 Pericles, the Prince of Tyre, was unfortunate enough to make an enemy of Antiochus, the powerful and wicked King of Antioch. And so great was the danger in which he stood that, on the advice of his trusty counselor, Lord Helicanus, he determined to travel about the world for a time. He came to this decision despite the fact that, by the death of his father, he was now King of Tyre. So he set sail for Tarsus, appointing Helicanus regent during his absence. That he did wisely and thus leaving his kingdom was soon made clear. Only had he sailed on this voyage, when Lord Taliyard arrived from Antioch with instructions from his royal master to kill Pericles, the faithful Helicanus soon discovered the deadly purpose of this wicked Lord, and at once sent messengers to Tarsus to warn the King of the danger which threatened him. The people of Tarsus were in such poverty and distress that Pericles, feeling that he could find no safe refuge there, put to sea again. But a dreadful storm overtook the ship in which he was, and the good vessel was wrecked, while of all on board only Pericles was saved. Bruised and wet and faint, he was flung upon the cruel rocks on the coast of Pentapolis, the country of the good King Simonides. Worn out as he was, he looked for nothing but death, and that speedily. But some fishermen, coming down to the beach, found him there, and gave him clothes and bat him be of good cheer. Thou shalt come home with me, said one of them, and we will have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting days, and moreover puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome. They told him that on the morrow many princes and knights were going to the King's court, there to joust and turny for the love of his daughter, the beautiful Princess Taisa. Did but my fortunes equal my desires, said Pericles, I'd wish to make one there. As he spoke, some of the fishermen came by, drawing their net, and it dragged heavily, resisting all their efforts. But at last they hauled it in, to find that it contained a suit of rusty armor, and looking at it, he blessed fortune for her kindness, for he saw that it was his own, which had been given to him by his dead father. He begged the fishermen to let him have it, that he might go to court, and take part in the tournament, promising that if ever his ill fortunes bettered, he would reward them well. The fishermen readily consented, and being thus fully equipped, Pericles set off in his rusty armor to the King's court. In the tournament, none bore himself so well as Pericles, and he won the wreath victory, which the fair Princess herself placed on his brows. Then at her father's command she asked him who he was, and whence he came, and he answered that he was a knight of Tyre, by name Pericles, but he did not tell her that he was the king of that country, for he knew that if once his whereabouts became known to Antiochus, his life would not be worth a pin's purchase. Nevertheless Tyre'sa loved him dearly. And the king was so pleased with his courage and graceful bearing, that he gladly permitted his daughter to have her own way, whence he told him she would marry the stranger knight, or die. Thus Pericles became the husband of the fair lady for whose sake he had striven with the knights, who came in all their bravery to joust and turny for her love. Meanwhile, the wicked king Antiochus had died, and the people in Tyre, hearing no news of their king, urged Lord Helicanus to ascend the vacant throne, but they could only get him to promise that he would become their king, if at the end of a year Pericles did not come back. Moreover, he sent forth messengers far and wide in search of the missing Pericles. Some of these made their way to Pentapolis, and finding their king there, told him how discontented his people were at his long absence, and that Antiochus being dead, there was nothing now to hinder him from returning to his kingdom. Then Pericles told his wife and father-in-law who he really was, and they and all the subjects of Simonides greatly rejoiced, to know that the gallant husband of Tyreza was a king in his own right. So Pericles set sail with his dear wife for his native land. But once more the sea was cruel to him, for again a dreadful storm broke out, and while it was at its height, a servant came to tell him that a little daughter was born to him. This news would have made his heart glad indeed, but that the servant went on to add that his wife, his dear, dear Tyreza, was dead. While he was praying the gods to be good to his little baby girl, the sailors came to him, declaring that the dead queen must be thrown overboard, for they believed that the storm would never cease so long as a dead body remained in the vessel. So Tyreza was laid in a big chest, with spices and jewels, and a scroll on which the sorrowful king wrote these lines. Here I give to understand, if ere this coffin drive a land, I, King Pericles, have lost this queen with all our mundane cost, who finds her, give her burying. She was the daughter of a king. Besides this treasure for a fee, the gods were quite his charity. Then the chest was cast into the sea, and the waves taking it, by and by, washed it ashore at Ephesus, where it was found by the servants of a lord named Saramon. He had once ordered it to be opened, and when he saw how lovely Tyreza looked, he doubted if she were dead, and took immediate steps to restore her. Then a great wonder happened, for she, who had been thrown to the sea as dead, came back to life. But feeling sure that she would never see her husband again, Tyreza retired from the world, and became a priestess of the goddess Diana. While these things were happening, Pericles went on to Tarsus with his little daughter, whom he called Marina, because she had been born at sea. Leaving her in the hands of his old friend the governor of Tarsus, the king sailed for his own dominions. Now Dionysa, the wife of the governor of Tarsus, was a jealous and wicked woman, and finding that the young princess grew up a more accomplished and charming girl than her own daughter, she determined to take Marina's life. So when Marina was fourteen, Dionysa ordered one of her servants to take her away and kill her. This villain would have done so, but that he was interrupted by some pirates who came in and carried Marina off to sea with them, and took her to Midalini, where they sold her as a slave. Yet such was her goodness, her grace, and her beauty, that she soon became honoured there, and Lycemicus, the young governor, fell deep in love with her, and would have married her, but that he thought she must be of too humble parentage to become the wife of one in his high position. The wicked Dionysa believed from her servant's report that Marina was really dead, and so she put up a monument to her memory, and showed it to King Pericles. When after long years of absence he came to see his much-loved child, when he heard that she was dead, his grief was terrible to see. He set sail once more, and putting on sackcloth vowed never to wash his face or cut his hair again. There was a pavilion erected on deck, and there he lay alone, and for three months he spoke word to none. At last a chance that his ship came into the port of Midalini, and Lycemicus, the governor, went on board to inquire whence the vessel came. When he heard the story of Pericles's sorrow and silence, he bethought him of Marina, and believing that she could rouse the king from his stupor, sent for her, and bade her try her utmost to persuade the king to speak, promising whatever reward she would if she succeeded. Marina gladly obeyed, and sending the rest away, she sat and sang to her poor grief-laden father, yet, sweet as was her voice, he made no sign. So presently she spoke to him, saying that her grief might equal his, for, though she was a slave, she came from ancestors that stood equal to mighty kings. Something in her voice and story touched the king's heart, and he looked up at her, and as he looked, he saw with wonder how like she was to his lost wife. So with a great hope springing up in his heart, he bade her tell her story. Then with many interruptions from the king, she told him who she was, and how she had escaped from the cruel Dianisa. So Pericles knew that this was indeed his daughter, and he kissed her again and again, crying that his great seas of joy drowned him with their sweetness. Give me my robes, he said. O heaven, bless my girl! When there came to him, though none else could hear it, the sound of heavenly music, and falling asleep, he beheld the goddess Diana in a vision. Go, she said to him, to my temple at Ephesus, and when my maiden priests are met together, reveal how thou at seed it's lose thy wife. Pericles obeyed the goddess, and told his tale before her altar. Hardly had he made an end, when the chief priest is crying out, You are! You are! O royal Pericles! fell fainting to the ground, and presently recovering, she spoke again to him. O my lord, are you not Pericles? The voice of dead Taisa exclaimed the king in wonder. That Taisa am I, she said, and looking at her he saw that she spoke the very truth. Thus Pericles and Taisa, after long and bitter suffering, found happiness once more, and in the joy of their meeting they forgot the pain of the past. To Marina great happiness was given, and not only in being restored to her dear parents, for she married Lycemicus, and became a princess in the land where she had been sold as a slave. End of Pericles. Denmark. He loved his father and mother dearly, and was happy in the love of a sweet lady named Ophelia. Her father, Polonius, was the king's chamberlain. While Hamlet was away studying at Wittenberg, his father died. Young Hamlet hastened home in great grief to hear that a serpent had stung the king, and that he was dead. The young prince had loved his father so tenderly that you may judge what he felt when he found that the queen, before yet the king had been laid in the ground a month, had determined to marry again, and to marry the dead king's brother. Hamlet refused to put off mourning for the wedding. It is not only the black I wear on my body, he said, that proves my loss. I wear mourning in my heart for my dead father. His son, at least, remembers him, and grieves still. Then said Claudius, the king's brother, this grief is unreasonable. Of course you must sorrow at the loss of your father, but, ah, said Hamlet bitterly, I cannot in one little month forget those I love. With that the queen and Claudius left him to make merry over their wedding, forgetting the poor good king who had been so kind to them both. And Hamlet, left alone, began to wonder and to question as to what he ought to do. For he could not believe the story about the snake-bite. It seemed to him all too plain that the wicked Claudius had killed the king, so as to get the crown and marry the queen. Yet he had no proof, and could not accuse Claudius. And while he was thus thinking came Horatio, a fellow student of his, from Wittenburg. What brought you here, asked Hamlet, when he had greeted his friend kindly? I came, my lord, to see your father's funeral. I think it was to see my mother's wedding, said Hamlet bitterly. My father, we shall not look upon his like again. My lord, answered Horatio, I think I saw him yesterday night. Then, while Hamlet listened in surprise, Horatio told how he, with two gentlemen at the guard, had seen the king's ghost on the battlements. Hamlet went that night, and drew enough at midnight the ghost of the king in the armor he had been want to wear, appeared on the battlements in the chill moonlight. Hamlet was a brave youth. Instead of running away from the ghost, he spoke to it. And when it beckoned him, he followed it to a quiet place. And there the ghost told him that what he had suspected was true. The wicked Claudius had indeed killed his good brother, the king, by dropping poison into his ear as he slept in his orchard in the afternoon. And you, said the ghost, must avenge this cruel murder on my wicked brother. But do nothing against the queen, for I have loved her, and she is your mother. Remember me. Then, seeing the morning approach, the ghost vanished. Now, said Hamlet, there is nothing left but revenge. Remember thee. I will remember nothing else. Books, pleasure, youth, let all go, and your commands alone live on my brain. So when his friends came back, he made them swear to keep the secret of the ghost, and then went in from the battlements, now gray with mingled dawn and moonlight, to think how he might best avenge his murdered father. The shock of seeing and hearing his father's ghost made him feel almost mad and, for fear that his uncle might notice that he was not himself, he determined to hide his mad longing for revenge under a pretended madness in other matters. And when he met Ophelia, who loved him, and to whom he had given gifts and letters and many loving words, he behaved so wildly to her that she could not but think him mad, for she loved him so that she could not believe he would be as cruel as this unless he were quite mad. So she told her father and showed him a pretty letter from Hamlet, and in the letter was much folly and this pretty verse, doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love. From that time everyone believed that the cause of Hamlet's supposed madness was love. Poor Hamlet was very unhappy. He longed to obey his father's ghost, and yet he was too gentle and kindly to wish to kill another man, even his father's murderer, and sometimes he wondered whether, after all, the ghost spoke truly. Just at this time some actors came to the court, and Hamlet ordered them to perform a certain play before the king and queen. Now this play was the story of a man who had been murdered in his garden by a near relation, who afterwards married the dead man's wife. You may imagine the feelings of the wicked king, as he sat on his throne, with the queen beside him and all his court around, and saw, acted on the stage, the very wickedness that he had himself done, and when, in the play, the wicked relation poured poison into the ear of the sleeping man, the wicked Claudius suddenly rose and staggered from the room, the queen and others following. Then said Hamlet to his friends, Now I am sure the ghost spoke true, for if Claudius had not done this murder, he could not have been so distressed to see it in a play. Now the queen sent for Hamlet, by the king's desire, to scold him for his conduct during the play and for other matters, and Claudius, wishing to know exactly what happened, told old Polonius to hide himself behind the hangings in the queen's room, and, as they talked, the queen got frightened at Hamlet's rough, strange words and cried for help, and Polonius behind the curtain cried out to Hamlet, thinking it was the king who was hidden there, thrust with his sword at the hangings, and killed, not the king, but poor old Polonius. So now Hamlet had offended his uncle and his mother, and by bad hap killed his true love's father. Oh, what a rash and bloody deed is this, cried the queen, and Hamlet answered bitterly, all most as bad as to kill a king and marry his brother. Then Hamlet told the queen plainly all his thoughts, and how he knew of the murder, and begged her, at least, to have no more friendship or kindness of the base Claudius, who had killed the good king. And as they spoke, the king's ghost again appeared before Hamlet, but the queen could not see it. So when the ghost had gone, they parted. When the queen told Claudius what had passed, and how Polonius was dead, he said, this shows plainly that Hamlet is mad, and since he has killed the chancellor, it is for his own safety that we must carry out our plan and send him away to England. So Hamlet was sent, under charge of two courtiers, who served the king, and these bore letters to the English court, requiring that Hamlet should be put to death. But Hamlet had the good sense to get at these letters, and put in others instead, with the names of the two courtiers who were so ready to betray him. Then as the vessel went to England, Hamlet escaped on board a pirate ship, and the two wicked courtiers left him to his fate, and went on to meet theirs. Hamlet hurried home, but in the meantime a dreadful thing had happened. Poor, pretty Ophelia, having lost her lover and her father, lost her wits too, and went in sad madness about the court, with straws and weeds and flowers in her hair, singing strange scraps of songs, and talking poor, foolish, pretty talk with no heart of meaning to it. And one day, coming to a stream where willows grew, she tried to hang a flowery garland on a willow, and fell into the water with all her flowers, and so died. And Hamlet had loved her, though his plan of seeming madness had made him hide it, and when he came back he found the king and queen and the court weeping at the funeral of his dear love and lady. Ophelia's brother, Laertes, had also just come to court to ask justice for the death of his father, old Polonius, and now, wild with grief, he leaped into his sister's grave to clasp her in his arms once more. I loved her more than forty thousand brothers, cried Hamlet, and lept into the grave after him, and they fought till they were parted. Afterwards Hamlet begged Laertes to forgive him. I could not bear, he said, that any, even a brother, should seem to love her more than I. But the wicked Claudius would not let them be friends. He told Laertes how Hamlet had killed old Polonius, and between them they made a plot to slay Hamlet by treachery. Laertes challenged him to a fencing match, and all the court were present. Hamlet had the blunt foil always used in fencing, but Laertes had prepared for himself a sword, sharp and tipped with poison, and the wicked king had made ready a bowl of poisoned wine, which he meant to give poor Hamlet when he should grow warm with the sword-play, and should call for a drink. So Laertes and Hamlet fought, and Laertes, after some fencing, gave Hamlet a sharp sword-thrust. Hamlet angry at this treachery, for they had been fencing not as men fight, but as they play, closed with Laertes in a struggle. Both dropped their swords, and when they picked them up again, Hamlet, without noticing it, had exchanged his own blunt sword for Laertes' sharp and poisoned one, and with one thrust of it he pierced Laertes, who fell dead by his own treachery. At this moment the queen cried out, The drink! The drink! Oh my dear Hamlet, I am poisoned! She had drunk of the poisoned bowl the king had prepared for Hamlet, and the king saw the queen, whom wicked as he was he really loved, fall dead by his means. Then Ophelia being dead, and Polonius and the queen, and Laertes and the two courtiers who had been sent to England, Hamlet at last found courage to do the ghost's bidding and avenge his father's murder, which if he had braced up his heart to do long before all these lives had been spared, and none had suffered but the wicked king, who well deserved to die. But his heart at last being great enough to do the deed he ought, turned the poisoned sword on the false king. Then, Venom, do thy work! he cried, and the king died. So Hamlet, in the end, kept the promise he had made his father, and all being now accomplished, he himself died, and those who stood by saw him die, with prayers and tears. For his friends and his people loved him with their whole hearts. Thus ends the tragic tale of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. End of section 10 Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox, Fall 2007 Symboline was the king of Britain. He had three children. The two sons were stolen away from him when they were quite little children, and he was left with only one daughter, Imogen. The king married a second time, and brought up Leonidas, the son of a dear friend, as Imogen's playfellow, and when Leonidas was old enough, Imogen secretly married him. This made the king and queen very angry, and the king, to punish Leonidas, banished him from Britain. Poor Imogen was nearly heartbroken at parting from Leonidas, and he was not less unhappy. For they were not only lovers and husband and wife, but they had been friends and comrades ever since they were quite little children. With many tears and kisses they said good-bye. They promised never to forget each other, and that they would never care for anyone else as long as they lived. "'This diamond was my mother's love,' said Imogen. "'Take it, my heart, and keep it as long as you love me.' "'Sweetest, fairest,' answered Leonidas. "'Wear this bracelet for my sake.' "'Ah!' cried Imogen, weeping. "'When shall we meet again?' And while they were still in each other's arms, the king came in, and Leonidas had to leave without more farewell. When he was come to Rome, where he had gone to stay with an old friend of his father's, he spent his days still in thinking of his dear Imogen, and his nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some Italian and French noblemen were talking of their sweethearts, and swearing that they were the most faithful and honourable and beautiful ladies in the world. And a Frenchman reminded Leonidas how he had said many times that his wife Imogen was more fair, wise and constant than any of the ladies in France. "'I say so still,' said Leonidas. "'She is not so good but that she would deceive,' said Iacomo, one of the Italian nobles. "'She never would deceive,' said Leonidas. "'I wager,' said Iacomo, that if I go to Britain, I can persuade your wife to do whatever I wish, even it should be against your wishes. "'That you will never do,' said Leonidas. "'I wager this ring upon my finger,' which was the very ring Imogen had given him at parting, "'that my wife will keep all her vows to me, and that you will never persuade her to do otherwise.' So Iacomo wagered half his estate against the ring on Leonidas's finger, and started forthwith for Britain, with a letter of introduction to Leonidas's wife. When he reached there he was received with all kindness, but he was still determined to win his wager. He told Imogen that her husband thought no more of her, and went on to tell many cruel lies about him. Imogen listened at first, but presently perceived what a wicked person Iacomo was, and ordered him to leave her. "'Then,' he said, "'pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is untrue. I only told you this to see whether you would believe me, or whether you were as much to be trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive me?' "'I forgive you freely,' said Imogen. "'Then,' went on Iacomo, "'perhaps you will prove it by taking charge of a trunk, containing a number of jewels which your husband and I, and some other gentlemen, have bought as a present for the emperor of Rome.' "'I will indeed,' said Imogen, "'do anything for my husband and a friend of my husband's. Have the jewels sent into my room, and I will take care of them. "'It is only for one night,' said Iacomo, for I leave Britain again to-morrow.' So the trunk was carried into Imogen's room, and that night she went to bed and to sleep. When she was fast asleep the lid of the trunk opened, and a man got out. It was Iacomo. The story about the jewels was as untrue as the rest of the things he had said. He had only wished to get into her room to win his wicked wager. He looked about him and noticed the furniture, and then crept to the side of the bed where Imogen was asleep, and took from her arm the gold bracelet which had been the parting gift of her husband. Then he crept back into the trunk, and next morning sailed for Rome. When he met Leonidas he said, "'I have been to Britain, and I have won the wager, for your wife no longer thinks about you. She stayed talking with me all one night in her room, which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chimney-piece, and silver and irons in the shape of two winking cupids. I do not believe she has forgotten me. I do not believe she stayed talking with you in her room. You have heard her room described by the servants.' "'Ah!' said Iacomo. But she gave me this bracelet. She took it from her arm. I see her yet. Her pretty action did outsell her gift. And yet enriched it, too. She gave it to me, and said she prized it once. "'Take the ring,' cried Leonidas. You have won, and you might have won my life as well, for I care nothing for it now I know my lady has forgotten me. And mad with anger he wrote letters to Britain to his old servant, Pisonio, ordering him to take Imogen to Milford Haven, and to murder her, because she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At the same time he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her to go with Pisonio, his old servant, to Milford Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there to meet her. Now when Pisonio got this letter he was too good to carry out its orders, and too wise to let them alone together. So he gave Imogen the letter from her husband, and started with her for Milford Haven. Before he left, the wicked queen gave him a drink, which, she said, would be useful in sickness. She hoped he would give it to Imogen, and that Imogen would die, and the wicked queen's son could be king. For the queen thought this drink was a poison, but really and truly it was only a sleeping draft. When Pisonio and Imogen came near to Milford Haven, he told her what was really in the letter he had had from her husband. I must go on to Rome and see him myself, said Imogen. And then Pisonio helped her to dress in boys' clothes, and sent her on her way, and went back to the court. Before he went he gave her the drink he had had from the queen. Imogen went on, getting more and more tired, and at last came to a cave. Someone seemed to live there, but no one was in just then. So she went in, and as she was almost dying of hunger, she took some food she saw there, and had just done so when an old man and two boys came to the cave. She was very much frightened when she saw them, for she thought that they would be angry with her for taking their food, though she had meant to leave money for it on the table. But to her surprise they welcomed her kindly. She looked very pretty in her boys' clothes, and her face was good as well as pretty. "'You shall be our brother,' said both the boys, and so she stayed with them, and helped to cook the food and make things comfortable. But one day when the old man, whose name was Belarius, was out hunting with the two boys, Imogen felt ill, and thought she would try the medicine Pisonio had given her. So she took it, and at once became like a dead creature. So that when Belarius and the boys came back from hunting, they thought she was dead, and with many tears and funeral songs they carried her away and laid her in the wood, covered with flowers. They sang sweet songs to her, and strewed flowers on her, pale crim-roses, and the azure hair-bell, and egglentine, and furred moss, and went away sorrowful. No sooner had they gone than Imogen awoke, and not knowing how she came there, nor where she was, went wandering through the wood. Now while Imogen had been living in the cave, the Romans had decided to attack Britain, and their army had come over, and with them Leonidas, who had grown sorry for his wickedness against Imogen, so had come back, not to fight with the Romans against Britain, but with the Britons against Rome. So as Imogen wandered alone, she met with Lucius, the Roman general, and took service with him as his page. When the battle was fought between the Romans and Britons, Belarius and his two boys fought for their own country, and Leonidas, disguised as a British peasant, fought beside them. The Romans had taken Cymbeline prisoner, and old Belarius, with his sons and Leonidas, bravely rescued the king. Then the Britons won the battle, and among the prisoners brought before the king were Lucius, with Imogen, Iacomo, and Leonidas, who had put on the uniform of a Roman soldier. He was tired of his life since he had cruelly ordered his wife to be killed, and he hoped that, as a Roman soldier, he would be put to death. When they were brought before the king, Lucius spoke out. "'A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer,' he said, "'if I must die, so be it. This one thing only will I entreat. My boy, a Britain-born, let him be ransomed. Nevermaster had a page so kind, so dubious, diligent, true. He has done no Britain harm, though he has served a Roman. Save him, sir.' Then Cymbeline looked on the page, who was his own daughter, Imogen, in disguise, and though he did not recognize her, he felt such a kindness that he not only spared the boy's life, but he said, "'He shall have any boon he likes to ask of me, even though he ask a prisoner, the noblest taken.' Then Imogen said, "'The boon I ask is that this gentleman shall say from whom he got the ring he has on his finger,' and she pointed to Iacomo. "'Speak,' said Cymbeline, "'how did you get that diamond?' Then Iacomo told the whole truth of his villainy. At this, Leonidas was unable to contain himself, and casting aside all thought of disguise, he came forward, cursing himself for his folly in having believed Iacomo's lying story, and calling again and again on his wife whom he believed dead. "'Oh, Imogen! My love! My life!' he cried. "'Oh, Imogen!' Then, Imogen, forgetting she was disguised, cried out, "'Peace, my lord! Here! Here!' Leonidas turned to strike the forward page, who thus interfered in his great trouble, and then he saw that it was his wife, Imogen, and they fell into each other's arms. The king was so glad to see his dear daughter again, and so grateful to the man who had rescued him, whom he now found to be Leonidas, that he gave his blessing on their marriage, and then he turned to Bilarius and the two boys. Now Bilarius spoke, "'I am your old servant, Bilarius. You accused me of treason when I had only been loyal to you, and to be doubted made me disloyal. So I stole your two sons, and see they are here.' And he brought forward the two boys, who had sworn to be brothers to Imogen when they thought she was a boy like themselves. The wicked queen was dead of some of her own poisons, and the king, with his three children about him, lived to a happy old age. So the wicked were punished, and the good and true lived happy ever after. So may the wicked suffer, and honest folk prosper till the world's end. By Edith Nesbitt Macbeth When a person is asked to tell the story of Macbeth, he can tell two stories. One is of a man called Macbeth, who came to the throne of Scotland by a crime in the year of our Lord, ten thirty-nine, and reigned justly and well on the whole for fifteen years or more. This story is part of Scottish history. The other story issues from a place called imagination. It is gloomy and wonderful, and you shall hear it. A year or two before Edward the Confessor began to rule England, a battle was won in Scotland against a Norwegian king by two generals named Macbeth and Banquo. After the battle the generals walked together towards Forrest in Elginshire, where Duncan, king of Scotland, was awaiting them. While they were crossing a lonely heath, they saw three bearded women, sisters, hand in hand, withered in appearance and wild in their attire. Speak, who are you, demanded Macbeth? Hail Macbeth, chieftain of Glamas, said the first woman. Hail Macbeth, chieftain of Codore, said the second woman. Hail Macbeth, king that is to be, said the third woman. Then Banquo asked, What of me? The third woman replied, Thou shalt be the father of kings. Tell me more, said Macbeth. By my father's death I am chieftain of Glamas, but the chieftain of Codore lives, and the king lives, and his children live. Speak, I charge you. The woman replied only by vanishing, as though suddenly mixed with the air. Banquo and Macbeth knew then that they had been addressed by witches, and were discussing their prophecies when two nobles approached. One of them thanked Macbeth in the king's name for his military services, and the other said, He bade me call you chieftain of Codore. Macbeth then learned that the man who had yesterday borne that title was to die for treason, and he could not help thinking, The third witch called me king that is to be. Banquo, he said, You see that the witches spoke truth concerning me. Do you not believe, therefore, that your child and grandchild will be kings? Banquo frowned. Macbeth had two sons, Malcolm and Donald Bain, and he deemed it disloyal to hope that his son, Fleance, should rule Scotland. He told Macbeth that the witches might have intended to tempt them both into villainy by their prophecies concerning the throne. Macbeth, however, thought the prophecy that he should be king too pleasant to keep to himself, and he mentioned it to his wife in a letter. Lady Macbeth was the granddaughter of a king of Scotland who had died in defending his crown against the king who preceded Duncan, and by whose order her only brother was slain. To her Duncan was a reminder of bitter wrongs. Her husband had royal blood in his veins, and when she read his letter she was determined that he should be king. When a messenger arrived to inform her that Duncan would pass a night in Macbeth's castle, she nerved herself for a very base action. She told Macbeth almost as soon as she saw him that Duncan must spend a sunless morrow. She meant that Duncan must die, and that the dead are blind. We will speak further, said Macbeth uneasily, and, at night, with his memory full of Duncan's kind words, he would feign have spared his guest. Would you live a coward, demanded Lady Macbeth, who seems to have thought that morality and cowardice were the same? I dare do all that may become a man, replied Macbeth, who dare do more is none. Why did you write that letter to me, she inquired fiercely, and with bitter words aged him on to murder, and with cunning words she showed him how to do it. After supper Duncan went to bed, and two grooms were placed on guard at his bedroom door. Lady Macbeth caused them to drink wine till they were stupefied. She then took their daggers, and would have killed the king herself if his sleeping face had not looked like her father's. Macbeth came later, and found the daggers lying by the grooms, and soon with red hands he appeared before his wife, saying, Me thought, I heard a voice cry, sleep no more, Macbeth destroys the sleeping. Wash your hands, said she. Why did you not leave the daggers by the grooms? Take them back, and smear the grooms with blood. I dare not, said Macbeth. His wife dared, and she returned to him with hands red as his own, but a heart less white, she proudly told him, for she scorned his fear. Murderers heard a knocking, and Macbeth wished it was a knocking which could wake the dead. It was the knocking of Macduff, the chieftain of Fife, who had been told by Duncan to visit him early. Macbeth went to him, and showed him the door of the king's room. Macduff entered, and came out again, crying, Oh, horror, horror, horror! Macbeth appeared as horror-stricken as Macduff, and pretending that he could not bear to see life in Duncan's murderers, he slew the two grooms with their own daggers before they could proclaim their innocence. These murders did not shriek out, and Macbeth was crowned at scone. One of Duncan's sons went to Ireland, the other to England. Macbeth was king. But he was discontented. The prophecy concerning Banquo oppressed his mind. If Fleance were to rule, a son of Macbeth would not rule. Macbeth determined, therefore, to murder both Banquo and his son. He hired two Ruffians, who slew Banquo one night when he was on his way with Fleance, to a banquet which Macbeth was giving to his nobles. Fleance escaped. Meanwhile, Macbeth and his queen received their guests very graciously, and he expressed a wish for them which has been uttered thousands of times since his day. Now good digestion, wait on appetite, and health on both. We pray your majesty to sit with us, said Lennox, a Scotch noble. But ere Macbeth could reply, the ghost of Banquo entered the banqueting hall and sat in Macbeth's place. Not noticing the ghost, Macbeth observed that if Banquo were present he could say that he had collected under his roof the choicest chivalry of Scotland. Stuff, however, had curtly declined his invitation. The king was again pressed to take a seat, and Lennox, to whom Banquo's ghost was invisible, showed him the chair where it sat. But Macbeth, with his eyes of genius, saw the ghost. He saw it like a form of mist and blood, and he demanded passionately, which of you have done this? Still none saw the ghost but he. And to the ghost Macbeth said, thou canst not say I did it. The ghost glided out, and Macbeth was imputed enough to raise a glass of wine to the general joy of the whole table and to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss. The toast was drunk, as the ghost of Banquo entered for the second time. Begone, cried Macbeth. You are senseless, mindless, hide in the earth, thou horrible shadow. Again none saw the ghost but he. What is it your majesty sees? asked one of the nobles. The queen dared not permit an answer to be given to this question. She hurriedly begged her guests to quit a sick man who was likely to grow worse if he was obliged to talk. Macbeth, however, was well enough next day to converse with the witches whose prophecies had so depraved him. He found them in a cavern on a thunderous day. They were revolving round a cauldron in which were boiling particles of many strange and horrible creatures, and they knew he was coming before he arrived. Answer me what I ask you, said the king. Would you rather hear it from us or our masters? asked the first witch. Call them, replied Macbeth. Thereupon the witches poured blood into the cauldron and grease into the flame that licked it, and a hamleted head appeared with the visor on so that Macbeth could only see its eyes. He was speaking to the head when the first witch said gravely, He knows thy thought. And a voice in the head said, Macbeth, beware Macduff, the chieftain of fife. The head then descended into the cauldron till it disappeared. One word more pleaded Macbeth. He will not be commanded, said the first witch, and then a crowned child ascended from the cauldron bearing a tree in his hand. The child said, Macbeth shall be unconquerable till the wood of Burnham climbs Dunsenane Hill. That never will be, said Macbeth. And he asked to be told if Banquo's descendants would ever rule Scotland. The cauldron sank into the earth. Music was heard, and a procession of phantom kings filed past Macbeth. Behind them was Banquo's ghost. In each king Macbeth saw a lightness to Banquo, and he counted eight kings. Then he was suddenly left alone. His next proceeding was to send murderers to Macduff's castle. They did not find Macduff, and asked Lady Macduff where he was. She gave a stinging answer, and her questioner called Macduff a traitor. "'Thou liest!' shouted Macduff's little son, who was immediately stabbed, and, with his last breath, entreated his mother to fly. The murderers did not leave the castle, while one of its inmates remained alive. Macduff was in England, listening with Malcolm, to a doctor's tale of cures wrought by Edward the Confessor, when his friend Ross came to tell him that his wife and children were no more. At first Ross dared not speak the truth, and turned Macduff's bright sympathy with sufferers relieved by royal virtue into sorrow and hatred. But when Malcolm said that England was sending an army into Scotland against Macbeth, Ross blurted out his news, and Macduff cried, "'All dead, did you say, all my pretty ones, and their mother, did you say all?' His sorry hope was in revenge. But if he could have looked into Macbeth's castle on Dunsonane Hill, he would have seen at work a force more solemn than revenge.' Retribution was working, for Lady Macbeth was mad. She walked in her sleep amid ghastly dreams. She was want to wash her hands for a quarter of an hour at a time, but after all her washing would still see a red spot of blood upon her skin. It was pitiful to hear her cry that all the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten her little hand. "'Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?' inquired Macbeth of the doctor. But the doctor replied that his patient must minister to her own mind. This reply gave Macbeth a scorn of medicine. Throw physics to the dogs,' he said, I'll none of it. One day he heard a sound of women crying, and an officer approached him and said, "'The queen, your majesty, is dead.' "'Out,' brief candle, muttered Macbeth, meaning that life was like a candle at the mercy of a puff of air. He did not weep. He was too familiar with death.' Presently a messenger told him that he saw Burnham Wood on the march. Macbeth called him a liar and a slave, and threatened to hang him if he had made a mistake. "'If you are right, you can hang me,' he said. From the turret, windows of Dunsonane Castle, Burnham Wood did indeed appear to be marching. Every soldier of the English army held a loft above which he had cut from a tree in that wood, and like human trees they climbed Dunsonane Hill. Macbeth had still his courage. He went to battle to conquer or die, and the first thing he did was to kill the general son in single combat. Macbeth then felt that no man could fight him and live. And when Macbeth came to him, blazing for revenge, Macbeth said to him, "'Go back. I have spilt too much of your blood already.' "'My voice is in my sword,' replied Macbeth, and hacked at him, and bade him yield. "'I will not yield,' said Macbeth, but his last hour had struck. He fell.' Macbeth's men were in retreat when Macduff came before Malcolm, holding a king's head by the hair. "'Hail, king,' he said, and the new king looked at the old. So Malcolm reigned after Macbeth, but in years that came afterwards the descendants of Banquo were kings. End of Section 12, Read by Dennis Ayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Aegean was a merchant of Syracuse, which is a seaport in Sicily. His wife was Emilia, and they were very happy until Aegean's manager died, and he was obliged to go by himself to a place called Epidemnam on the Adriatic. As soon as she could, Emilia followed him, and after they had been together some time, two baby boys were born to them. The babies were exactly alike even when they were dressed differently, they looked the same. At the same inn, where these children were born, and on the same day, two baby boys were born to a much poorer couple than Emilia and Aegean. So poor indeed were the parents of these twins, that they sold them to the parents of the other twins. Emilia was eager to show her children to her friends in Syracuse, and in treacherous weather she and Aegean and the four babies sailed homewards. They were still far from Syracuse when their ship sprang a leak, and the crew left it in a body by the only boat, carrying little what became of their passengers. Emilia fastened one of her children to a mast and tied one of the slave children to him. Aegean followed her example with the remaining children. And the parents secured themselves to the same masts and hoped for safety. The ship, however, suddenly struck a rock and was split in two, and Emilia and the two children whom she had tied floated away from Aegean and the other children. Emilia and her charges were picked up by some people of Epidemnum. But some fishermen of Corinth took the babies from her by force, and she returned to Epidemnum alone, and very miserable. Afterwards she settled in Ephesus, a famous town in Asia Minor. Aegean and his charges were also saved, and more fortunate than Emilia he was able to return to Syracuse and keep them till they were eighteen. His own child he called Antiphalus, and the slave child he called Dromio. And strangely enough these were the names given to the children who floated away from him. At the age of eighteen the son who was with Aegean grew restless, with a desire to find his brother. Aegean let him depart with his servant, and the young men are henceforth known as Antiphalus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Let alone Aegean found his home to dreary to dwell in, and traveled for five years. He did not, during his absence, learn all the news of Syracuse, or he would never have gone to Ephesus. As it was his melancholy wandering seized in that town, where he was arrested almost as soon as he arrived. He then found that the Duke of Syracuse had been acting, in so tyrannical a manner, to Ephesians unlucky enough to fall into his hands. That the government of Ephesus had angrily passed a law, which punished by death or a fine of a thousand pounds, any Syracusean who should come to Ephesus. Aegean was brought before Solanus, Duke of Ephesus, who told him that he must die or pay a thousand pounds before the end of the day. You will think there was fate in this, when I tell you, that the children who were kidnapped by the fishermen of Corinth were now citizens of Ephesus, whether they had been brought by Duke, Menophan and uncle of Duke Solanus. It will henceforth be called Antiphalus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus. Moreover on the very day when Aegean was arrested, Antiphalus of Syracuse landed in Ephesus and pretended that he came from Epidemnum in order to avoid a penalty. He handed his money to his servant, Dromio of Syracuse, and bade him take it to the centoir in and remained there till he came. In less than ten minutes he was met on the mart by Dromio of Ephesus, his brother's slave, and immediately Mr. came for his own Dromio. Why are you back so soon? Where did you leave the money? Asked Antiphalus of Syracuse. This Dromio knew of no money except six pence, which he had received on the previous Wednesday and given to the Sadler, but he did know that his mistress was annoyed because his master was not into dinner, and he asked Antiphalus of Syracuse to go to a house called the Phoenix without delay. His speech angered the hearer who would have beaten him if he had not fled. Antiphalus of Syracuse then went to the centoir, found that his gold had been deposited there, and walked out of the inn. He was wondering about Ephesus when two beautiful ladies signaled to him with their hands. They were sisters, and their names were Adriana and Luciana. Adriana was the wife of his brother Antiphalus of Ephesus, and she had made up her mind from the strange account given her by Dromio of Ephesus that her husband preferred another woman to his wife. I, you may look as if you did not know me. She said to the man who was realer her brother-in-law, but I can remember when no words were sweet unless I said them. No meat flavorsome unless I carved it. Is it I, you address? said Antiphalus of Syracuse stiffly. I do not know you. Bye, brother! said Luciana. You know perfectly well that she sent Dromio to you to bid you come to dinner. And Adriana said, come, come, I have been made a fool of long enough. My truned husband shall dine with me and confess his silly pranks and be forgiven. They were determined ladies and Antiphalus of Syracuse grew weary of disputing with them, and followed them obediently to the phoenix, where a very late midday dinner awaited them. They were at dinner when Antiphalus of Ephesus and his slave Dromio demanded admittance. Maud, Bridget, Marion, Sicily, Jillian, Jinn shout to Dromio of Ephesus who knew all his fellow-servants' names by heart. From within came the reply, Fool, Dre-horse, coxcomb, idiot! It was Dromio of Syracuse unconsciously insulting his brother. Master and man did their best to get in, short of using a crowbar, and finally went away. But Antiphalus of Ephesus felt so annoyed with his wife that he decided to give a gold chain which he had promised her to another woman. Inside the phoenix, Luciana, who believed Antiphalus of Syracuse to be her sister's husband, attempted by a discourse in rhyme when alone with him to make him kinder to Adriana. In reply he told her that he was not married, but that he loved her so much that if Luciana were a mermaid he would gladly lie on the sea if he might feel beneath him her floating golden hair. Luciana was shocked and left him and reported his love-making to Adriana, who said that her husband was old and ugly and not fit to be seen or heard, though secretly she was very fond of him. Antiphalus of Syracuse soon received a visitor in the shape of Angelou, the goldsmith of whom Antiphalus of Ephesus had ordered the chain which he had promised his wife and intended to give to another woman. The goldsmith handed the chain to Antiphalus of Syracuse and treated his, I bespoke it not, as mere fun, so that the puzzled merchant took the chain as good humoredly as he had partaken of Adriana's dinner. He offered payment, but Angelou foolishly said he would call again. The consequence was that Angelou was without money when a creditor of the sword that stands no nonsense threatened him with arrest unless he paid his debt immediately. This creditor had brought a police officer with him and Angelou was relieved to see Antiphalus of Ephesus coming out of the house where he had been dining because he had been locked out of the phoenix. Bitter was Angelou's dismay when Antiphalus denied receipt of the chain. Angelou could have sent his mother to prison if she had said that, and he gave Antiphalus of Ephesus in charge. At this moment up came Romeo of Syracuse and told the wrong Antiphalus that he had shipped his goods, and that a favourable wind was blowing. To the ears of Antiphalus of Ephesus this talk was simple nonsense. He would gladly have beaten the slave, but contented himself with crossly telling him to hurry to Adriana and bid her send to her arrested husband a purse of money which she would find in his desk. Though Adriana was furious with her husband because she thought he had been making love to her sister, she did not prevent Luciana from getting the purse, and she bade Romeo of Syracuse bring home his master immediately. Unfortunately before Romeo could reach the police station he met his real master who had never been arrested and did not understand what he meant by offering him a purse. Antiphalus of Syracuse was further surprised when a lady whom he did not know asked him for a chain that he had promised her. She was, of course, the lady with whom Antiphalus of Ephesus had dined when his brother was occupying his place at table. Avant, thou witch, was the answer wish to her astonishment she received. Meanwhile Antiphalus of Ephesus waited vainly for the money which was to have released him. Never a good-tempered man he was crazy with anger when Romeo of Ephesus, who, of course, had not been instructed to fetch a purse, appeared with nothing more useful than a rope. He beat the slave in the street despite the remonstrance of the police officer, and his temper did not mend when Adriana, Luciana, and a doctor arrived under the impression that he was mad and must have his pulse felt. He raged so much that men came forward to bind him. But the kindness of Adriana spared him this shame. She promised to pay the sum demanded of him and asked the doctor to lead him to the phoenix. Angelus' merchant creditor being paid, the two were friendly again and might soon have been seen chatting before an abbey about the odd behavior of Antiphalus of Ephesus. Softly, said the merchant at last, that's he, I think. It was not. It was Antiphalus of Syracuse with his servant Romeo, and he wore Angelus' chain around his neck. The reconciled pair fairly pounced upon him to know what he meant by denying the receipt of the chain he had the impudence to wear. Antiphalus of Syracuse lost his temper and drew his sword, and at that moment Adriana and several others appeared. Hold! shouted the careful wife, hurt him not, he is mad. Take his sword away, bind him, and draw me, too. Romeo of Syracuse did not wish to be bound, and he said to his master, run, master, into that abbey, quick, or we shall be robbed. They accordingly retreated into the abbey. Adriana, Luciana, and a crowd remained outside, and the abbas came out and said, All, why do you gather here? To fetch my poor distracted husband, replied Adriana. Angelus and the merchant remarked that they had not known that he was mad. Adriana then told the abbas rather too much about her wifely worries, for the abbas received the idea that Adriana was a shrew and that if her husband was distracted he had better not return to her for the present. Adriana determined therefore to complain to Duke Solinus, and, lo and behold, a minute afterwards the great man appeared with officers and two others. The others were Agion and the headsmen. The thousand marks had not been found, and Agion's fate seemed sealed. ere the Duke could pass the abbey, Adriana knelt before him and told a woeful tale of a mad husband rushing about stealing jewelry and drawing his sword, adding that the abbas refused to allow her to lead him home. The Duke bade the abbas be summoned, and no sooner had he given the order than a servant from the phoenix ran to Adriana with a tale that his master had singed off the doctor's beard. Nonsense! said Adriana, he is in the abbey. As sure as I live I speak the truth, said the servant. Antiphalus of Syracuse had not come out of the abbey before his brother of Ephesus prostrated himself in front of the Duke exclaiming, Just his most gracious Duke against that woman, he pointed to Adriana, she has treated another man like her husband in my own house. Even while he was speaking Agion said, Unless I am delirious I see my son Antiphalus. No one noticed him, and Antiphalus of Ephesus went on to say how the doctor whom he called a thread-bear juggler had been one of the gang who tied him to his slave Romeo and thrust them into a vault whence he had escaped by gnawing through his bonds. The Duke could not understand how the same man who spoke to him was seen to go into the abbey, and he was still wondering when Agion asked Antiphalus of Ephesus if he was not his son. He replied, I never saw my father in my life, but so deceived was Agion by his likeness to the brother whom he had brought up that he said, Thou art ashamed to acknowledge me in misery. Soon, however, the Abbas advanced with Antiphalus of Syracuse and Romeo of Syracuse, then cried Adriana, I see two husbands or mine eyes deceive me. And Antiphalus, aspiring his father, said, Thou art Agion or his ghost. It was a day of surprises, for the Abbas said, I will free that man by paying his fine and gain my husband whom I lost. Speak Agion, for I am thy wife Amelia. The Duke was touched. He is free without a fine, he said. So Agion and Amelia were reunited, and Adriana and her husband reconciled, but no one was happier than Antiphalus of Syracuse, who in the Duke's presence went to Luciana and said, I told you I loved you. Will you be my wife? Her answer was given by a look, and therefore is not written. The two Dramios were glad to think they would receive no more beatings, and of the comedy of errors. By Edith Nesbitt Antonio was a rich and prosperous merchant of Venice. His ships were on nearly every sea, and he traded with Portugal, with Mexico, with England, and with India. Although proud of his riches, he was very generous with them, and delighted to use them in relieving the wants of his friends, among whom his relation, Bassanio, held the first place. Now Bassanio, like many another gay and gallant gentleman, was reckless and extravagant, and finding that he had not only come to the end of his fortune, but was also unable to pay his creditors, he went to Antonio for further help. To you, Antonio, he said, I owe the most in money and in love, and I have thought of a plan to pay everything I owe, if you will, but help me. Say what I can do, and it shall be done, answered his friend. Then said Bassanio, in Belmont is a lady richly left, and from all quarters of the globe renowned suitors come to woo her, not only because she is rich, but because she is beautiful and good as well. She looked on me with such favour, when last we met, that I feel sure that I should win her away from all her rivals for her love, had I but the means to go to Belmont, where she lives. All my fortunes, said Antonio, are at sea, and so I have no ready money, but luckily my credit is good in Venice, and I will borrow for you what you need. There was living in Venice at this time a rich money lender named Shylock. Antonio despised and disliked this man very much, and treated him with the greatest harshness and scorn. He would thrust him like a cur over his threshold, and would even spit on him. Shylock submitted to all these indignities with a patient shrug, but deep in his heart he cherished a desire for revenge on the rich smug merchant. Therefore Antonio both hurt his pride and injured his business. But for him, thought Shylock, I should be richer by half a million ducats. On the marketplace, and wherever he can, he denounces the rate of interest I charge, and worse than that he lends out money freely. So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan of three thousand ducats to Antonio for three months, Shylock hid his hatred and, turning to Antonio, said, harshly as you have treated me, I would be friends with you and have your love. So I will lend you the money and charge you no interest. But just for fun, you shall sign a bond in which it shall be agreed that if you do not repay me in three months' time, then I shall have the right to a pound of your flesh to be cut from what part of your body I choose. No, cried Bassanio to his friend, you shall run no such risk for me. Why, fear not, said Antonio, my ships will be home a month before the time. I will sign the bond. Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means to go to Belmont, there to woo the lovely Portia. The very night he started, the moneylender's pretty daughter, Jessica, ran away from her father's house with her lover, and she took with her from her father's hoards some bags of duckets and precious stones. Shylock's grief and anger were terrible to see. His love for her changed, to hate. I would she were dead at my feet and the jewels in her ear, he cried. His only comfort now was in hearing of the serious losses which had befallen Antonio, some of whose ships were wrecked. Let him look to his bond, said Shylock. Let him look to his bond. Meanwhile, Bassanio had reached Belmont and had visited the fair Portia. He found, as he had told Antonio, that the rumor of her wealth and beauty had drawn to her suitors from far and near. But to all of them Portia had but one reply. She would only accept that suitor, who would pledge himself to abide by the terms of her father's will. These were conditions that frightened away many an ardent wooer. For he who would win Portia's heart and hand, had to guess which of three caskets held her portrait. If he guessed a right, then Portia would be his bride. If wrong, then he was bound by oath never to reveal which casket he chose, never to marry, and to go away at once. The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The gold one bore this inscription. Who chooses me shall gain what many men desire. The silver one had this. Who chooses me shall get as much as he deserves, while on the lead one were these words. Who chooses me must give and hazard all he hath. The Prince of Morocco, as brave as he was black, was among the first to submit to this test. He chose the gold casket, for he said neither base lead nor silver could contain her picture. So he chose the gold casket, and found inside the likeness of what many men desire, death. After him came the haughty Prince of Aragon, and saying, Let me have what I deserve. Surely I deserve the lady. He chose the silver one, and found, inside, a fool's head. Did I deserve no more than a fool's head, he cried, then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would have delayed him from making his choice from very fear of his choosing wrong. For she loved him dearly, even as he loved her. But said Bassanio, Let me choose at once, for, as I am, I live upon the rack. Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and play, while her gallant lover made his choice, and Bassanio took the oath, and walked up to the caskets. The musicians plain softly, the while. Mere outward show, he said, is to be despised. The world is still deceived with ornament, and so no gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose the lead casket. Joy be the consequence, and opening it he found fair Portia's portrait inside, and he turned to her, and asked, if it were true, that she was his. Yes, said Portia, I am yours, and this house is yours, and with them I give you this ring, from which you must never part, and Bassanio, saying that he could hardly speak for joy, found words to swear that he would never part with the ring while he lived. Then suddenly all his happiness was dashed with sorrow, for messengers came from Venice to tell him that Antonio was ruined, and that Shylock demanded from the Duke the fulfillment of the bond, under which he was entitled to a pound of the merchant's flesh. Portia was as grieved as Bassanio to hear of the danger which threatened his friend. First, she said, take me to church, and make me your wife, and then go to Venice at once to help your friend. You shall take with you money enough to pay his debt twenty times over." But when her newly-made husband had gone, Portia went after him, and arrived in Venice disguised as a lawyer, and with an introduction from a celebrated lawyer, Bellario, whom the Duke of Venice had called in to decide the legal questions raised by Shylock's claim to a pound of Antonio's flesh. When the court met, Bassanio offered Shylock twice the money borrowed, if he would withdraw his claim. But the moneylenders' only answer was, if every ducat in six thousand ducats were in six parts, and every part a ducat—I would not draw them—I would have my bond. It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her own husband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of the great Bellario's introduction, and left the settlement of the case to her. Then in noble words she bade Shylock have mercy. But he was deaf to her entreaties. I will have the pound of flesh," was his reply. "'What have you to say?' asked Portia, of the merchant. But little," he answered, "'I am armed and well-prepared. The court awards you a pound of Antonio's flesh,' said Portia, to the moneylender. "'Most righteous judge,' cried Shylock, "'a sentence, come, prepare.' Carry a little. This bond gives you no right to Antonio's blood, only to his flesh. If then, you spill a drop of his blood, all your property will be forfeited to this state. Such is the law!' And Shylock, in his fear, said, "'Then I will take Bassaniel's offer.'" "'No,' said Portia sternly, "'you shall have nothing but your bond. Take your pound of flesh. But remember that if you take more or less, even by the weight of a hair, you will lose your property and your life.'" Shylock now grew very much frightened, giving my three thousand ducats that I lent him, and let him go. Bassaniel would have paid it to him, but said Portia, "'No. He shall have nothing but his bond.' "'You,' a foreigner,' she added, "'have sought to take the life of a Venetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law your life and goods are forfeited, down, therefore, and beg Mercy of the Duke.'" This were the tables turned, and no Mercy would have been shown to Shylock had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the moneylender forfeited half his fortune to this state, and he had to settle the other half on his daughter's husband, and with this he had to be content. Bassaniel, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to part with the ring his wife had given him, and with which he had promised never to part, and when, on his return to Belmont, he confessed as much to Portia, she seemed very angry and vowed she would not be friends with him until she had her ring again. But, at last, she told him that it was she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his friend's life and got the ring from him. So Bassaniel was forgiven, and made happier than ever to know how rich a prize he had drawn in the lottery of the caskets. CHAPTER XIV. STORIES FROM SHAKESPEAR by Edith Nesbit Timon of Athens. Four hundred years before the birth of Christ, a man lived in Athens, whose generosity was not only great, but absurd. He was very rich, but no worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent and gave like Timon. If anybody gave Timon a horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses. If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered to repay it, Timon was offended. If a poet had written a poem and Timon had time to read it, he would be sure to buy it, and a painter had only to hold up his canvas in front of Timon to receive double its market price. Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his reckless mode of life. When Timon's house was full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costly wine, Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would say to himself, There are ten thousand candles burning in this house, and each of those singers praying in the concert room costs a poor man's yearly income a night. And he would remember a terrible thing said by Apimantus, one of his master's friends, Oh, what a number of men eat Timon, and Timon sees them not. Of course, Timon was much praised. A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that it was not quite perfect till Timon wore it. You meant the jewelry by wearing it, he said. Timon gave the diamond to a lord named Sampronius, and the lord exclaimed, Oh, he's the very soul of bounty. Timon is infinitely dear to me, said another lord, called Lucalus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse, and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet. But when Apimantus had listened to some of them, he said, I'm going to knock out an honest Athenian's brains. You will die for that, said Timon. Then I shall die for doing nothing, said Apimantus, and now you know what a joke was like four hundred years before Christ. This Apimantus was a frank despiser of mankind, but a healthy one, because he was not unhappy. In this mixed world any one with a number of acquaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of men, but does not shun them, and boasts that he is never deceived by their fine speeches, and is inwardly cheerful and proud. Apimantus was a man like that. Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became much worse than Apimantus after the dawning of a day which we call quarter day. Quarter day is the day when bills pour in. The grocer, the butcher, and the baker are all thinking of their debtors on that day, and the wise man has saved enough money to be ready for them. But Timon had not, and he did not only owe money for food. He owed it for jewels, and horses, and furniture, and worst of all, he owed it to money lenders who expected him to pay twice as much as he had borrowed. Quarter day is a day when promises to pay are scorned, and on that day Timon was asking for a large sum of money. Salsom land, he said to his steward, you have no land, was the reply. Nonsense, I had a hundred thousand acres, said Timon. You could have spent the price of the world if you had possessed it, said Flavius. Borrow some then, said Timon, try Ventidius. He thought of Ventidius because he had once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a creditor of this young man. Ventidius was now rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude, but not for all, so much did he owe. Ventidius were dispatched with requests for loans of money to several friends. One servant, Flaminius, went to Lucalus. When he was announced, Lucalus said, A gift I warrant, I dreamt of a silver jug in basin last night. Then, changing his tone, how is that honourable, free-hearted, perfect gentleman your master, eh? Well, in health, sir, replied Flaminius. And what have you got there under your cloak? Lucalus jovially. Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box which on my master's behalf I beg you to fill with money, sir. La la la, said Lucalus, who could not pretend to mean ha ha ha. Your master's one fault is that he is to fund of giving parties. I have warned him that it was expensive. Now look here, Flaminius, you know this is no time to lend money without security, so suppose you act like a good boy and tell him that I was not at home. Here's three solidaris for yourself. Back wretched money, cried Flaminius, to him who worships you. Others of Timon's friends were tried and found stingy. Amongst them was Sampronius. Hmm! He said to Timon's servant, Has he asked Ventidius, Ventidius is beholden to him? He refused. Well, have you asked Lucalus? He refused. A poor compliment applied to me last of all, said Sampronius in affected anger. If he had sent to me at first I would gladly have lent him money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend him any now. Your lordship makes a good villain, said the servant. When Timon found that his friends were so mean, he took advantage of a lull in his storm of creditors to invite Ventidius and company to a banquet. Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and company were not in the least ashamed, and they assembled accordingly into Timon's house and said to one another that their princely host had been jesting with them. I had to put off an important engagement in order to come here, said Lucalus, but who could refuse Timon? It was a real grief to me to be without ready money when he asked for some. But Sampronius, the same here, chimed in a third lord. Timon now appeared, and his guests vied with one another in apologies and compliments. Inwardly sneering, Timon was gracious to them all. In the banqueting hall was a table resplendent with covered dishes, mouths watered. These summer friends loved good food. Be seated, worthy friends, said Timon. He then prayed aloud to the gods of Greece. Give it man enough, he said, for if you who are our gods were to borrow of men they would cease to adore you, let men love the joint more than the host, let every score of guests contain twenty villains, bless my friends as much as they have blessed me. Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap. The hungry lords were too much surprised by these speech to resent it. They thought Timon was unwell, and although he had called them dogs they uncovered the dishes. There was nothing in them but warm water. May you never see a better feast, wished Timon, I wash off the flatteries with which you plastered me and sprinkle you with your villainy. With these words he threw the water into his guests' faces, and then he pelted them with the dishes. Having thus ended the banquet he went into an outhouse, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever. His next dwelling was a cave near the sea. Of all his friends the only one who had not refused him aid was a handsome soldier named Alcibiadis, and he had not been asked, because having quarreled with the government of Athens he had left that town. The thought that Alcibiadis might have proved a true friend did not soften Timon's bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discern the fact that good cannot be far from evil in this mixed world. He determined to see nothing better in all mankind than the ingratitude of Antidias and the meanness of Lucalus. He became a vegetarian and talked pages to himself as he dug in the earth for food. One day when he was digging for roots near the shore his spade struck gold. If he had been a wise man he would have enriched himself quickly and returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the sight of the gold vein gave no joy but only scorn to Timon. This yellow slave, he said, will make and break religions. It will make black, white, and foul, fair. It will buy murder and bless the accursed. He was still ranting when Alcibiadis, now an enemy of Athens, approached with his soldiers and two beautiful women who cared for nothing but pleasure. Timon was so changed by his bad thoughts and rough life that Alcibiadis did not recognize him at first. Who are you? he asked. A beast as you are? was the reply. Alcibiadis knew his voice and offered him help and money, but Timon would none of it and began to insult the women. They, however, when they found he had discovered a gold mine, cared not in chart for his opinion of them, but said, Give us some gold, good Timon, have you more? With further insults Timon filled their aprons with gold ore. Farewell, said Alcibiadis, who deemed that Timon's wits were lost and then his disciplined soldiers left without profit the mine which could have paid their wages and marched towards Athens. Timon continued to dig and curse and affected a great delight when he dug up a root and discovered that it was not a grape. Just then Apimantis appeared. I am told that you imitate me, said Apimantis. Only, said Timon, because you haven't a dog which I can imitate. You are revenging yourself on your friends by punishing yourself, said Apimantis. That is very silly, for they leave just as comfortably as they ever did. I am sorry that a fool should imitate me. If I were like you, said Timon, I should throw myself away. You have done so, sneered Apimantis. Will the cold brook make you a good morning drink or an east wind warm your clothes as a valley would? Off with you, said Timon, but Apimantis stayed a while longer and told him yet a passion for extremes, which was true. Apimantis even made a pun, but there was no good laughter to be got out of Timon. Finally they lost their temper like two schoolboys and Timon said he was sorry to lose the stone which he flung at Apimantis who left him with an evil wish. This was almost an at-home day for Timon, for when Apimantis had departed he was visited by some robbers. They wanted gold. You want too much, said Timon. Here are water, roots, and berries. We are not birds and pigs, said a robber. No, you are cannibals, said Timon. Take the gold then and make poison you, henceforth rob one another. He spoke so frightfully to them that though they went away with full pockets they almost repented of their trade. His last visitor on that day of visits was his good steward Flavius. My dearest master! cried he. Away, what are you? said Timon. Have you forgotten me, sir? asked Flavius mournfully. I have forgotten all men, was the reply. And if you allow that you are a man, I have forgotten you. I was your honest servant, said Flavius. Nonsense, I never had an honest man about me, retorted Timon. Flavius began to cry. What, shedding tears, said Timon, come nearer then. I will love you because you are a woman and unlike men who only weep when they laugh or beg. They talked a while and Timon said, young gold is mine, I will make you rich Flavius if you promise me to live by yourself and hate mankind. I will make you very rich if you promise me that you will see the flesh slide off the beggar's bones before you feed him and let the debtor die in jail before you pay his debt. Flavius simply said, let me stay to comfort you, my master. If you dislike cursing, leave me, replied Timon, and he turned his back on Flavius, who went sadly back to Athens, too much accustomed to obedience to force his services upon his ailing master. The steward had accepted nothing, but a report got about that a mighty nugget of gold had been given him by his former master, and Timon therefore received more visitors. They were a painter and a poet whom he had patronized in his prosperity. Hail, worthy Timon, said the poet, we heard with astonishment how your friends deserted you. Whips large enough for their backs. We have come, put in the painter, to offer our services. You have heard that I have gold, said Timon. There was a report, said the painter, blushing, but my friend and I did not come for that. Good honest men, cheered Timon, all the same you shall have plenty of gold if you will rid me of two villains. Among them, said his two visitors in one breath. Both of you, answered Timon, giving the painter a whack with a big stick, he said, put that into your palette and make money out of it. Then he gave a whack to the poet and said, make a poem out of that and get paid for it. There is gold for you. They hurriedly withdrew. Finally, Timon was visited by two senators, who, now that Athens was threatened by Alcibiades, desired to have on their side this bitter noble whose gold might help the foe. Forget your injuries, said the first senator. Athens offers you dignities whereby you may honorably live. Athens confesses that your merit was overlooked and wishes to atone, and more than atone for her forgetfulness, said the second senator. Were these senators? replied Timon in his grim way. I am almost weeping, you touch me so. All I need are the eyes of a woman and the heart of a fool. But the senators were patriots. They believed that this bitter man could save Athens, and they would not quarrel with him. Be our captain, they said, and lead Athens against Alcibiades, who threatens to destroy her. Let him destroy the Athenians, too, for all I care, said Timon, and seeing an evil despair in his face they left him. The senators returned to Athens, and soon afterwards Trumpets were blown before its walls. Upon the walls they stood and listened to Alcibiades, who told them that wrong doers should quake in their easy chairs. They looked at his confident army, and were convinced that Athens must yield if he assaulted it, and therefore they used the voice that strikes deeper than arrows. These walls of ours were built by the hands of men who never wronged you, Alcibiades, said the first senator. Enter, said the second senator, and slay every tenth man if your revenge needs human flesh. Spare the cradle, said the first senator. I ask only justice, said Alcibiades, if you admit my army I will inflict the penalty of your own laws upon any soldier who breaks them. At that moment a soldier approached Alcibiades and said, my noble general, Timon is dead. He handed Alcibiades a sheet of wax, saying, he is buried by the sea on the beach, and over his grave is a stone with letters on it which I cannot read, and therefore I have impressed them on wax. Alcibiades read from the sheet of wax this couplet. Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate. Pass by and say your worst, but pass, and stay not here your gate. Dead then is noble Timon, said Alcibiades, and he entered Athens with an olive branch instead of a sword. So it was one of Timon's friends who was generous in a greater matter than Timon's need, yet at the sorrow and rage of Timon remembered as a warning, lest another in gratitude should arise to turn love into hate. And of Timon of Athens.