 King Lear, from Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, May 2007. Tales from Shakespeare, by Charles and Mary Lamb. King Lear. Lear, King of Britain, had three daughters. Conorill, wife to the Duke of Albany, Reagan, 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 four score 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 would seem to deserve. Conorill, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than words who 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 it 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 fit 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. Reagan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her sister, was not a wit behind in her professions, but rather declared that what her sister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to bear for his highness, in so much that she found all other joys dead in comparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dear King and father. Leah blessed himself in having such loving children as he thought, and could do no less after the handsome assurances which Reagan 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 goneral. 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 weedle 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 disappearance 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 assistants 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 he gave her husband would want half her love, half her care and duty, and she should never marry like her sisters to love her father all. Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even almost extravagantly as her daughters 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 draw 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 Leah called pride, so enraged the old monarch, who in his best of times always showed much of spleen and rashness, and in whom the dodged 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 nights for his attendance, was to be maintained by monthly course in each of his daughter's 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 unmanally only because Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful counselor 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 for 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 sister's 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 deflatory like her sister's, 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 sister's 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 sister's. 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 sister's, 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 arms. And Cordelia, with a heavy heart, departed, for she knew the cunning of her sister's, and she wished her father in better hands than she was able to leave him in. Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of her sister's began to show themselves in their true colours. Even before the expiration of the first month, which Lia was to spend by agreement with his daughter, Gonoral, 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 though 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 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 attendance an unnecessary expense. Not only she herself slackened in the 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. Leah could not but perceive the alteration and the behavior of his daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as people commonly are willing 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 Leah, 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 preferred 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 Leah took Kent into his service by the name of Kias, as he called himself, never suspecting him to be his one's great favorite, the high and mighty Earl of Kent. This Kias quickly found means to show his fidelity and love to his royal master, for gone Earl steward that same day behaving in a disrespectful manner to Leah, and giving him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress. Kias, not enduring to hear so open and affront put upon his majesty, made no more ado, but presently tripped up his heels and laid the unmanally slave in the kennel, for which friendly service Leah became more and more attached to him. Paul was Kent the only friend Leah 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 Leah 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 Leah 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 I, for sorrow, sung, that such a king should play bow 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 goneral 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 Leah's daughters, that ought to go behind, now ranked before their father, and that Leah was no longer Leah, but the shadow of Leah, for which free speeches he was once or twice threatened to be whipped. The coolness and falling off of respect which Leah 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 nights, that this establishment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill 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. Leah 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 for 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 raid 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 nights 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, Reagan, he and his hundred nights, and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marvell-hearted devil, and shewed more hideous in a child than the sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter, Gonrall, so as was terrible to hear, praying that she might never have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return the 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 Gonrall's husband, the Duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any share which Leah might suppose he had in the unkindness, Leah 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 Reagan, his other daughter. And Leah thought to himself, how small the thought of Cordelia, if it was a fault, now appeared in comparison with her sisters, and he wept. And then he was ashamed that such a creature as Gonrall should have so much power over his manhood as to make him weep. Reagan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp and state at their palace, and Leah despatched his servant Kias, with letters to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception, while he and his train followed after. But it seems that Gonrall had been beforehand with him, sending letters also to Reagan, 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 Kias, and—Kias and he met, and who should it be by Kias's old enemy, the steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour to Leah. Kias 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, Kias, 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 Reagan and her husband, they ordered Kias 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 as he entered the castle was his faithful servant Kias sitting in that disgraceful situation. This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to expect. But a worse followed when, upon inquiry for his daughter and her husband, he was told they were weary with travelling all night and could not see him, and when, lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in their company but the hated goneral, who had come to tell her own story and set her sister against the king her father. This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Reagan take her by the hand, and he asked goneral if she was not ashamed to look upon his old white beard, and Reagan advised him to go home again with goneral, and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attendance, and to ask her forgiveness, for he was old and wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that had more discretion than himself. And Leah showed how preposterous that would sound, if he were to go down on his knees and beg of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural dependence declaring his resolution never to return with her, but to stay where he was with Reagan, he and his hundred knights. For he said that she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which he had endowed her with, and that her eyes were not fierce like gonerals, but mild and kind, and he said that rather than return to goneral with half his train cut off, he would go over to France and beg a wretched pension of the king there, who had married his youngest daughter without a portion. But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Reagan than he had experienced from her sister goneral. As if willing to outdo her sister an unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty knights too many to wait upon him, that five and twenty were enough. Then Leah, nigh heartbroken, turned to goneral and said that he would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five and twenty, and so her love was twice as much as Reagan's. But goneral excused herself and said, what need of so many as five and twenty, or even ten or five, when he might be waited upon by her servants or her sister's servants. So these two wicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their old father, who had been so good to them, by little and little would have abated him of all his train, all respect, little enough for him that once commanded a kingdom. Which was left him to show that he had once been a king. Not that a splendid train is essential to happiness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from commanding millions to be without one attendant, and it was the ingratitude in his daughter's denying more than what he would suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king to the heart. In so much that, with this double ill usage and vexation for having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against those unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should be a terror to the earth. While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning with rain, and his daughter still persisting in their resolution not to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad than stay under the same roof for these ungrateful daughters, and they saying that the injuries which willful men procure to themselves are their just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition, and shut their doors upon him. The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the old man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than his daughter's unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush, and there upon a heave, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark night, did king Lear wander out and defy the winds and thunder, and he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left with no other companion than the poor fool who still abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to outgest misfortune, saying it was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go in and asked his daughter's blessing. But he that has a little tiny wit, with hay-hole, the wind and the rain, must make content with his fortune's fit, though the rain it raineth every day, and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride. Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was found by his ever-faithful servant, the good Earl of Kent, now transformed to Caius, who ever followed close at his side, though the king did not know him to be the Earl, and he said, Alasa! Are you here? Creatures that love night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful storm has driven the beast to their hiding places. Man's nature cannot endure the affliction or the fear. And Lear rebuked him, and said these lesser evils were not felt where a greater malady was fixed. When the mind is at ease, the body has leisure to be delicate, but the tempest in his mind did take all feeling else from his senses, but of that which beat at his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to it, for parents were hands and food and everything to children. But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that the king should not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool first entering suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing more than a poor bedlam beggar who had crept into this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, one of those poor lunatics who are either mad or feigned to be so, the better to extort charity from the compassionate country people who go about the country calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turley Good, saying, Who gives anything to poor Tom, sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary into their arms to make them bleed, and with horrible actions partly by prayers and partly with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the ignorant country folk into giving them arms. This poor fellow was such a one, and the king, seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing but a blanket about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be persuaded but that the fellow was some father who had given all away to his daughters, and brought himself to that pass. For nothing, he thought, could bring a man to such wretchedness but the having unkind daughters. And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, the good kaius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but that his daughter's ill usage had really made him go mad, and now the loyalty of this worthy Earl of Kent showed itself in more essential services than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with the assistance of some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his royal master removed at daybreak to the castle at Dover, where his own friends in influence as Earl of Kent chiefly lay. And himself embarking for France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal father, and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of her sisters, that this good and loving child, with many tears, besought the king her husband, that he would give her leave to embark for England with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father to his throne. Which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed at Dover. Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which the good Earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields near Dover in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to himself with a crown upon his head which he had made of straw and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the cornfields. By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting till, by sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be restored to greater composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king, Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter. A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father and daughter, to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old king at beholding again his once-darling child, and the shame at receiving such filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in his displeasure. Both these passions struggling with the remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made him that he scarce remembered where he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke to him, and then he would beg the standards by not to laugh at him if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his daughter, Cordelia. And then to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of his child, and she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of him, and telling him that it did not become him to kneel, but it was her duty for she was his child, his true and very child Cordelia. And she kissed him, as she said, to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, and said that they might be ashamed of themselves to turn their old, kind father with his white beard out into the cold air when her enemy's dog, though it had bit her, as she prettily expressed her, should have stayed by her fire such a night as that, and warmed himself. And she told her father how she had come from France with purpose to bring him assistance, and he said that she must forget and forgive, for he was old and foolish and did not know what he did, but that, to be sure, she had great cause not to love him, but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no more than they did. So we will leave this old king in the protection of his dutiful and loving child, whereby the help of sleep and medicine she and her physicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarring senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violently shaken. Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel daughters. These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their own father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their own husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of duty and affection, and in an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon another. It happened that the object of their guilty loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late Earl of Gluster, who by his treachery since succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices was now Earl himself, a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such wicked creatures as Gonrall and Reagan. It falling out about this time that the Duke of Cornwall, Reagan's husband, died, Reagan immediately declared her intention of wedding this Earl of Gluster, which rousing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Reagan this wicked Earl had at sundry times professed love, Gonrall found means to make away with her sister by poison. But being detected in her practices and imprisoned by her husband, the Duke of Albany, for this deed, and for her guilty passion for the Earl which had come to his ears, she, in a fit of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an end to her own life. Thus the justice of heaven at last overtook these wicked daughters. While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring that justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate conclusion. But it is an awful truth that innocence and piety are not always successful in this world. The forces which Gonrall and Reagan had sent out under the command of the bad Earl of Gluster were victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked Earl, who did not like that any should stand between him and the throne, ended her life in prison. Thus heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her young years, after showing her to the world an illustrious example of filial duty. Leah did not long survive this kind child. Before he died, the good Earl of Kent, who had still attended his old master's steps from the first of his daughter's ill usage to this sad period of his decay, tried to make him understand that it was he who had followed him under the name of Kias. But Leah's care-crazed brain at that time could not comprehend how that could be, or how Kent and Kias could be the same person. So Kent thought it needless to trouble him with explanations at such a time. And Leah, soon after expiring, this faithful servant to the King, between age and grief for his old master's vexations, soon followed him to the grave. Halva judgment of heaven overtook the bad Earl of Gluster, whose treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single combat with his brother, the lawful Earl, and how gonerals husband the Duke of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against her father, ascended the throne of Britain after the death of Leah, it is needless here to narrate, Leah and his three daughters being dead, whose adventures alone concern our story. End of story. McBeth. From Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, May 2007. Tales from Shakespeare. McBeth. When Duncan the Meek reigned King of Scotland, there lived a great thane, or lord, called McBeth. This McBeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in greater steam at court for his valour and conduct in the wars, an example of which he had lately given in defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers. The two Scottish generals, McBeth and Banquot, returning victorious from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures like women, except that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild attire made them look not like any earthly creatures. McBeth first addressed them when they seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy finger upon her skinny lips in token of silence. And the first of them saluted McBeth with the title of Fane of Glamis. The general was not a little startle to find himself known by such creatures, but how much more, when the second of them followed up that salute by giving him the title of Fane of Kordor, to which honour he had no pretensions, and again the third bid him, all hail, that shalt be king hereafter. Such a prophetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew that while the king's sons lived he could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then, turning to Banquot, they pronounced him in a sort of riddling terms, to be lesser than McBeth and greater, not so happy but much happier, and prophesied that though he should never reign, yet his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air and vanished, by which the generals knew them to be the weird sisters or witches. While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adventure there arrived certain messengers from the king, who were empowered by him to confer upon McBeth the dignity of Fane of Kordor, an event so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witches astonished McBeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement, unable to make reply to the messengers. In that point of time swelling hopes arose in his mind that the prediction of the third witch might, in like manner, have its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign king in Scotland. Turning to Banquot he said, Do you not hope that your children shall be kings, when what the witches promise to me has so wonderfully come to pass? That hope, answered the general, might incindal you to aim at the throne, but often times these ministers of darkness tell us truths in little things to betray us into deeds of greatest consequence. But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into the mind of McBeth to allow him to attend to the warnings of good Banquot. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the throne of Scotland. McBeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction of the weird sisters and its partial accomplishment. She was a bad, ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself could arrive at greatness she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the reluctant purpose of McBeth, who felt compunction of the thoughts of blood and did not cease to represent the murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy. It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal condescension would often times visit his principal nobility upon gracious terms, came to McBeth's house, attended by his two sons, Malcolm and Donald Bain, and a numerous train of feigns and attendants, the more to honor McBeth for the triumphal success of his wars. The castle of McBeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the martlet, or swallow, had built under all the jutting freezes and buttresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage. For where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to be delicate. The king entered, well pleased with the place, and not less so by the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, Lady McBeth, who had the art of covering treacherous purposes with smiles, and could look like the innocent flower while she was indeed serpent under it. The king being tired with his journey went to bed early, and in his stateroom two grooms of his chamber, as was the custom, beside him. He had been unusually pleased with his reception, and had made presence before he retired to his principal, and among the rest had sent a diamond to Lady McBeth, greeting the name of his most kind hostess. Now was the middle of the night, when over half the world nature seemed dead, and wicked dreams, abuse, men, smiles, asleep, and none but the wolf and the murderer are abroad. This was the time when Lady McBeth waked to plot the murder of the king. She would not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her husband's nature, that it was too full of the milk of human kindness to do a contrived murder. She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that height of crime which commonly in the end of company's inordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder, but she doubted his resolution, and she feared that the natural tenderness of his disposition, more humane than her own, would come between and defeat the purpose. So with her own hands, armed with a dagger, she approached the king's bed, having taken care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine that they slept intoxicated and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan in a sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed him earnestly there was something in his face as he slept which resembled her own father, and she had not the courage to proceed. She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had begun to stagger. He considered that there were strong reasons against the deed. In the first place, he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman to the king. And he had been his host and entertainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to shut the door against his murderers, not bear the knife himself. Then he considered how just and merciful a king this Duncan had been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how loving to his nobility, and in particular to him, that such kings are the peculiar care of heaven, that their subjects doubly bound to revenge their debts. Besides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all sorts of men, and how would those honours be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder? In these conflicts of the mind Lady Macbeth found her husband, inclining to the better part and resolving to proceed no further. But she, being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he should not shrink from what he had undertaken, how easy the deed was, how soon it would be over, and how the action of one short night would give to all their nights and days to come, sovereign, sway, and royalty. Then she threw contempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of fickleness and cowardice, and declared that she had given suck, and knew how tender it was to love the babe that milked her. But she would, while it was smiling in her face, have plucked it from her breast and dashed its brains out if she had so sworn to do it as he had sworn to perform that murder. Then she added how practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon the drunken, sleepy grooms, and with the valour of her tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions that he once more summed up courage to the bloody business. So taking the dagger in his hand, he softly souling the dark to the room where Duncan lay, and as he went he thought he saw another dagger in the air with the handle toward him, and on the blade, and at the point of it, drops of blood. But when he tried to grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had in hand. Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, whom he despatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had done the murder, one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the other cried, Murder! Which woke them both. But they said a short prayer, one of them said, God bless us, and the other answered, Amen, and addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried to say Amen, when the fellow said, God bless us. But though he had most need of a blessing, the words stuck in his throat, and he could not pronounce it. Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep that nourishes life! Still it cried, Sleep no more to all the house! Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Kordor shall sleep no more! Macbeth shall sleep no more! With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to his listening wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state that she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his hands of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem their guilt. Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could not be concealed. And though Macbeth and his lady made great show of grief, the proofs against the grooms, the dagger being produced against them, and their faces smeared with blood, were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such a deed were so much more forcible, than such poor silly grooms could be supposed to have, and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm the eldest, sought for refuge in the English court, and the youngest, Donald Bain, made his escape to Ireland. The king's sons, who should have succeeded him having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished. Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters that, though Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, but the children of Banquo should be kings after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands with blood, and done so great crimes only to place the posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so wrangled within them, that they determined to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions of the weird sisters, which, in their own case, had been so remarkably brought to pass. For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they invited all the chief thanes, and among the rest, with marks of particular respect, Banquo and his son Phaeans were invited. The way by which Banquo was to pass to the palace at night was beset by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo, but in the scuffle Phaeans escaped. From that Phaeans descended a race of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending with James VI of Scotland and I of England, under whom the two crowns of England and Scotland were united. At supper the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention which conciliated every one present, and Macbeth disgorced freely with his thanes and nobles, saying that all that was honourable in the country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect than to lament for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom he had caused to be murdered, entered the room and placed himself on the chair which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite unmanned, with his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing but perceived him gazing as they thought, upon an empty chair, took it for a fit of distraction. And she reproached him, whispering that it was but the same fancy which made him see the dagger in the air when he was about to kill Duncan. And gave no heed to all they could say, while he addressed it with distracted words, yet so significant that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with. To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and he had their sleep afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom now they looked upon as farther to a line of kings who should keep their posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts they found no peace, and Macbeth determined once more to seek out the weird sisters, and know from them the worst. He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful charms by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them faturity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the eye of a newt and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard and the wing of the night owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the more of the ravenous salt sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock, this to have effect must be digged in the dark, the gall of a goat and the liver of a Jew with slips of the yew-tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child. All these were set on to boil in a great kettle or cauldron, which as fast as it grew too hot was cooled with a baboon's blood. These they poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they threw into the flame the grease that had sweated from a murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the infernal spirit to answer their questions. It was demanded of Macbeth whether he would have his doubts resolved by them or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, Where are they? Let me see them. And they called the spirits, which were three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the Thane of Fife, for which caution Macbeth thanked him, for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the Thane of Fife. And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman-born should have power to hurt him, and he advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. Then live Macduff! cried the king. What need I fear thee? But yet I will make assurance, doubly sure, Thou shalt not live, that I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder. That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, and comforted him against conspiracies, saying that he should never be vanquished until the wood of Burnham to Dunson-Ain Hill should come against him. Sweet baudments! Good! cried Macbeth! Who can unfix the forest, and move it from its earthbound roots? I see I shall live the usual period of man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death. But my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom. Here the cauldron sank into the ground, and a noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a glass which showed the figures of many more, and Banquo, all bloody, smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them. By which Macbeth knew that these were the posterity of Banquo who should reign after him in Scotland, and the witches, with the sound of soft music and with dancing, making a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful. The first thing he heard when he got out of the witch's cave was that Macduff, Thane of Fife, had fled to England to join the army which was forming up against him under Malcolm, the oldest son of the late king, with intent to displace Macbeth and set Malcolm the right heir upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom the Thane had left behind, to the sword, and extended the slaughter to all who claimed the least relationship to Macduff. These and such like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief nobility from him, such as could fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army which they had raised in England, and the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His recruits went on slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant. Nobody loved or honoured him, but all suspected him, and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done its worst. Steel nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any longer. While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly, died, it is opposed by her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of guilt and public hate, by which event he was left alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he could confide his wicked purposes. He grew careless of life and wished for death, but the near approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage, and he determined to die, as he expressed it, with armour on his back. Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him with a false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits, that none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquished till Burnham Wood should come to Dunsenane, which he thought could never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable strength was such as defied a siege. Here he sullenly waited the approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had seen, for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he looked toward Burnham, and to his thinking the wood began to move. "'Liar and slave,' cried Macbeth, if thou speakst false, thou shalt hang alive upon the next tree till famine end thee. If thy tale be true, I care not if thou dust as much by me.' For Macbeth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear till Burnham Wood should come to Dunsenane, and now a wood did move. However, said he, if this which he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end. With these desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the castle. The strange appearance which had given the messenger an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. When the besieging army marched through the wood of Burnham, Malcolm, like a skillful general, instructed his soldiers to hew down every one, a bow, and bear it before him, by way of concealing the true numbers of his host. This marching of the soldiers with bows had at a distance the appearance which had frightened the messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit brought to pass, in a sense different from that in which Macbeth had understood them, and one great hold of his confidence was gone. And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, though feebly supported by those who call themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant, and inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valor, cutting to pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff and remembering the caution of the spirit who had counseled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have turned. But Macduff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued, Macduff giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged enough with blood of that family already, would still have declined the combat. But Macduff still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, hellhound, and villain. Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none of woman born should hurt him, and smiling confidently, he said to Macduff, Thou looses thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayst impress the air with thy sword as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born. Despair thy charm, said Macduff, and let that lying spirit whom thou hast served tell thee that Macduff was never born of woman, never as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely taken from his mother. A cuss to be the tongue which tells me so, said the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence give way, and let never man in future believe the lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits who deceive us in words which have double senses, and while they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a different meaning. I will not fight with thee. Then live, said the scornful Macduff. Who will have a show of thee, as men show monsters, and a painted board, on which will be written, Here may men see the tyrant. Never, said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair. I will not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet to be baited with the curses of the rabble. Though Burnham would become to Duncinane, and thou opposed to me, who was born of woman, yet will I try the last. With these frantic words he threw himself upon Macduff, who after a severe struggle in the end overcame him, and cutting off his head made a present of it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm, who took upon him the government, which by the machinations of the usurper he had so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncin the meek among the acclamations of the nobles and the people. End of story All's Well That Ends Well Bertram, Count of Rusulon, had newly come to his title and estate by the death of his father. The King of France loved the father of Bertram, and when he heard of his death he sent for his son to come immediately to his royal court in Paris, intending, for the friendship he bore the late Count, to grace young Bertram with his special favour and protection. Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed Countess, when Laferre, an old lord of the French court, came to conduct him to the King. The King of France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to court was in the form of a royal mandate or positive command, which no subject of what high dignity so ever might disobey. Therefore, though the Countess in parting with this dear son seemed a second time to bury her husband, whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep him a single day, but gave instant orders for his departure. Laferre, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the Countess for the loss of her late lord and her son's sudden absence, and he said, in a courteous, flattering manner, that the King was so kind a prince, she would find in his majesty a husband, and that he would be a father to her son, meaning only, that the good King would befriend the fortunes of Bertram. Laferre told the Countess that the King had fallen into a sad malady, which was pronounced by his physician to be incurable. The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the King's ill health, and said she wished the father of Helena, a young, gentlewoman who was present in attendance upon her, were liverying that she doubted not he could have cured his majesty of his disease. And she told Laferre something of the history of Helena, saying she was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerardin Arbonne, and that he had recommended his daughter to her care when he was dying, so that since his death she had taken Helena under her protection. Then the Countess praised the virtuous disposition and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues from her worthy father. While she was speaking, Helena wept in sad and mournful silence, which made the Countess gently reprove her for too much grieving for her father's death. Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The Countess parted with his dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care of Laferre, saying, Good my Lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned courtier. Bertram's last words have spoken to Helena, but they were words of mere civility, wishing her happiness, and he concluded his short farewell to her with saying, Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and mournful silence the tears she shed were not for Girardinard Bonn. Helena loved her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the object of which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form and features of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image to her mind but Bertram's. Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he was the Count of Rousselon, descended from the most ancient family in France, she of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all, his ancestors noble, and therefore she looked up to the high-born Bertram as to her master and to her dear Lord, and dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. So great the distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her lowly fortunes that she would say, It were all one that I should love a bright, particular star, and think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me. Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears and her heart with sorrow. For though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face. Gerardin Arbonne, when he died, left her no other portion than some prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep study and long experience in medicine he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest there was one set down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Laferse said the king at that time languished, and when Helena heard of the king's complaint, she, who told now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely as the king as well as his physicians was of the opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would give credit to a poor, unlearned virgin if she should offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time, for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being Count Roussillon's wife. Bertram had not been long gone when the Countess was informed by her steward that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he understood from some words she uttered she was in love with Bertram and thought of following him to Paris. The Countess dismissed the steward with thanks and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the Countess. Those days, probably, when her love for Bertram's father first began, and she said to herself, even so it was with me when I was young, love is a thorn that belongs to the rows of youth, for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature's children, these faults are ours, though then we think not they are faults. While the Countess was thus meditating on the loving eras of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, Helena, you know I am a mother to you. Helena replied, you are my honourable mistress. You are my daughter, said the Countess again. I say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at my words? With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the Countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, pardon me, madam, you are not my mother. The Count Ruslong cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter. Yet, Helena, said the Countess, you might be my daughter in law, and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter so disturb you. Helena, do you love my son? Good madam, pardon me, said the affrighted Helena. Again the Countess repeated her question, do you love my son? Do not you love him, madam, said Helena. The Countess replied, give me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for your love has to the full appeared. Helena, on her knees now, owned her love, and through shame and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress, and with words expressive of the sense she had of the inequality between their fortunes she protested Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble, unaspiring love to a poor Indian who adores the son that looks upon his worshipper, but knows of him no more. The Countess asked Helena if she had not lately an intent to go to Paris. Helena owned the design she had formed in her mind when she heard Laferr speak of the king's illness. This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris? said the Countess. Was it? Speak truly. Helena honestly answered, my lord your son made me to think of this, else Paris and the medicine and the king had from the conversation of my thoughts been absent then. The Countess heard the whole of this confession without seeing a word either of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as to the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She found that it was the most prized by Gerardinard Bonn of all he possessed, and that he had given it to his daughter on his deathbed, and remembering the solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in regard to this young maid, whose destiny and the life of the king himself seemed to depend on the execution of a project, which, though conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the Countess knew not, but it might be the unseen workings of Providence to bring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of Gerardinard Bonn's daughter. We leave she gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously furnished her with ample means and suitable attendance, and Helena set out for Paris with the blessings of the Countess and her kindest wishes for her success. Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend, the old Lord Le Foe, she obtained an audience of the king. She had still many difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But she told him she was Gerardinard Bonn's daughter, with whose fame the king was well acquainted, and she offered the precious medicine as the darling treasure which contained the essence of all her father's long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health in the space of two days. The king at length consented to try it, and in two days' time Helena was to lose her life if the king did not recover. But if she succeeded, he promised to give her the choice of any man throughout all France, the princes only accepted, whom she could like for her husband, the choice of her husband being the fee Helena demanded if she cured the king of his disease. Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the efficacy of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, the king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the young noblemen of his court together, in order to confer the promised reward of a husband upon his fair physician. And he desired Helena to look round on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her husband. Helena was not slow to make her choice. For among these young lords she saw the Count Russelon, and turning to Bertram she said, "'This is the man. I dare not say my lord I take you, but I give me and my service ever whilst I live into your guiding power.' "'Why, then?' said the king, "'Young Bertram take her. She is your wife.' Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to this present of the kings of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, bred at his father's charge, and now living a dependent on his mother's bounty. Helena heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king, "'That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go.' But the king would not suffer his royal command to be so slighted, for the power of bestowing their nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges of the kings of France, and that same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor lady, who though she's gained a noble husband she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her husband's love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to bestow. Helena was no sooner married than she was desired by Bertram to apply to the king for leave of absence from court, and when she brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram told her that he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved when she found it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his mother. When Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, Sir, I can nothing say to this but that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert wherein my homely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes. But this humble speech of Helena's did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he parted from her without even the common civility of a kind farewell. Back to the Countess, then Helena returned. She had accomplished the purpose of her journey. She had reserved the life of the king, and she had wedded her heart's dear lord, the Count Russelon. But she returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered the house, she received a letter from Bertram which almost broke her heart. The good Countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she had been her son's own choice and a lady of high degree, and she spoke kind words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. She then read these words out of Bertram's letter. When you can get the ring from my finger which never shall come off, then call me husband, but in such a then I write a never. This is a dreadful sentence, said Helena. The Countess begged her to have patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she should be her child, and that she deserved a lord that twenty such rude boys at Bertram might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. But in vain, by respectful condescension and kind flattery, this mashless mother tried to sue the sorrows of her daughter-in-law. Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and cried out in an agony of grief, till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. The Countess asked her if she found those words in the letter. Yes, Madam, was all poor Helena could answer. The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be delivered to the Countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden absence. In this letter she informed her that she was so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country and his home, that to atone for her offence she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Saint-Jacques-le-Grand, and concluded with requesting the Countess to inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his house for ever. Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became an officer in the Duke of Florence's army, and after a successful war in which he distinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram received letters from his mother containing the acceptable tidings that Helena would no more disturb him, and he was preparing to return home when Helena herself, clad in her pilgrims' weaves, arrived at the city of Florence. Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on their way to Saint-Jacques-le-Grand, and when Helena arrived at this city she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there who used to receive into her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit the Shrine of that Saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To this good lady there for Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous welcome and invited her to see whatever was curious in that famous city, and told her that if she would like to see the Duke's army she would take her where she might have a full view of it. And you will see a countryman of yours," said the widow. His name is Count Russelam, who has done worthy service in the Duke's wars. Helena wanted no second invitation when she found Bertram was to make part of the show. She accompanied her hostess, and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look once more upon her dear husband's face. "'Is he not a handsome man?' said the widow. "'I like him well,' replied Helena, with great truth. All the way they walked the talkative widow's discourse was all of Bertram. She told Helena the story of Bertram's marriage and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife, and entered into the Duke's army to avoid living with her. To this account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and when it was ended the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the widow began another tale, every word of which sank deep into the mind of Helena, for the story she now told was of Bertram's love for her daughter. Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it seems he was not insensible to love. For since he had been stationed with the army at Florence he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow, who was Helena's hostess, and every night, with music of all sorts and songs composed in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come under her window and solicit her love, and all his suit to her was that she would permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were retired to rest. But Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant this improper request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married man, for Diana had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though she was now in reduced circumstances, was well-born and descended from the noble family of the Capulets. All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, which, she said, were entirely owing to the excellent education and good advice she had given her. And she further said that Bertram had been particularly importunate with the Diana, to admit him to the visit he so much desired that night, because he was going to leave Florence early the next morning. Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the widow's daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived a project, nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former one, to recover her true-and-lord. She disclosed to the widow that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram to take place, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana, telling them her chief motive for desiring to have this secret meeting with her husband, was to get a ring from him which, he had said, if ever she was in possession of, he would acknowledge her as his wife. The widow and her daughter promised to a sister in this affair, partly moved by pity for this unhappy, forsaken wife, and partly won over to her interest by the promises of reward which Helena made them, giving them a purse of money and earnest for her future favour. In the course of that day, Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram that she was dead, hoping that, when he thought himself free to make a second choice by the news of her death, he would offer marriage to her in her feigned character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and this promise, too, she doubted not she could make some future good come of it. In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana's chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering compliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena were precious sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana. And Bertram was so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her for ever, which she hoped would be prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him. Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps he would not have been so regardless of her, and seeing her every day he had entirely overlooked her beauty, a face we are accustomed to see constantly losing the effect which is caused by the first sight either of beauty or of plainness. And of her understanding it was impossible, he should judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with her love for him, that she was always silent in his presence. But now that her future fate, and the happy ending of all her love projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a favourable impression on the mind of Bertram from his night's interview, she exerted all her wit to please him. And the simple graces of a lively conversation, and the endearing sweetness of her manners, so charmed Bertram that he vowed she should be his wife. Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard, and he gave it to her, and in return for this ring, which it was of such importance to her to possess, she gave him another ring, which was one the king had made her a present of. Before it was light in the morning she sent Bertram away, and he immediately set out on his journey towards his mother's house. Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris, their further assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she had formed. When they arrived there they found the king was gone upon a visit to the Countess of Ruslan, and Helena followed the king with all the speech you could make. The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who had been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind that the moment he saw the Countess of Ruslan he began to talk of Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her son. But seeing the subject to stress the Countess who sincerely lamented the death of Helena, he said, My good lady, I have forgotten and forgotten all. But the good-natured old Laferre who was present and could not bear that the memory of his favourite Helena should be so lightly passed over, said, This I must say, the young lord did great offence to his majesty, his mother, and his lady, but to himself he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose words took all he is captive, and whose deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve her. The king said, Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither, meaning Bertram, who now presented himself before the king, and on his expressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his dead fathers and his admirable mothers' sake, pardoned him, and restored him once more to his favour. But the gracious countenance of the king was soon changed toward him, for he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he had given to Helena, and he well remembered that Helena had called all the saints in heaven to witness she would never part with that ring unless she sent her to the king himself upon some great disaster befalling her. And Bertram, on the king's questioning him how he came by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared he had destroyed her, and he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying, I am wrapped in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of Helena was foully snatched. At this moment Diana and her mother entered and presented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his majesty to exert his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied he had made any such promise, and then Diana produced the ring, which Helena had put into her hands, to confirm the truth of her words. And she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing this the king ordered the guards to seize her also, and her account of the ring differing from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were confirmed, and he said, if they did not confess how they came by this ring of Helleners, they should both be put to death. Diana requested her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweler of whom she bought the ring, which, being granted, the widow went out, and presently returned, leading in Helena herself. The good Countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's danger, and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved with even a maternal affection, was still living, she felt at a light she was hardly able to support, and the king, scarce believing for joy that it was Helena, said, is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see? Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, Good Lord, it is but the shadow of a wife, you see, the name and not the thing. Bertram cried out, Both, both, oh, pardon! Oh, my Lord, said Helena, when I personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind. And look, here is your letter, reading to him in a joyful tone these words, which she had once repeated so sorrowfully. When from my finger you can get this ring, this is done! It was to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly one? Bertram replied, If you can make it plain that you were the lady I talked with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly. This was no difficult task. For the widow and Diana came with Helena to prove this fact. And the king was so well pleased with Diana for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he so truly valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her also a noble husband, Helena's history giving him a hint that it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform notable services. Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven, for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself, the countess of Ruslan. End of story Taming of the Shrew from Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, May 2007. Tales from Shakespeare By Charles and Mary Lamb Taming of the Shrew Catherine the Shrew was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such a loud, tongueed scold, that she was known in Padua by no other name than Catherine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture to marry this lady. And therefore, Baptista was much blamed for deferring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have free leave to address young Bianca. It happened, however, that a gentleman named Petrucchio came to Padua, purposely to look out for a wife, who nothing discouraged by these reports of Catherine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved upon marrying this famous termigant, and taming her into a meek and manageable wife. And truly, none was so fit to set about this Herculian neighbour as Petrucchio, whose spirit was as high as Catherine's, and he was a witty and most happy-tempered humorist, and with also wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious deportment when his spirits were so calm that himself could have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper was careless and easy. The boisterous airs he assumed when he became the husband of Catherine being but in sport, or more properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the only means to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the furious Catherine. According then, Petrucchio went to Catherine the shrew, and first of all he applied to Batista her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter Catherine, as Petrucchio caught her, saying archly that, having heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had come from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished her married, was forced to confess Catherine would ill answer this character, it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was composed, for her musicmaster rushed into the room to complain that the gentle Catherine, his pupil, had broken his head with her lute for presuming to find fault with her performance, which, when Petrucchio heard, he said, The brave went, I love her more than ever, and longed to have some chat with her. And hurrying the old gentleman for a positive answer, he said, My business is in haste, Signor Batista. I cannot come every day to woo. You knew my father, he is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you will give with her?" Batista thought his manner was somewhat blunt for a lover, but being glad to get Catherine married, he answered that he would give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his estate at his death. So this odd match was quickly agreed on, and Batista went to appraise his truest daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petrucchio to listen to his suit. In the meantime Petrucchio was settling with himself the mode of courtship he should pursue, and he said, I will woo her with some spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale, and if she frowns I will say she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language, and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her a week. Now the stately Catherine entered, and Petrucchio first addressed her with— Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name I hear. Catherine, not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, They call me Catherine who do speak to me. You lie, replied the lover, for you are called Plain Kate and Bonnie Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew, but Kate you are prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo you for my wife. A strange courtship they made of it, she in loud and angry terms showing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing her father coming, he said, intending to make as quick a wooing as possible. Sweet Catherine, let us set this idle chat aside, for your father has contended that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you. And now Batista entering, Petrucchio told him his daughter had received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next Sunday. This Catherine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to wet her to such a madcap ruffian as Petrucchio. Petrucchio desired her father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant before him, but that when they were alone he had found her very fond and loving, and he said to her, Give me your hand, Kate, I will go to Venice to buy you a peril against our wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, bid the wedding-guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, that my Catherine may be fine, and kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday. On the Sunday all the wedding-guests were assembled, but they waited long before Petrucchio came, and Catherine wept for vexation to think that Petrucchio had only been making a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, but he brought none of the bridal finery he had promised Catherine, nor was he dressed himself like a bride-room, but in strange, disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the serious business he came about, and his servants and the very horses on which they rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion-habited. Petrucchio could not be persuaded to change his dress. He said Catherine must be married to him and not to his clothes, and finding it was in vain to argue with him to the church they went. He is still behaving in the same mad way. For when the priest asked Petrucchio if Catherine should be his wife, he swore so loud that she should, that, all amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bride-groom gave him such a cuff that down fell the priest and his book again, and all the while they were being married, he stamped and swore so that the high-spirited Catherine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over, while they were yet in the church, he called for wine, and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a sop which was at the bottom of the glass, full in the sexton's face, giving no other reason for this strange act than that the sexton's beard grew thin and hungly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never sure was there such a mad marriage, but Petrucchio did but put this wildness on the better to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. Batista had provided a sumptuous marriage-feast, but when they returned from church Petrucchio, taking hold of Catherine, declared his intention of carrying his wife home instantly, and no remonstrance of his father-in-law or angry words of the enraged Catherine could make him change his purpose. He claimed a husband's right to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Catherine off. He seemed so daring and resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him. Petrucchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and blank, which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant no better mounted, they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and ever when this horse of Catherine stumbled he would storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his bourbon, as if he had been the most passionate man alive. At length after a weary journey during which Catherine had heard nothing but the wild ravings of Petrucchio at the servant and the horses, they arrived at his house. Petrucchio welcomed her kindly to her home, but he resolved she should have neither rest nor food that night. The tables were spread and supper soon served, but Petrucchio pretended to find fort with every dish, threw the meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it away. And all this he did, as he said, in love for his Catherine, that she might not eat meat that was not well-dressed. And when Catherine, weary and suppolous, retired to rest, he found the same fort with the bed, throwing the pillows and bedclothes about the room so that she was forced to sit down in a chair where, if she chanced to drop a sleep, she was presently awakened by the loud voice of her husband storming at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's bridal bed. The next day Petrucchio pursued the same course, still speaking kind words to Catherine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fort with everything that was set before her, throwing the breakfast on the floor as he had done the supper. And Catherine, the haughty Catherine, was feigned to beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of food. But they, being instructed by Petrucchio, replied they dared not give her anything unknown to their master. Ah! said she. Did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that come to my father's door have food given them. But I, who never knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. And that which vexes me more than all, he does it under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present death to me. Here the soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Petrucchio. Me, not meaning she should be quite starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said to her, How fares my sweet Catherine? Here, love, you see how diligent I am. I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits thanks. What! Not a word? Nay, then, you do not love the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to no purpose. He then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of Catherine, made her say, though angered to the heart, I pray you let it end. But this was not all Petrucchio intended to bring her to, and he replied, The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you touch the meat. On this Catherine brought out a reluctant, I thank you, sir. And now he suffered her to make a slender meal, saying, Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate. Eat a pace. And now, my honey love, we will return to your father's house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change of finery. And to make her believe, he really intended to give her these gay things. He called in a tailor and a haberdasher, who brought some new clothes he had ordered for her. Then giving her plate to the servant to take away before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said, But have you dined? The haberdasher presented a cap, saying, Here is the cap your worship bespoke, on which Petrucchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded in a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle or a walnut shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away and make it bigger. Catherine said, I will have this, or gentle women wear such caps as these. When you are gentle, replied Petrucchio, you shall have one, too, and not till then. The meat Catherine had eaten had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I will. I am no child, no babe. Your betters have endured to hear me say my mind, and if you cannot, you had better stop your ears. Petrucchio would not hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better way of managing his wife than keeping up a jangling argument with her. Therefore his answer was, Why, you say true, it is a poultry cap, and I love you for not liking it. Love me, or love me not, said Catherine, I like the cap, and I will have this cap, or none. You say you wish to see the gown, said Petrucchio, still affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor then came forward and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petrucchio, whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much fault with that. Oh, mercy heaven, said he! What stuff is here? What, do you call this a sleeve? It is like a demi-canon, carved up and down like an apple tart. The tailor said, You bid me make it according to the fashion of the times, and Catherine said she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for Petrucchio, and privately desiring these people might be paid for their goods, and excuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed upon them. He, with fierce words and furious gestures, drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the room, and then, turning to Catherine, he said, Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father's even in these mean garments we now wear. And then he ordered his horses, affirming they should reach Petista's house by dinnertime, for that it was about seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very middle of the day, when he spoke this, therefore Catherine ventured to say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner, I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be sub-a-time before we get there. But Petrucchio meant that she should be so completely subdued, that she should ascend to everything he said before he carried her to her father. And therefore, as if he were lord even of the sun and could command the hours, he said it should be what time he pleased to have it, before beset forward. For, he said, Whatever I say or do, you are still crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is. Another day Catherine was forced to practice her newly found obedience, and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection that she dared not remember there was such a word as contradiction, would Petrucchio allow her to go to her father's house. And even while they were upon their journey-viver, she was in danger of being turned back again, only because she happened to hint it was the sun when he affirmed the moon shone brightly at noonday. Now, by my mother's son, said he, and that is myself, it shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list before I journey to your father's house. He then made as if he were going back again. But Catherine, no longer Catherine the shrew, but the obedient wife, said, Let us go forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, and if you please to call it a rushed candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so for me." This he was resolved to prove. Therefore he said again, I say it is the moon. I know it is the moon, replied Catherine. You lie, it is the blessed sun, said Petrucchio. Then it is the blessed sun, replied Catherine. But sun it is not when you say it is not. What you will have it named even so it is, and so it ever shall be for Catherine. Now then he suffered her to proceed on her journey. But further to try if this yielding humour would last, he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, Good morrow, gentle mistress, and asked Catherine if she had ever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks and comparing his eyes to two bright stars, and again he addressed him saying, Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you, and said to his wife, Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. The now completely vanquished Catherine quickly adopted her husband's opinion and made her speech and like-sort to the old gentleman, saying to him, Young budding virgin, you are fair and fresh and sweet. Where are you going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are the parents of so fair a child. Why, how now, Kate, said Petrucchio, I hope you are not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a maiden as you say he is. On this, Catherine said, Pardon me, old gentleman. The sun has so dazzled my eyes that everything I look on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverent father. I hope you will pardon me for my sad mistake. Do good old grandsire, said Petrucchio, and tell us which way you are travelling. We shall be glad of your good company if you are going our way." The old gentleman replied, Fair sir, and you, my merry mistress. Your strange encounter has much amazed me. My name is Vincenzo, and I am going to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua. Then Petrucchio knew the old gentleman to be the father of Luciencio, a young gentleman who was to be married to Batista's younger daughter Bianca, and he made Vincenzo very happy by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to make, and they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to Batista's house, where there was a large company assemble to celebrate the wedding of Bianca and Luciencio, Batista having willingly consented to the marriage of Bianca, when he had got Catherine off his hands. When they entered, Batista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and there was present also another newly married pair. Luciencio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other newly married man, could not forebear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of Petrucchio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen, laughing at Petrucchio for his less fortunate choice. Petrucchio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, and then he perceived Batista himself joined in the laugh against him. For when Petrucchio affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient than theirs, the father of Catherine said, Now, in good sadness, son Petrucchio, I fear you have got the various true of all. Well, said Petrucchio, I say no, and therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a wager which we will propose. After this, the two other husbands willingly consented, for they were confident that their gentle wives would prove more obedient than their headstrong Catherine, and they proposed a wager of twenty crowns. But Petrucchio merrily said he would lay as much as that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his wife. Lucencio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucencio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come to him, but the servant returned and said, Sir, thy mistress sends you word she is busy and cannot come. How, said Petrucchio, does she say she is busy and cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?" Then they laughed at him, and said it would be well if Catherine did not send him a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife, and he said to his servant, Go and entreat my wife to come to me. Oh, oh, entreat her, said Petrucchio, nay then, she needs must come. I am afraid, sir, said Hortensio, your wife will not be entreated. But presently this civil husband looked a little blank, when the servant returned without his mistress, and he said to him, How, now, where is my wife? Sir, said the servant, my mistress says you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not come. She bids you come to her. Worse and worse, said Petrucchio. And then he sent his servant, saying, Sira, go to your mistress and tell her I command her to come to me. The company had scarcely time to think she would not obey this summons, when Batista, all in amaze, exclaimed, Now by my holy dame here comes Catherine. And she entered, saying meekly to Petrucchio, What is your will, sir, that you send for me? Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife, said he? Catherine replied, They sit conferring by the parlour fire. Go fetch them hither, said Petrucchio. Away went Catherine, without reply, to perform her husband's command. Here is a wonder, said Lucenzio, if you talk of a wonder. And so it is, said Hortensio, I marvel what it bodes. Marry! Peace it bodes, said Petrucchio, and love, and quiet life, and right supremacy, and, to be short, everything that is sweet and happy. Catherine's father, overjoyed to see this reformation in his daughter, said, Now, fair before these, son Petrucchio, you have won the wager, and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for she has changed as if she had never been. Nay, said Petrucchio, I will win the wager better yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue and obedience. Catherine now entering with the two ladies he continued, See where she comes and brings your fraught-ward wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Catherine, that cap of yours does not become you. Off with that ball, and throw it under foot. Catherine instantly took off her cap and threw it down. Lord! said Hortensio's wife, May I never have a course to cite, and I am brought to such a silly pass. And Bianca, she too, said, Fie, what foolish duty call you this? On this Bianca's husband said to her, I wish your duty were as foolish too. The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinnertime. The moreful you, said Bianca, for laying on my duty. Catherine, said Petrucchio, I charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their lords and husbands. And to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wife-like duty of obedience as she had practised it implicitly in a ready submission to Petrucchio's will. And Catherine once more became famous in Padua. Not as here too far as Catherine the shrew, but as Catherine the most obedient and deutious wife in Padua. The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at variance, there was a cruel law made at Ephesus ordaining that if any merchant of Syracuse was seen in the city of Ephesus, he was to be put to death unless he could pay a thousand marks for the ransom of his life. Aegean, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets of Ephesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, or receive sentence of death. Aegean had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he pronounced the sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate the history of his life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to come to the city of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusean merchant to enter. Aegean said he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made him weary of his life, but that a heavier task could not have been imposed upon him than to relate the events of his unfortunate life. He then began his own history in the following words. I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of a merchant. I made a lady with whom I lived very happily, but being obliged to go to Epidamnam, I was detained there by my business six months, and then, finding I should be obliged to say some time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, was brought to bed of two sons, and what was very strange, they were both so exactly alike that it was impossible to distinguish the one from the other. At the same time that my wife was brought to bed of these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where my wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, and these twins were as much like each other as my two sons were. The parents of these children being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys and brought them up to attend upon my sons. My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little proud of two such boys, and she daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly agreed, and in an evil hour we got on ship-board, for we had not sailed above a league from Epidamnam before a dreadful storm arose, which continued with such violence that the sailors, seeing no chance of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives, leaving us alone in the ship, which we every moment expected would be destroyed by the fury of the storm. The incessant weeping of my wife and the piteous complaints of the pretty babes, who, not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion because they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though I did not for myself fear death, and all my thoughts were bent to contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the end of a small spire-mast, such as seafaring men provide against storms. At the other end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same time I directed my wife how to fasten the other children in like manner to another mast. She thus having the care of the eldest two children, and I of the younger two, we bound ourselves separately to these masts with the children, and but for this contrivance we had all been lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed in pieces, and we, clinging to these slender masts, were supported above the water, where I, having the care of two children, was unable to assist my wife, who with the other children was soon separated from me. But while they were yet in my sight, they were taken up by a boat of fishermen from Corinth, as I supposed, and seeing them in safety, I had no care but to struggle with the wild sea waves to preserve my dear son and the youngest slave. At length we, in our turn, were taken up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in safety at Syracuse. But from that sad hour, I have never known what became of my wife and eldest child. My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen years of age, began to be inquisitive after his mother and brother, and often impotuned me that he might take his attendant, the young slave, who had also lost his brother, and go in search of them. At length I unwillingly gave consent, for, though I anxiously desire to hear tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to find them, I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven years since my son left me. Five years have I passed in travelling through the world in search of him. I have been in farthest Greece, and through the bounds of Asia, and coasting homeward I landed here in Ephesus, being unwilling to leave any place unsought that harbours men. But this day must end the story of my life, and happy should I think myself in my death if I were assured my wife and sons were living. Here the hapless agent ended the account of his misfortunes, and the duke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought upon himself this great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it were not against the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit him to alter, he would freely pardon him. Yet, instead of dooming him to instant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he would give him that day to try if he could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine. This day of grace did seem no great favour to Agent. For, not knowing any man in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance that any stranger would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay the fine, and helpless and hopeless of any relief he retired from the presence of the duke in the custody of a jailer. Agent supposed he knew no person in Ephesus, but at the time he was in danger of losing his life through the careful search he was making after his youngest son, that son, and his elder son also, were in the city of Ephesus. Agent's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, were both named alike, being both called Antiphalus, and the two twin slaves were also both called Dromio, Agent's youngest son, Antiphalus of Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio, that very same day that Agent did, and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have been in the same danger that his father was, but by good fortune he met a friend who told him the peril an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass for a merchant of Epidamnum. This Antiphalus agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear one of his own countrymen was in danger, but he little thought this old merchant was his own father. The eldest son of Agent, who must be called Antiphalus of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his brother Antiphalus of Syracuse, had lived at Ephesus twenty years, and being a rich man was well able to have paid the money for the ransom of his father's life. But Antiphalus knew nothing of his father, being so young when he was taken out of the sea with his mother, by the fisherman, that he only remembered he had been so preserved. But he had no recollection of either his father or his mother, the fisherman who took up this Antiphalus and his mother, and the young slave Dromio, having carried the two children away from her, to the great grief of that unhappy lady intending to sell them. Antiphalus and Dromio were sold by them to Duke Menophon, a famous warrior who was uncle to the Duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys to Ephesus when he went to visit the Duke, his nephew. The Duke of Ephesus, taking a liking to young Antiphalus, when he grew up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distinguished himself by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his patron, the Duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus, with whom he was living. His slave Dromio still attending him, at the time his father came there. Antiphalus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who advised him to say he came from Epidamnum, gave his slave Dromio some money to carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the meantime he said he would walk about and view the city and observe the manners of the people. Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antiphalus was dull and melancholy he used to divert himself with the odd humours and merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed in Dromio were greater than is usual between masters and their servants. When Antiphalus of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood awhile thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother and his brother, of whom, in no place where he landed, could he hear the least tidings. And he said sorrowfully to himself, I am like a drop of water in the ocean, which, seeking to find its fellow drop, loses itself in the wide sea. So why, unhappily, to find a mother and a brother do lose myself? While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had hitherto been so useless, Dromio, as he thought, returned. Antiphalus, wondering that he came back so soon, asked him where he had left the money. Now it was not his own Dromio, but the twin brother that lived with Antiphalus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two Dromios and the two Antiphaluses were still as much alike as Aegean had said they were in their infancy. Therefore no wonder Antiphalus thought it was his own slave returned, and asked him why he came back so soon. Dromio replied, My mistress sent me to bid you to come to dinner. The capon burns, and the pig falls from the spit, and the meat will be all cold if you do not come home. These jests are out of season, said Antiphalus. Where did you leave the money? Dromio, still answering that his mistress had sent him to fetch Antiphalus to dinner. What mistress! said Antiphalus. While your worship's wives, sir, replied Dromio. Antiphalus having no wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and said, Because I familiarly sometimes chat with you, you presumed to jest with me in this free manner. I am not in a sportive humor now. Where is the money? We being strangers here, how dare you trust so great a charge from your own custody? Dromio, hearing his master, as he thought him, talk of there being strangers, supposing Antiphalus was jesting, replied merrily, I pray you, sir, just as you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch you home to dine with my mistress and her sister. Now Antiphalus lost all patience and beat Dromio, who ran home and told his mistress that his master had refused to come to dinner, and said that he had no wife. Adriana, the wife of Antiphalus of Ephesus, was very angry when she heard that her husband said he had no wife, for she was of a jealous temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved another lady better than herself, and she began to fret and say unkind words of jealousy and reproach to her husband, and her sister Luciana, who lived with her, tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless suspicions. Antiphalus of Syracuse went to the inn and found Dromio with the money and safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again to chide him for his freed jest, when Adriana came up to him, and not doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began to reproach him for looking strange upon her, as well he might, never having seen this angry lady before. And then she told him how well he loved her before they were married, and that now he loved some other lady instead of her. How comes it now, my husband, said she, oh, how comes it that I have lost your love? Plead you to me, fair dame," said the astonished Antiphalus. It was in vain that he told her he was not her husband, and that he had been in Ephesus but two hours. She insisted on his going home with her, and Antiphalus at last, being unable to get away, went with her to his brother's house, and died with Adriana and her sister, the one calling him husband and the other brother, he all amazed, thinking he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that he was sleeping now. Andromio, who followed them, was no less surprised, for the cookmaid who was his brother's wife, also claimed him for her husband. While Antiphalus of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, his brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his slave, Dromio, but the servants would not open the door, because their mistress had ordered them not to admit any company, and when they repeatedly knocked and said they were Antiphalus and Dromio, the maids laughed at them, and said that Antiphalus was at dinner with their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen, and though they almost knocked the door down, they could not gain admittance, and at last Antiphalus went away very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining with his wife. When Antiphalus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady still persisting in calling him husband, and at hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cookmaid, that he left the house as soon as he could find any pretense to get away. For though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen. Therefore, both master and man were glad to get away from their new wives as fast as they could. The moment Antiphalus of Syracuse had left the house, he was met by a goldsmith, who, mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antiphalus of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name, and when Antiphalus would have refused the chain, saying it did not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own orders, and went away, leaving the chain in the hands of Antiphalus, who ordered his man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a place any longer where he met with such strange adventures that he surely thought himself bewitched. The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antiphalus was arrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed, and Antiphalus, the married brother to whom the goldsmith thought he had given the chain, happened to come to the place where the officer was arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antiphalus, asking to pay for the gold chain he had just delivered to him, the price amounting to nearly the same sum as that for which he had been arrested. Antiphalus denying the having received the chain, and the goldsmith persisting to declare that he had but a few minutes before given it to him, they disputed this matter a long time, both thinking they were right. For Antiphalus knew the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and so like were the two brothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had delivered the chain into his hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith away to prison for the debt he owed, and at the same time the goldsmith made the officer arrest Antiphalus for the price of the chain, so that at the conclusion of their dispute Antiphalus and the merchant were both taken away to prison together. As Antiphalus was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, his brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go to Adriana's wife, and tell her to send the money for which he was arrested. Dromio, wondering that his master should send him back to the strange house where he dined, and from which he had just before been in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to tell his master the ship was ready to sail, for he saw Antiphalus was in no humour to be justed with. Therefore he went away grumbling with himself, that he must return to Adriana's house, where, said he, Dauzebel claims me for a husband, but I must go, for servants must obey their master's commands. Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning he met Antiphalus of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprising adventures he met with, for his brother being well known in Ephesus there was hardly a man he met in the streets, but saluted him as an old acquaintance. Some offered him money which they said was owing to him, some invited him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks for kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for his brother. A tailor showed him some silks he had bought for him, and insisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes. Antiphalus began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his bewildered thought by asking him how he got free from the officer who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's, of the arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana, perfectly confounded Antiphalus, and he said, this fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wonder here in illusions, and quite terrified at his own confused thoughts he cried out, some blessed power deliver us from this strange place. And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and she too called him Antiphalus, and told him he had dined with her that day, and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had promised to give her. Antiphalus now lost all patience, and calling her a sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain or dined with her, or had even seen her face before that moment. The lady persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had promised her a chain, which Antiphalus still denying, she further said that she had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring again. On this Antiphalus became quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress and witch, and denying all knowledge of her or her ring, ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his words and his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more certain than that he had dined with her, and that she had given him a ring in consequence of his promising to make her a present of a gold chain. But this lady had fallen into the same mistake the others had done, for she had taken him for his brother. The married Antiphalus had done all the things she had taxed this Antiphalus with. When the married Antiphalus was denied entrance into his house, those within supposing him to be already there, he had gone away very angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks to which she was very subject, and remembering that she had often falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he, to be revenged on her for shutting him out of his own house, determined to go and dine with this lady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his wife having so highly offended him, Antiphalus promised to give her a gold chain which he had intended as a present for his wife. It was the same chain which the goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. The lady liked so well the thoughts of having a fine gold chain that she gave the married Antiphalus a ring, which, when, as she supposed, taking his brother for him, he denied, and said he did not know her, and left her in such a wild passion, she began to think he was certainly out of his senses, and presently she resolved to go and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. And while she was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended by the jailer, who allowed him to come home to get the money to pay the debt, for the purse of money which Adriana had sent by Dromio, and he had delivered to the other Antiphalus. Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madness must be true when he reproached her for shutting him out of his own house, and remembering how he had protested all dinnertime that he was not her husband, and had never been nephesist till that day, she had no doubt that he was mad. She therefore paid the jailer the money, and having discharged him, she ordered the servants to bind her husband with ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room and sent for a doctor to come and cure him of his madness. Antiphalus all the while hotly exclaiming against this false accusation which the exact likeness he brought to his brother had brought upon them. But his rage only the more confirmed to him in the belief that he was mad, and Dromio persisting in the same story, they bound him also, and took him away along with his master. Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant came to tell her that Antiphalus and Dromio must have broken loose from their keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty in the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home, taking some people with her to secure her husband again, and her sister went along with her. When they came to the gates of a convent in their neighborhood, there they saw Antiphalus and Dromio as they thought, being again deceived by the likeness of the twin brothers. Antiphalus of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had given him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for denying that he had it and refusing to pay for it, and Antiphalus was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain in the morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith again. And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed him as a lunatic husband who had escaped from his keepers, and the men she brought with her were going to lay violent hands on Antiphalus and Dromio, but they ran into the convent, and Antiphalus begged the Abbas to give him shelter in her house. And now came out the Lady Abbas herself to inquire into the cause of this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the man who had sought protection in her house, so she strictly questioned the wife about the story she told of her husband's madness, and she said, What is the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some dear friend that has disturbed his mind? Adriana replied that no such things as these had been the cause. Perhaps, said the Abbas, he has fixed his affections on some other lady than you, his wife, and that has driven him to this state. Adriana said she had long thought the love of some other lady was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it was not his love for another, but the teasing jealousy of his wife's temper that often obliged Antiphalus to leave his home, and the Abbas, suspecting this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner, to learn the truth said, You should have reprehended him for this. Why so I did, replied Adriana. I, said the Abbas, but perhaps not enough. Adriana, willing to convince the Abbas that she had said enough to Antiphalus on the subject, replied, It was the constant subject of our conversation. In bed I would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking of it. When I was alone with him I talked of nothing else, and in company I gave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad it was in him to love any lady better than me. The lady Abbas, having drawn this full confession from the jealous Adriana, now said, And therefore comes it that your husband is mad. The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by your railing. No wonder that his head is light, and his meat was sourced with your upradings. Unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown him into this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your brawls, being debarred from the enjoyment of society and recreation. What could ensue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The consequence is, then, that your jealous fits have made your husband mad." Luciana would have excused her sister, saying she always reprehended her husband mildly, and she said to her sister, Why do you hear these rebukes without answering them? But the Abbas had made her so plainly perceive her own fault, that she could only answer, She has betrayed me to my own reproof. Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on having a husband delivered up to her. But the Abbas would suffer no person to enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to the care of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle means for his recovery. And she retired into her house again, and ordered her gates to be shut against them. During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors had happened from the likeness the twin brothers bought to each other, old Aegean's Day of Grace was passing away, it being now near sunset, and at sunset he was doomed to die if he could not pay the money. The place of execution was near this convent, and here he arrived just as the Abbas retired into the convent, the Duke attending in person that, if any offered to pay the money, he might be present to pardon him. Adriana stopped this melancholy procession and cried out to the Duke for justice, telling him that the Abbas had refused to deliver up her lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her real husband and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came before the Duke to demand justice, complaining that his wife had confined him on a false charge of lunacy, and telling him what manner he had broken his bonds and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised to see her husband when she thought he had been within the convent. Aegean, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him to go in search of his mother and his brother, and he felt secure that this dear son would readily pay the money he demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke to Antiphalus in words of fatherly affection, with joyful hope that he should now be released. But to the utter astonishment of Aegean, his son denied all knowledge of him, as well he might, for this Antiphalus had never seen his father since they were separated in the storm on his infancy. But while the poor old Aegean was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowledge him, thinking surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered so strangely altered him, that his son did not know him, or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery. In the midst of this perplexity, the Lady Abbas and the other Antiphalus and Dromio came out, and the wandering Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios standing before her. And now these riddling errors which had so perplexed them all were clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antiphaluses and the two Dromios, both so exactly alike, he had once conjectured a right of these seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story Aegean had told him in the morning, and he said these men must be the two sons of Aegean and their twin slaves. But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of Aegean, and the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence of death, before the setting son went down was brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable Lady Abbas made herself known to be the long-lost wife of Aegean and the fond mother of the two Antiphaluses. When the fisherman took the eldest Antiphalus and Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct she was at length made Lady Abbas of this convent, and in discharging the rights of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had unknowingly protected her own son. Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these long-separated parents and their children made them for a while forget that Aegean was yet under sentence of death. When they were become a little calm, Antiphalus of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom money for his father's life, but the duke freely pardoned Aegean, and would not take the money. When the duke went with the Abbas and her newly found husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes, and the two Dromios, humble joy, must not be forgotten. They had their congratulations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to see his own person, as in a glass, show so handsome in his brother. Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, nor was jealous of her husband. Antiphalus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his brother's wife, and the good old Aegean with his wife and sons lived at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unraveling of these perplexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, but that sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blunders would happen, and the one Antiphalus and the one Dromio be mistaken for the other, making altogether a pleasant and diverting comedy of errors.