Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, and did not love her father at all, said she loved him more than words could say; she loved him dearer than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life, grace, health, beauty, and honor.
“If you love me as much as this,” said the King, “I give you a third part of my kingdom. And how much does Regan love me?”
“I love you as much as my sister and more,” professed Regan, “since I care for nothing but my father’s love.”
Lear was very much pleased with Regan’s professions, and gave her another third part of his fair kingdom. Then he turned to his youngest daughter, Cordelia. “Now, our joy, though last not least,” he said, “the best part of my kingdom have I kept for you. What can you say?”
“Nothing, my lord,” answered Cordelia.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” said Cordelia.
“Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again,” said the King.
And Cordelia answered—“I love your Majesty according to my duty,—no more, no less.”
And this she said, because she knew her sisters’ wicked hearts, and was disgusted with the way in which they professed unbounded and impossible love, when really they had not even a right sense of duty to their old father.
“I am your daughter,” she went on, “and you have brought me up and loved me, and I return you those duties back as are right fit, obey you, love you, and most honor you.”
Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her to make more extravagant professions of love than her sisters; and what seemed to him her coldness so angered him that he bade her begone from his sight. “Go,” he said, “be for ever a stranger to my heart and me.”
The Earl of Kent, one of Lear’s favorite courtiers and captains, tried to say a word for Cordelia’s sake, but Lear would not listen. He divided the remaining part of his kingdom between Goneril and Regan, who had pleased him with their foolish flattery, and told them that he should only keep a hundred knights at arms for his following, and would live with his daughters by turns.
When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cordelia would have no share of the kingdom, he gave up his courtship of her. But the King of France was wiser, and said to her—“Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich, being poor—most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised. Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. Thy dowerless daughter, King, is Queen of us—of ours, and our fair France.”
“Take her, take her,” said the King; “for I have no such daughter, and will never see that face of hers again.”
So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the Earl of Kent, for having ventured to take her part, was banished from the King’s Court and from the kingdom. The King now went to stay with his daughter Goneril, and very soon began to find out how much fair words were worth. She had got everything from her father that he had to give, and she began to grudge even the hundred knights that he had reserved for himself. She frowned at him whenever she met him; she herself was harsh and undutiful to him, and her servants treated him with neglect, and either refused to obey his orders or pretended that they did not hear them.
Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, made as though he would go into another country, but instead he came back in the disguise of a serving-man and took service with the King, who never suspected him to be that Earl of Kent whom he himself had banished. The very same day that Lear engaged him as his servant, Goneril’s steward insulted the King, and the Earl of Kent showed his respect for the King’s Majesty by tripping up the caitiff into the gutter. The King had now two friends—the Earl of Kent, whom he only knew as his servant, and his Fool, who was faithful to him although he had given away his kingdom. Goneril was not contented with letting her father suffer insults at the hands of her servants. She told him plainly that his train of one hundred knights only served to fill her Court with riot and feasting; and so she begged him to dismiss them, and only keep a few old men about him such as himself.
“My train are men who know all parts of duty,” said Lear. “Saddle my horses, call my train together. Goneril, I will not trouble you further—yet I have left another daughter.”
And he cursed his daughter, Goneril, praying that she might never have a child, or that if she had, it might treat her as cruelly as she had treated him. And his horses being saddled, he set out with his followers for the castle of Regan, his other daughter. Lear sent on his servant Caius, who was really the Earl of Kent, with letters to his daughter to say he was coming. But Caius fell in with a messenger of Goneril—in fact that very steward whom he had tripped into the gutter—and beat him soundly for the mischief-maker that he was; and Regan, when she heard it, put Caius in the stocks, not respecting him as a messenger coming from her father. And she who had formerly outdone her sister in professions of attachment to the King, now seemed to outdo her in undutiful conduct, saying that fifty knights were too many to wait on him, that five-and-twenty were enough, and Goneril (who had hurried thither to prevent Regan showing any kindness to the old King) said five-and-twenty were too many, or even ten, or even five, since her servants could wait on him.
“What need one?” said Regan.
Then when Lear saw that what they really wanted was to drive him away from them, he cursed them both and left them. It was a wild and stormy night, yet those cruel daughters did not care what became of their father in the cold and the rain, but they shut the castle doors and went in out of the storm. All night he wandered about the heath half mad with misery, and with no companion but the poor Fool. But presently his servant, Caius, the good Earl of Kent, met him, and at last persuaded him to lie down in a wretched little hovel which stood upon the heath. At daybreak the Earl of Kent removed his royal master to Dover, where his old friends were, and then hurried to the Court of France and told Cordelia what had happened.
Her husband gave her an army to go to the assistance of her father, and with it she landed at Dover. Here she found poor King Lear, now quite mad, wandering about the fields, singing aloud to himself and wearing a crown of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and fed and clothed him, and the doctors gave him such medicines as they thought might bring him back to his right mind, and by-and-by he woke better, but still not quite himself. Then Cordelia came to him and kissed him, to make up, as she said, for her sisters. At first he hardly knew her.
“Pray do not mock me,” he said. “I am a very foolish, fond old man, four-score and upward, and to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. I think I should know you, though I do not know these garments, nor do I know where I lodged last night. Do not laugh at me, though, as I am a man, I think this lady must be my daughter, Cordelia.”
“And so I am—I am,” cried Cordelia. “Come with me.”
“You must bear with me,” said Lear; “forget and forgive. I am old and foolish.”
And now he knew at last which of his children it was that had loved him best, and who was worthy of his love; and from that time they were not parted.
Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight Cordelia’s army, and were successful: and Cordelia and her father were thrown into prison. Then Goneril’s husband, the Duke of Albany, who was a good man, and had not known how wicked his wife was, heard the truth of the whole story; and when Goneril found that her husband knew her for the wicked woman she was, she killed herself, having a little time before given a deadly poison to her sister, Regan, out of a spirit of jealousy.
But they had arranged that Cordelia should be hanged in prison, and though the Duke of Albany sent messengers at once, it was too late. The old King came staggering into the tent of the Duke of Albany, carrying the body of his dear daughter Cordelia in his arms.
“Oh, she is gone for ever,” he said. “I know when one is dead, and when one lives. She’s dead as earth.”
They crowded round in horror.
“Oh, if she lives,” said the King, “it is a chance that does redeem all sorrows that ever I have left.”
The Earl of Kent spoke a
word to him, but Lear was too mad to listen.
“A plague upon you murderous traitors all! I might have saved her. Now she is gone for ever. Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Her voice was ever low, gentle, and soft—an excellent thing in woman. I killed the slave that was hanging thee.”
“’Tis true, my lords, he did,” said one of the officers from the castle.
“Oh, thou wilt come no more,” cried the poor old man. “Do you see this? Look on her—look, her lips. Look there, look there.”
And with that he fell with her still in his arms, and died.
And this was the end of Lear and Cordelia.
CYMBELINE
CYMBELINE was the King of Britain. He had three children. The two sons were stolen away from him when they were quite little children, and he was left with only one daughter, Imogen. The King married a second time, and brought up Leonatus, the son of a dead friend, as Imogen’s playfellow; and when Leonatus was old enough, Imogen secretly married him. This made the King and Queen very angry, and the King, to punish Leonatus, banished him from Britain.
Poor Imogen was nearly heart-broken at parting from Leonatus, and he was not less unhappy. For they were not only lovers and husband and wife, but they had been friends and comrades ever since they were quite little children. With many tears and kisses they said “Good-bye.” They promised never to forget each other, and that they would never care for any one else as long as they lived.
“This diamond was my mother’s love,” said Imogen; “take it, my heart, and keep it as long as you love me.”
“Sweetest, fairest,” answered Leonatus, “wear this bracelet for my sake.”
“Ah!” cried Imogen, weeping, “when shall we meet again?”
And while they were still in each other’s arms, the King came in, and Leonatus had to leave without more farewell.
When he was come to Rome, where he had gone to stay with an old friend of his father’s, he spent his days still in thinking of his dear Imogen, and his nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some Italian and French noblemen were talking of their sweethearts, and swearing that they were the most faithful and honorable and beautiful ladies in the world. And a Frenchman reminded Leonatus how he had said many times that his wife Imogen was more fair, wise, and constant than any of the rest of the ladies in France.
“I say so still,” said Leonatus.
“She is not so good but that she would deceive,” said Iachimo, one of the Italian nobles.
“She never would deceive,” said Leonatus.
“I wager,” said Iachimo, “that, if I go to Britain, I can persuade your wife to do whatever I wish, even if it should be against your wishes.”
“That you will never do,” said Leonatus. “I wager this ring upon my finger,” which was the very ring Imogen had given him at parting, “that my wife will keep all vows to me, and that you will never persuade her to do otherwise.”
So Iachimo wagered half his estate against the ring on Leonatus’ finger, and started forthwith to Britain with a letter of introduction to Leonatus’ wife. When he reached there he was received with all kindness; but he was still determined to win his wager.
He told Imogen that her husband thought no more of her, and went on to tell many cruel lies about him. Imogen listened at first, but presently perceived what a wicked person Iachimo was, and ordered him to leave her. Then he said—
“Pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is untrue. I only told you this to see whether you would believe me, or whether you were as much to be trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive me?”
“I forgive you freely,” said Imogen.
“Then,” went on Iachimo, “perhaps you will prove it by taking charge of a trunk, containing a number of jewels which your husband and I and some other gentlemen have bought as a present for the Emperor of Rome.”
“I will indeed,” said Imogen, “do anything for my husband and a friend of my husband’s. Have the jewels sent into my room, and I will take care of them.”
“It is only for one night,” said Iachimo, “for I leave Britain again to-morrow.”
So the trunk was carried into Imogen’s room, and that night she went to bed and to sleep. When she was fast asleep, the lid of the trunk opened and a man got out. It was Iachimo. The story about the jewels was as untrue as the rest of the things he had said. He had only wished to get into her room to win his wicked wager. He looked about him and noticed the furniture, and then crept to the side of the bed where Imogen was asleep and took from her arm the gold bracelet which had been the parting gift of her husband. Then he crept back to the trunk, and next morning sailed for Rome.
When he met Leonatus, he said—
“I have been to Britain and I have won the wager, for your wife no longer thinks about you. She stayed talking with me all one night in her room, which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chimney-piece, and silver andirons in the shape of two winking cupids.”
“I do not believe she has forgotten me; I do not believe she stayed talking with you in her room. You have heard her room described by the servants.”
“Ah!” said Iachimo, “but she gave me this bracelet. She took it from her arm. I see her yet. Her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said she prized it once.”
“Take the ring,” cried Leonatus, “you have won, and you might have won my life as well, for I care nothing for it now I know my lady has forgotten me.”
And mad with anger, he wrote letters to Britain to his old servant, Pisanio, ordering him to take Imogen to Milford Haven, and to murder her, because she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At the same time he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her to go with Pisanio, his old servant, to Milford Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there to meet her.
Now when Pisanio got this letter he was too good to carry out its orders, and too wise to let them alone altogether. So he gave Imogen the letter from her husband, and started with her for Milford Haven. Before he left, the wicked Queen gave him a drink which, she said, would be useful in sickness. She hoped he would give it to Imogen, and that Imogen would die, and then the wicked Queen’s son could be King. For the Queen thought this drink was a poison, but really and truly it was only a sleeping-draught.
When Pisanio and Imogen came near to Milford Haven, he told her what was really in the letter he had had from her husband.
“I must go on to Rome, and see him myself,” said Imogen.
And then Pisanio helped her to dress in boy’s clothes, and sent her on her way, and went back to the Court. Before he went, he gave her the drink he had had from the Queen.
Imogen went on, getting more and more tired, and at last came to a cave. Some one seemed to live there, but no one was in just then. So she went in, and as she was almost dying of hunger, she took some food she saw there, and had just done so, when an old man and two boys came into the cave. She was very much frightened when she saw them, for she thought that they would be angry with her for taking their food, though she had meant to leave money for it on the table. But to her surprise they welcomed her kindly. She looked very pretty in her boy’s clothes, and her face was good, as well as pretty.
“You shall be our brother,” said both the boys; and so she stayed with them, and helped to cook the food, and make things comfortable. But one day when the old man, whose name was Bellarius, was out hunting with the two boys, Imogen felt ill and thought she would try the medicine Pisanio had given her. So she took it, and at once became like a dead creature, so that when Bellarius and the boys came back from hunting, they thought she was dead, and with many tears and funeral songs, they carried her away and laid her in the wood, covered with flowers.
They sang sweet songs to her, and strewed flowers on her, pale primroses, and the azure harebell, and eglantine, and furred moss, and went away sorrowful. No sooner had they gone than Imogen awoke, and not knowing how she came there, nor where she was, went wandering through the woo
d.
Now while Imogen had been living in the cave, the Romans had decided to attack Britain, and their army had come over, and with them Leonatus, who had grown sorry for his wickedness against Imogen, so had come back, not to fight with the Romans against Britain, but with the Britons against Rome. So as Imogen wandered alone, she met with Lucius, the Roman General, and took service with him as his page.
When the battle was fought between the Romans and Britons, Bellarius and his two boys fought for their own country, and Leonatus, disguised as a British peasant, fought beside them. The Romans had taken Cymbeline prisoner, and old Bellarius, with his sons and Leonatus, bravely rescued the King. Then the Britons won the battle, and among the prisoners brought before the King were Lucius, with Imogen, Iachimo, and Leonatus, who had put on the uniform of a Roman soldier. He was tired of his life since he had cruelly ordered his wife to be killed, and he hoped that, as a Roman soldier, he would be put to death.
When they were brought before the King, Lucius spoke out—
“A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer,” he said. “If I must die, so be it. This one thing only will I entreat. My boy, a Briton born, let him be ransomed. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous, diligent, true. He has done no Briton harm, though he has served a Roman. Save him, sir.”
Then Cymbeline looked on the page, who was his own daughter, Imogen, in disguise, and though he did not recognize her, he felt such a kindness that he not only spared the boy’s life, but he said—
“He shall have any boon he likes to ask of me, even though he ask a prisoner, the noblest taken.”
Then Imogen said, “The boon I ask is that this gentleman shall say from whom he got the ring he has on his finger,” and she pointed to Iachimo.
“Speak,” said Cymbeline, “how did you get that diamond?”
Then Iachimo told the whole truth of his villainy. At this, Leonatus was unable to contain himself, and casting aside all thought of disguise, he came forward, cursing himself for his folly in having believed Iachimo’s lying story, and calling again and again on his wife whom he believed dead.