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Tales of Shakespeare

C >> Charles and Mary Lamb >> Tales of Shakespeare




But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knew
nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman
emperor Augustus Caesar and Cymbeline, the king of Britain; and a
Roman army had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the
very forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this army came
Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army, he did
not mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, but
intended to join the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king
who had banished him.

He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death of her he had so
fondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio having written him a
letter to say he had obeyed his command, and that Imogen was dead),
sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring
either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by Cymbeline for
returning home from banishment.

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands of the
Roman army; and her presence and deportment recommending her,
she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman general.

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when they
entered this forest, Polydore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The
young men were eager to engage in acts of velour, though they little
thought they were going to fight for their own royal father: and old
Bellarius went with them to the battle. He had long since repented of
the injury he had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and
having been a warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight
for the king he had so injured.

And now a great battle commenced between the two armies, and the
Britons would have been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but
for the extraordinary velour of Posthumus and Bellarius and the two
sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his life, and so
entirely turned the fortune of the day, that the Britons gained the
victory.

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the death he
sought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers of
Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which was to be his
punishment if he returned from banishment.

Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners, and brought
before Cymbeline, as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who was an
officer in the Roman army; and when these prisoners were before the
king, Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence of death; and
at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius with Polydore and Cadwal
were also brought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the
great services they had by their velour done for the king. Pisanio,
being one of the king's attendants, was likewise present.

Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but with
very different hopes and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with her new
master the Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false
friend Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, with
Bellarius, who had stolen them away.

The Roman general was the first who spoke; the rest stood silent
before the king, though there was many a beating heart among them.

Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he was in the disguise
of a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire; and she knew
Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be
her own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of
all her troubles: and she stood before her own father a prisoner of war.

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the garb of
a boy. 'It is my mistress,' thought he; 'since she is living, let the time
run on to good or bad.' Bellarius knew her too, and softly said to
Cadwal: 'Is not this boy revived from death?' 'One sand,' replied
Cadwal, 'does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is
like the dead Fidele.' 'The same dead thing alive,' said Polydore.
'Peace, peace,' said Bellarius; 'if it were he, I am sure he would have
spoken to us.' 'But we saw him dead,' again whispered Polydore. 'Be
silent,' replied Bellarius.

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his own
death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had saved his
life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen under his
protection as his page, was the first (as has been before said) who
spoke to the king. He was a man of high courage and noble dignity,
and this was his speech to the king:

'I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them all to
death: I am a Roman. and with a Roman heart will suffer death. But
there is one thing for which I would entreat.' Then bringing Imogen
before the king, he said: 'This boy is a Briton born. Let him be
ransomed. He is my page. Never master had a page so kind, so
duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true, so nurse-like. He hath
done no Briton wrong, though he hath served a Roman. Save him, if
you spare no one beside.'

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not
in that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his
heart, for he said: 'I have surely seen him, his face appears familiar to
me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy; but I give you your
life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will grant it you. Yea,
even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have.'

'I humbly thank your highness,' said Imogen.

What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise to
give any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on whom that
favour was conferred chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear
what thing the page would ask for; and Lucius her master said to her:
'I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know that is what you will ask
for.' 'No, no, alas!' said Imogen, 'I have other work in hand, good
master; your life I cannot ask for.'

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman
general.

Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon than
this: that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had the ring
he wore on his finger.

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with the
torture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring on his
finger.

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villany, telling, as
has been before related, the whole story of his wager with Posthumus,
and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of his lady
cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and confessed to
Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to
execute upon the princess; exclaiming wildly: 'O Imogen, my queen,
my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!'

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress without
discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was
thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good
graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated.

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at finding
his lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her former
place in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband
Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-
law.

Bellarius chose this, time of joy and reconciliation to make his
confession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal to the king, telling him
they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could think of punishments
at a season of such universal happiness? To find his daughter living,
and his lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had
seen so bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed!

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late
master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father
readily granted at her request; and by the mediation of the same
Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the Britons,
which was kept inviolate many years.

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her
projects to pass, and touched with remorse of conscience, sickened
and died, having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a
quarrel which he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this
happy conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is sufficient
that all were made happy who were deserving; and even the
treacherous Iachimo, in consideration of his villainy having missed its
final aim, was dismissed without punishment.





KING LEAR



Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Goneril, wife to the duke of
Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a young
maid, for whose love the king of France and duke of Burgundy were
joint suitors, and were at this time making stay for that purpose in the
court of Lear.

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of government, he
being more than fourscore years old, determined to take no further
part in state affairs, but to leave the management to younger strengths,
that he might have time to prepare for death, which must at no long
period ensue. With this intent he called his three daughters to him, to
know from their own lips which of them loved him best, that he might
part his kingdom among them in such proportions as their affection
for him should seem to deserve.

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than words
could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of her own
eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing stuff,
which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, only a few
fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that case. The
king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her love,
and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a ht of fatherly
fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one-third of his ample
kingdom.

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she had
to say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her sister,
was not a whit behind in her profession, but rather declared that what
her sister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to
bear for his highness; insomuch that she found all other joys dead, in
comparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dear
king and father.

Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as he thought;
and could do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan had
made, than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her husband,
equal in size to that which he had already given away to Goneril.

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called his
joy, he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt that she would
glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had
uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much stronger than
theirs, as she had always been his darling, and favoured by him above
either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her sisters,
whose hearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all
their coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old king out
of his dominions, that they and their husbands might reign in his
lifetime, made no other reply but this, that she loved his majesty
according to her duty, neither more nor less.

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his favourite
child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her speech, lest
it should mar her fortunes.

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he had given
her breeding, and loved her; that she returned those duties back as was
most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. But that
she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her sisters
had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why had her
sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love for anything but
their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom
she gave her hand would want half her love, half of her care and duty;
she should never marry like her sisters, to love her father all.

Cordelia. who in earnest loved her old father even almost as
extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly told
him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms, and
without these qualifications, which did indeed sound a little
ungracious; but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,
which she had seen drawn such extravagant rewards, she thought the
handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This put her
affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed that she
loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, the less ostentatious
they were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity than her
sisters'.

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the old
monarch who in his best of times always showed much of spleen and
rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age had so clouded
over his reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor a gay
painted speech from words that came from the heart--that in a fury of
resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom, which yet
remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away
from her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and their
husbands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall; whom he now called to
him, and in presence of all his courtiers bestowing a coronet between
them, invested them jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution
of government, only retaining to himself the name of king; all the rest
of royalty he resigned; with this reservation, that himself, with a
hundred knights for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly
course in each of his daughters' palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by reason,
and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonishment and
sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose between this
incensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was
beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the passionate
Lear on pain of death commanded him to desist; but the good Kent
was not so to be repelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he
had honoured as a king, loved as a father, followed as a master; and
he had never esteemed his life further than as a pawn to wage against
his royal master's enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was
the motive; nor now that Lear was most his own enemy, did this
faithful servant of the king forget his old principles, but manfully
opposed Lear, to do Lear good; and was unmannerly only because
Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful counsellor in times past to
the king, and he besought him now, that he would see with his eyes
(as he had done in many weighty matters), and go by his advice still;
and in his best consideration recall this hideous rashness: for he would
answer with his life, his judgment that Lear's youngest daughter did
not love him least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound
gave no token of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour
was bound to plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him,
whose life was already at his service? That should not hinder duty
from speaking.

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up the king's
wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his physician, and
loves his mortal disease, he banished this true servant, and allotted
him but five days to make his preparations for departure; but if on the
sixth his hated person was found within the realm of Britain, that
moment was to be his death. And Kent bade farewell to the king, and
said, that since he chose to show himself in such fashion, it was but
banishment to stay there; and before he went, he recommended
Cordelia to the protection of the gods, the maid who had so rightly
thought, and so discreetly spoken; and only wished that her sisters'
large speeches might be answered with deeds of love; and then he
went, as he said, to shape his old course to a new country.

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in to hear
the determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know
whether they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she
was under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but her own
person to recommend her: and the duke of Burgundy declined the
match, and would not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the
king of France, understanding what the nature of the fault had been
which had lost her the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of
speech, and the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like her
sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues
were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her
sisters and of her father, though he had been unkind, and she should
go with him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over
fairer possessions than her sisters: and he called the duke of Burgundy
in contempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid had
in a moment run all away like water.

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and
besought them to love their father well, and make good their
professions: and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for
they knew their duty; but to strive to content her husband, who had
taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And
Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew the cunning of her
sisters, and she wished her father in better hands than she was about to
leave him in.

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of her
sisters began to show themselves in their true colours. Even before the
expiration of the first month, which Lear was to spend by agreement
with his eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out the
difference between promises and performances. This wretch having
got from her father all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away
of the crown from off his head, began to grudge even those small
remnants of royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to
please his fancy with the idea of being still a king. She could not bear
to see him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her father, she
put on a frowning countenance; and when the old man wanted to
speak with her, she would feign sickness, or anything to get rid of the
sight of him; for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless
burden, and his attendants an unnecessary expense: not only she
herself slackened in her expressions of duty to the king, but by her
example, and (it is to be feared) not without her private instructions,
her very servants affected to treat him with neglect, and would either
refuse to obey his orders, or still more contemptuously pretend not to
hear them. Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the behaviour
of his daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as
people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant
consequences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought
upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by ill, than
falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by good, usage.
This eminently appears in the instance of the good earl of Kent, who,
though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found in
Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long as there was
a chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to what mean
shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes; yet it
counts nothing base or unworthy, so as it can but do service where it
owes an obligation! In the disguise of a serving man, all his greatness
and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king,
who, not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a
certain plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers, which the earl
put on (so different from that smooth oily flattery which he had so
much reason to be sick of, having found the effects not answerable in
his daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into
his service by the name of Caius, as he called himself, never
suspecting him to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty earl
of Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and love to his
royal master: for Goneril's steward that same day behaving in a
disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and
language, as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his
mistress, Caius, not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon his
majesty, made no more ado but presently tripped up his heels, and laid
the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which friendly service Lear
became more and more attached to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as far as so
insignificant a personage could show his love, the poor fool, or jester,
that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the
custom of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool (as he
was called) to make them sport after serious business: this poor fool
clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and by his witty
sayings would keep up his good humour, though he could not refrain
sometimes from jeering at his master for his imprudence in
uncrowning himself, and giving all away to his daughters; at which
time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these daughters

For sudden joy did weep
And he for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep
And go the fools among.


And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he had plenty,
this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the presence of
Goneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the quick:
such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the
young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its head
bit off for its pains; and saying, that an ass may know when the cart
draws the horse (meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to go
behind, now ranked before their father); and that Lear was no longer
Lear, but the shadow of Lear: for which free speeches he was once or
twice threatened to be whipped.

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun to
perceive, were not all which this foolish fond father was to suffer
from his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his staying
in her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up
an establishment of a hundred knights; that this establishment was
useless and expensive, and only served to kill her court with riot and
feasting; and she prayed him that he would lessen their number, and
keep none but old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age.

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was his
daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she who
had received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and
grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in her
undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited, that he called
her a detested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; and so indeed
she did, for the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour and
sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given to
rioting or feasting, as she said. And he bid his horses to be prepared,
for he would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and his hundred
knights; and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted
devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea-monster. And
he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so as was terrible to hear;
praying that she might never have a child, or if she had, that it might
live to return that scorn and contempt upon her which she had shown
to him that she might feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to
have a thankless child. And Goneril's husband, the duke of Albany,
beginning to excuse himself for any share which Lear might suppose
he had in the unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage
ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out with his followers for the
abode of Regan, his other daughter. And Lear thought to himself how
small the fault of Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in
comparison with her sister's, and he wept; and then he was ashamed
that such a creature as Goneril should have so much power over his
manhood as to make him weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp and
state at their palace; and Lear despatched his servant Caius with
letters to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception,
while he and his train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had
been beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her
father of waywardness and ill humours, and advising her not to
receive so great a train as he was bringing with him. This messenger
arrived at the same time with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who
should it be but Caius's old enemy the steward, whom he had formerly
tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not
liking the fellow's look, and suspecting what he came for, began to
revile him, and challenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing,
Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-
maker and carrier of wicked messages deserved; which coming to the
ears of Regan and her husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the
stocks, though he was a messenger from the king her father, and in
that character demanded the highest respect: so that the first thing the
king saw when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius
sitting in that disgraceful situation.

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