, rest yourself; he is safe for the next three hours.”

“Oh, most dear lady!” said Ferdinand, “the sun will set before I can finish what I must strive to do.”

“If you will sit down,” said Miranda, “I will carry your logs the while. Pray give me that; I will carry it to the pile.”

“No, dear lady, I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, than that you should undergo such dishonour while I sit lazy by.”

“It would become me as well as it does you,” said Miranda, “and I would do it the more easily, because I want to do it and you do not. You look weary.”

“No, noble lady; when you are near me the night becomes fresh morning,” said Ferdinand. “I do beseech you—chiefly that I may set it in my prayers—what is your name?”

“Miranda.”

“Admired Miranda! Dearest name in the world!” cried Ferdinand. “Many gentle ladies I have been pleased to see and to talk with, and I have liked different women for different virtues; but never until now have I found one without some defect. But you—oh, you, so perfect and so peerless!—are created the best of every creature!”

“I do not know any other woman,” said Miranda simply. “I remember no woman’s face save, from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen others that I may call men, except you, good friend, and my dear father. I do not know what they may be like, but, in simple truth, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can I imagine anyone whose look I would like better. But I prattle too wildly, and in that forget my father’s precepts.”

“I love and honour you beyond all limit.”

“In rank I am a Prince, Miranda,” said Ferdinand, “I think a King: would it were not so!” For he thought his father had perished with the ship. “I would not for one moment endure this slavery if it were not for you. The very instant I saw you my heart flew to your service, and for your sake I carry these logs patiently.”

“Do you love me?”

“By heaven and earth, I love, prize, and honour you beyond all limit of everything else in the world!”

Miranda’s eyes filled with tears of joy.

“I am foolish to weep for what I am glad of,” she whispered.

“Why do you weep?” said Ferdinand.

“Because I am unworthy to offer the love I desire to give,” said Miranda, “much less to take what I shall die for if I do not have. I am your wife if you will marry me; if not, I’ll die a maid. You may refuse to have me as your companion, but I’ll be your servant, whether you will or no.”

“My Queen, dearest, and I thus humble ever,” said Ferdinand, kneeling before her.

“My husband, then?”

“Ay, with a heart as willing as freedom after bondage: here’s my hand.”

“And mine, with my heart in it. And now, till half an hour hence, farewell!”

“A thousand thousand!” cried Ferdinand; and so they parted.

Unseen by the young lovers, Prospero, in his cell, had listened to all that passed, and his rejoicing was scarcely less than theirs to find that his schemes were working so well. But he had still much to do before supper-time, and he now returned to his books.

Mysterious Music

While Antonio and Sebastian were discussing their scheme to murder the King of Naples, another band of wretched creatures was plotting mischief against the lord of the island. When Prospero had first come to this island, he found it inhabited by a hideous young monster called Caliban, the son of a wicked witch who had been banished there from her own country. This witch—Sycorax—had for servant the dainty sprite Ariel, and because Ariel refused to obey her evil commands she imprisoned him as a punishment in the trunk of a cloven pine-tree. Here Ariel abode in torment and misery for twelve years, during which time Sycorax died, and left her son Caliban as the only inhabitant of the island.

Prospero, on his arrival, set Ariel free, and took him into his own service, and, pitying the young Caliban, he at first tried by kindness to tame his savage nature. But all his efforts were useless. Caliban hated everything good, and repaid Prospero’s kindness with malice and evil doing. Prospero found that gentle means were of no avail, and that the only way in which to keep Caliban in order was to treat him with stern severity. For this Caliban hated his master, and was always longing to be revenged on him.

Among those saved from the King’s ship were two worthless scamps—Trinculo, a jester, and Stephano, a drunken butler. Caliban, meeting them by chance, immediately begged to become their servant, hoping by this means to escape from Prospero. He further offered to lead them to where Prospero lay asleep, so that they might kill the magician. It was agreed that Stephano was then to marry Miranda, and become the lord of the island, and Caliban was to be his servant.

While they were talking, Ariel entered, invisible. He listened to their plots, and amused himself by speaking a few words every now and then, which soon set the conspirators quarrelling, for they none of them knew where the voice came from, and thought it was one of themselves mocking the others. Finally Ariel began to play mysterious music on a pipe and tabor. Stephano and Trinculo were greatly alarmed, but Caliban soothed them, saying that the island was full of noises and sweet sounds which gave delight and did no hurt.

“Sometimes a thousand instruments will hum about mine ears,” he said, “and sometimes voices, which, if I awake after a long sleep, will make me sleep again. Then in dreams the clouds seem to open and show riches ready to drop on me, so that when I awake I cry to dream again.”

“This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing,” said Stephano.

“When Prospero is destroyed,” put in Caliban.

“That shall be at once,” replied Stephano.

“The sound is going away; let us follow it, and do our work afterwards,” said Trinculo.

“Go on, monster; we will follow,” said Stephano to Caliban. “I would I could see this taborer; he plays bravely.”

So with his mysterious music Ariel lured the three villains away. He led them a pretty dance, through briars, sharp furze, prickly gorse, and thorns, which ran into their poor shins; and finally he left them in the filthy water of a stagnant pool, not far from Prospero’s cell.

In the meanwhile Alonso, King of Naples, and his party were still wandering about the island; but by-and-by they grew so weary that poor old Gonzalo declared he could go no further.

“I cannot blame you,” said King Alonso, “for I myself am dull with weariness. Sit down and rest. Now here I give up hope that I shall ever see my son again. He is drowned, and the sea mocks our useless search on land.”

The traitor Antonio was delighted to see that the King had lost all hope, and he begged Sebastian not to give up their wicked scheme because it had been once repulsed.

“The next advantage we will take thoroughly,” Sebastian whispered back to Antonio.

“Let it be to-night,” said Antonio, “for now they are so worn out with travel they will not and cannot use such vigilance as when they are fresh.”

“I say to-night,” agreed Sebastian. “No more.”

At that moment strange and solemn music was heard.

“What harmony is this?” said the King. “Hark, my good friends!”

“Marvellous sweet music!” said Gonzalo.

Unseen by them, Prospero entered, and by his magic art he caused a number of strange and grotesque figures to appear, who brought in a banquet. After dancing round it with gentle actions of greeting, and inviting the King and his companions to eat, they disappeared.

“Give us kind keepers, heaven! What were these?” exclaimed the startled King.

“If I reported this in Naples, would they believe me?” said Gonzalo. “These must be islanders, and although they are of such strange shapes, yet note, their manners are more gentle and kind than many of our human race.”

“You speak well, honest lord,” said Prospero aside, “for some of you there are worse than devils.”

“They vanished strangely,” said Francisco.

“No matter, since they left their viands behind them,” said Sebastian. “Will it please your Majesty to taste of what is here?”

“Not I,” said Alonso.

“Faith, sir, you need not fear,” said Gonzalo.

“Well, I will eat, although it be my last meal,” said the King. “Brother, and you, my Lord Duke of Milan, do as we do.”

At that instant there was a peal of thunder and a flash of lightning. Ariel, in the form of a harpy, a hideous bird of prey, flew in and flapped his wings over the table, and immediately the banquet vanished.

“You are three men of sin, whom Destiny has cast upon this island because you are quite unfit to live among men,” he said, addressing Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio.

Enraged, they drew their swords, but Ariel only mocked at them.

“You fools! I and my fellows are ministers of Fate. Your swords might as well try to wound the winds or stab the water, as hurt one feather of my plumage. If you could hurt, your swords are now too heavy for your strength, and you cannot lift them. But remember—for this is my business to you—that you three supplanted the good Duke Prospero from Milan, cast him and his innocent child adrift on the sea, which hath now revenged it. The heavenly powers have delayed punishment for this foul deed, but they have not forgotten it, and now they have incensed the sea and the shore and all creatures against you. They have bereft you, Alonso, of your son, and they pronounce by me that lingering perdition worse than any death shall fall in this desolate island on you and all your ways, unless you heartily repent and amend your life.”

Ariel vanished in thunder, and then to soft music entered the strange shapes again, and, with a mocking dance, carried out the table on which the banquet had been spread.

“Bravely done, my Ariel!” said Prospero aside, while the King of Naples and his companions stood mute with amazement. “My charms are working, and these my enemies are quite astounded. They are now in my power, and here I will leave them while I visit young Ferdinand—whom they think drowned—and his and my loved darling.”

“In the name of heaven, sir, why do you stand with that strange stare?” asked Gonzalo of the King.

“Oh, it is monstrous, monstrous!” cried the conscience-stricken Alonso. “I thought the billows spoke and told me of my wicked deed, the winds sang it to me, and the thunder pronounced the name of ‘Prospero.’ Therefore my son is drowned, and I will lie with him fathoms deep below the waves.”

So saying, he hurried from the spot, followed at once by Sebastian and Antonio.

“All three of them are desperate,” said Gonzalo. “Their great guilt, like poison which takes a long time to work, now begins to bite their spirit. I do beseech you,” he added to the lords in waiting, “follow them swiftly, and hinder them from what this madness may provoke them to.”

“Though the Seas threaten, they are merciful”

The hard toil which Prospero had set the Prince of Naples did not last long, and when the magician saw that the young people loved each other sincerely he put an end to the trial, and bade them be happy together. To give them pleasure and show them some proof of his magic powers, he summoned a troop of beautiful spirits—Iris, Ceres, Juno, some water-nymphs, and various reapers, who sang sweet songs to them and danced graceful dances.

But the moment of Caliban’s plot was approaching. Prospero dismissed the spirits, and began to prepare for punishing the conspirators. Sending Ferdinand and Miranda to wait for him in his cell, he bade Ariel fetch some glistening apparel, and hang it up on a line near, in order to serve as a bait to catch the thieves.

His plan succeeded. Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo soon appeared, all wet from the stagnant pool into which they had been lured by Ariel’s music.

“Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not hear a footfall; we are now near his cell,” said Caliban.

“O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe is here for you!” cried Trinculo, catching hold of the garments hanging on the line.

“Let it alone, you fool; it is but trash!” said Caliban.

“Put off that gown, Trinculo,” said Stephano, equally greedy in his turn. “By this hand, I’ll have that gown!”

“Your grace shall have it,” said Trinculo submissively.

“Why do you waste time on this rubbish?” entreated Caliban. “Let us do the murder first. If Prospero awakens he will punish us cruelly for this.”

“You be quiet, monster,” said Stephano rudely; and he and Trinculo went on helping themselves to the fine clothes which Ariel had cunningly displayed. “Come, monster, take what we leave.”

“I will have none of them,” declared Caliban. “We shall lose our time, and if Prospero catches us, he will change us all into barnacles or apes.”

“Help us to carry these away, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to, carry this!” commanded Stephano.

“And this,” added Trinculo; and they began to load poor Caliban with their spoils.

Suddenly a noise of hunters was heard, and a band of spirits in the shape of dogs swept along, and set upon the three guilty men, chasing them about, while Prospero and Ariel urged on the dogs.

“Hey, Mountain, hey!”

“Silver! There it goes, Silver!”

“Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! Hark, hark!”

When Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo had been driven away, Prospero spoke to Ariel.

“Let them be hunted soundly. Now all my enemies lie at my mercy. My labours will soon be ended, and then thou shalt be free as air. Follow me still for a little, and do me service. Now, tell me, how fares the King and his followers?”

“Just as you left them—all prisoners, sir, in the grove of trees which shelters your cell. They cannot stir until you release them. The King, his brother, and your brother are quite distracted, and their lords are mourning over them, and chiefly he whom you termed ‘the good old lord Gonzalo.’ Your charm affects them so strongly that if you beheld them now you would pity them.”

“Dost thou think so, spirit?”

“I would, sir, if I were human.”

“And I will,” said Prospero. “Now that they are penitent my purpose is accomplished. Go, release them, Ariel. I’ll break my charms. I’ll restore their senses, and they shall be themselves.”

“I’ll fetch them, sir,” said Ariel; and he gladly hastened away to do his master’s bidding.

Left alone, Prospero took a solemn farewell of all the powers of magic which he had practised for so long, and declared that, after one last charm which he was now going to work, he would break his wizard’s wand and drown his book.

When Ariel returned with Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio, and the lords in waiting, they all entered a charmed circle which Prospero had made, and stood there unable to move.

“There stand, for you are spell-bound,” said Prospero. “O good Gonzalo, my true preserver, and loyal servant to your master, I will pay you both in word and deed. Alonso, most cruelly did you use me and my daughter; your brother helped you in the deed—he is punished for it now. You, brother mine, unnatural though you are—I forgive you.”

While Prospero was speaking, the King and his companions slowly began to recover their senses; but they did not yet recognise Prospero, for he was clad in his magic robes.

“Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell, Ariel,” he said. “I will discard these garments, and show myself as when I was Duke of Milan. Quickly, spirit! Thou shalt be free ere long.”

Gladly Ariel set to work, singing a gay little song as he helped to attire his master:

“Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”

Then Prospero sent him to find the King’s ship, and to bring back the master and boatswain.

Poor old Gonzalo was greatly amazed and troubled at all the strange things that were happening.

“Some heavenly power guide us out of this fearful country!” he exclaimed.

“Behold, Sir King, the wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero,” said the magician to Alonso. “To give thee more assurance that a living Prince speaks to thee, I embrace thee, and bid a hearty welcome to thee and thy company.”

“Whether thou be he or not, or some enchanted trifle to torment me, I do not know,” said the bewildered King. “Thy pulse beats like flesh and blood, and since I have seen thee my madness has abated. I resign thy dukedom, and entreat thy pardon for my wrong-doing. But how can Prospero be living and be here?”

“Welcome, my friends all!” said Prospero. “But you, my brace of lords,” he added, aside to Sebastian and Antonio, “if I were so minded, I could make his Highness frown on you and prove you traitors. At this time I will tell no tales.”

“The devil speaks in him,” muttered Sebastian, conscious of his guilt.

“No,” replied Prospero quietly. “For you, most wicked sir,” he said to his brother Antonio, “I forgive all your faults, and require my dukedom of thee, which perforce I know thou must restore.”

“If you are Prospero, tell us how you were saved, and how you have met us here,” said the King of Naples. “Three hours ago we were wrecked upon this shore—alas, where I have lost—how bitter is the remembrance!—my dear son Ferdinand.”

“I am sorry for it, sir,” said Prospero.

“The loss can never be made up, and is past the cure of patience.”

“I rather think you have not sought the help of patience,” said Prospero. “For the like loss I have its sovereign aid, and rest myself content.”

“You the like loss?”

“As great to me; for I have lost my daughter.”

“A daughter?” cried Alonso. “Oh, would that they were both living in Naples as King and Queen! When did you lose your daughter?”

“In this last tempest,” said Prospero, smiling to himself. “But come, no more of this. Welcome, sir; this cell is my court. I have few attendants here, and no subjects abroad. Pray you, look in. Since you have given me back my dukedom, I will reward you with something equally good, or, at least, show you a wonder which will content you as much as my dukedom does me.”

And, drawing aside the curtain which veiled the entrance to his cell, Prospero disclosed to view Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess.

“Sweet lord, you play me false,” said Miranda.

“No, my dearest love, I would not for the world,” said Ferdinand.

“If this prove a vision of the island, I shall lose my dear son a second time,” murmured Alonso.

“A most high miracle!” exclaimed Sebastian.

“Though the seas threaten, they are merciful,” cried Ferdinand, springing from his seat at the sight of his father, and falling on his knees before him.

“Now all the blessings of a glad father compass thee about,” said Alonso, overcome with joy to see his dear son again.

Miranda in the meanwhile was gazing in wonder at all these strange visitors who had come to the island.

“Oh, brave new world that has such people in it!” she cried in delight.

“Who is this maiden?” Alonso asked his son. “Is she some goddess?”

“Sir, she is mortal, and she is mine,” answered Ferdinand. “I chose her when I thought I had no father. She is daughter to the famous Duke of Milan, of whose renown I have so often heard.”

Then Alonso gave his blessing to the young couple, and the good Gonzalo breathed a hearty “Amen!”

At this moment Ariel appeared, followed by the astonished master of the King’s ship and the boatswain. They were overjoyed to see the King and his companions again, and brought word that the ship was as safe and bravely rigged as when they first put out to sea.

“Sir, all this service have I done since I left you,” whispered Ariel to Prospero. “Was it well done?”

“Bravely, good spirit,” said Prospero. “Thou shalt soon be free.”

Then he commanded him to go and take off the spell from Caliban and his companions, and after a few minutes’ absence Ariel returned driving in the three men, clad in their stolen apparel.

“Mark these men, my lords,” said Prospero. “These three have robbed me, and this witch’s son had plotted with the others to take my life. Two of these fellows you must know and own; this thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”

“Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?” said the King of Naples.

“Why, how now, Stephano?” said Sebastian mockingly.

“You would be King of the isle, sirrah?” demanded Prospero.

“I should have been a sore one, then,” groaned Stephano, for he and his worthless friends were still aching all over from the punishment inflicted on them.

“That is as strange a thing as ever I looked on,” said Alonso, pointing to Caliban.

“His manners are as ugly as his appearance,” answered Prospero. “Go, sirrah, to my cell. Take your companions with you, and if you hope to have my pardon, behave properly.”

“Ay, that I will,” said Caliban; “and I will be wise hereafter, and try to be better. What a thrice-double ass I was to take that drunkard for my master!”

And he departed with his companions, glad to have escaped so lightly.

Then Prospero invited the King and his other guests into his cell, where they were to rest for one night. The next morning they were all to set sail for Naples, where the marriage between Prince Ferdinand and Miranda was to take place, after which Prospero would retire to his own dukedom of Milan. Finally he gave his last charge to Ariel, and bade him see that the King’s ship should have calm seas and fair winds to waft it quickly on its way.

“My Ariel, chick, that is thy charge,” said Prospero. “Then be free as the elements, and fare thee well!”

Two Gentlemen of Verona

“Now let us take our Leave”

There lived once in Verona two friends who loved each other dearly; their names were Valentine and Proteus. They were both young and gallant gentlemen, but they were very different in character, as you will presently see. Valentine was simple and honest, a loyal and devoted friend, and too candid and sincere himself to think of treachery in others. Proteus had warm affections, but he was fickle and changeable, carried away by impulse, and always so desperately eager for what he happened to want at the moment that he stopped at no means to gain his ends.

Valentine and Proteus were very happy together as companions, but at last the time came when they were to part. Valentine was not content to settle down at Verona; he wanted to see something of the world and its wider life.

“Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits,” he said to Proteus, who was trying to persuade him to stay. “If it were not that you were chained here by your affections I would rather beg your company to see the wonders of the world abroad. But since you are in love, love still, and thrive in it, even as I would when I once begin to love.”

This he said because Proteus was deeply in love at that moment with a fair lady of Verona called Julia. And then Valentine went on to tease Proteus, pretending that all love was folly, and that only foolish people let themselves be deluded into it. He little knew how soon he was himself to be caught in the same folly, and how basely and treacherously his friend was going to act towards him.

However, at that moment Proteus had no thought for anyone but Julia, and would not have left Verona on any account. The two friends took an affectionate farewell of each other, and Valentine went his way, to travel to the Court of Milan.

“He hunts after honour, I after love,” thought Proteus, when his friend had left him. “He leaves his friends to bring more credit to them by improving himself. I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. Thou, Julia, hast changed me, made me neglect my studies, lose my time, fight against good counsel, set the world at naught, weaken my brains with dreaming, and make my heart sick with thought!”

While Proteus was indulging in this rhapsody, Speed, the clownish servant of Valentine, came hurrying up.

“Sir Proteus, save you!” he cried, in the greeting of those days. “Saw you my master?”

“He has just this minute gone to embark for Milan,” replied Proteus. “Did you give my letter to the Lady Julia?”

“Ay, sir, and she gave me nothing for my labour,” said Speed, who was out of temper at not having received the handsome fee he was hoping for.

“But what did she say?” asked Proteus eagerly.

“Oh—she nodded!”

“Come, come, what did she say?”

“If you will open your purse, sir....”

“Well, there is something for your trouble. Now, what did she say?”

“Truly, sir, I think you will hardly win her,” said Speed with a sly look, pocketing the piece of money Proteus threw to him.

“Why? Could you perceive so much from her manner?”

“Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her—no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter. And as she was so hard to me who was your messenger, I fear she will prove equally hard to you. Give her no present but a stone, for she is as hard as steel.”

“What did she say? Nothing?” repeated poor Proteus.

“No, not so much as ‘Take that for your pains,’” said Speed, still harping on his own grievance. “I thank you for your bounty, sir. Henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so I will go seek my master.”

“Go, go, to save your ship from wreck!” cried Proteus, incensed at the fellow’s impertinence. “It cannot perish when you are aboard, for you are certainly destined for a drier death on shore!—I must find some better messenger to send,” he added to himself, when the saucy serving-man had taken himself off. “I am afraid my Julia would not deign to accept my lines, receiving them from such a worthless envoy.”

But, as it happened, the letter had so far not reached the hands of the lady for whom it was intended, for it was only her waiting-maid Lucetta whom Speed had seen, and to whom he had given the letter in mistake for Julia.

Lucetta went in search of her mistress, and found her in the garden, musing over many things, for by this time Julia really loved Proteus, although she would not acknowledge it even to herself. When Lucetta handed her the letter, saying she thought it had been sent by Proteus, Julia pretended to be angry, and scolded her maid for daring to receive it.

“There, take the paper again,” she said, “and see that it is returned, or never again come into my presence.”

“To plead for love deserves a better reward than to be scolded,” muttered Lucetta.

From being so much with her young mistress, the maid was treated more as a companion than as a servant, and was accustomed to speak out her mind frankly on every occasion.

“Go!” said Julia severely; but no sooner had Lucetta disappeared than she was seized with remorse.

“How churlishly I sent her away, when all the time I wanted her here!” she thought. “How angrily I tried to frown, when really my heart was smiling with secret joy! To punish myself I must call Lucetta back, and ask her pardon for my folly.... What ho, Lucetta!”

“What does you ladyship want?” asked Lucetta, reappearing.

But at the sight of her maid Julia suddenly became shy again.

“Is it near dinner-time?” she asked, with an air of pretended indifference.

“I would it were, madam, so that you might spend your anger on your meat, and not on your maid,” replied Lucetta rather flippantly; and at that moment she let the letter fall, and picked it up ostentatiously.

“What is it you took up so gingerly?” inquired Julia.

“Nothing.”

“Why did you stoop, then?”

“To pick up a paper I let fall.”

“And is that paper nothing?”

“Nothing that concerns me.”

“Then let it lie there for whom it does concern.”

But Lucetta had no intention that the letter should lie unheeded on the ground, for her only purpose in dropping it was to bring it again to Julia’s notice. She little knew how her mistress longed at that moment to have it in her own possession, but was too proud to acknowledge it. Lucetta could not refrain from some pert speeches, and her jesting words irritated Julia, especially when Lucetta declared she was taking the part of Proteus.

“I will have no more chatter about this,” said Julia; and she tore the letter and threw the pieces on the ground. “Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie!”