Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  “All this we swear,” said they, laying their hands upon the sword.

  Leontes breathed deeply. “Break up the seals, and read.”

  The fellow’s thick fingers began to fumble with the seals. Crack! Crack! Crack! He broke them, one by one. He began to unroll the scroll. The Queen was watching him. Her face was calm. But her women were looking fearful. And Paulina’s eyes were enormous!

  The scroll was open. The fellow was staring at it. His lips were moving, but no words came. Then the words came, it seemed in a shout:

  “HERMIONE IS CHASTE; POLIXENES BLAMELESS; CAMILLO A TRUE SUBJECT; LEONTES A JEALOUS TYRANT: HIS INNOCENT BABE TRULY BEGOTTEN: AND THE KING SHALL LIVE WITHOUT AN HEIR IF THAT WHICH IS LOST BE NOT FOUND.”

  The fellow was smiling. He heard voices crying out: “Blessed be the great Apollo!” Everyone was smiling, laughing. Her women were looking joyful—

  “Hast thou read the truth?”

  “Ay, my lord,” said the fellow, and offered him the scroll; “even so as it is here set down.”

  He took it, glanced at it; but his hand was trembling too violently for him to read. He could see Paulina staring at him triumphantly. He did not look at the Queen. “There is no truth at all i’ the Oracle,” he said, “the sessions shall proceed.” Carefully, he tore the sacred scroll into fragments and flung them down. “This is mere falsehood.”

  Even as he uttered the words, there came a violent clap of thunder!

  “My lord the King! the King!”

  A servant from the palace had come rushing into the court. His looks were desperate—

  “What is the business?”

  “O sir, the Prince, your son, is gone!”

  “How! gone?”

  “Is dead.”

  There was a roaring in his ears. The courtroom seemed to sway and topple. He heard a loud cry of grief and dismay. It was a howl, such as a stricken animal might have uttered. Yet it was his own voice.

  He had blasphemed against the god, and his punishment had been swift and terrible!

  “Look down and see what death is doing!”

  Paulina was shouting at him, frantically. Hermione had fallen to the ground. The death of her son had struck her down. Her women were kneeling by her. She did not move.

  “Take her hence!” Leontes pleaded desperately. “She will recover . . .”

  They carried her away; and Leontes stared after her, half blind with misery. There was a stillness inside his head, like a house that had been blasted by storm and all its furnishings in ruins. Over and over again, he swore he’d undo all the wickedness his madness had brought about.

  Paulina returned: her face was white, her eyes were pools of tears. Hermione was dead! Wildly she cursed him for his savage tyranny.

  “Go on, go on,” he groaned; “thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved all tongues to talk their bitterest!”

  At last she took pity on him; but he could not take pity on himself. His madness had cost the lives of his wife and son, and the loss of his infant daughter. “Prithee,” he begged Paulina, “bring me to the dead bodies of my queen and son. Once a day I’ll visit the chapel where they lie, and tears shed there shall be my recreation. Come, and lead me to these sorrows.”

  Then, leaning on Paulina’s comforting arm, he left the court. When he had gone, the clerk of the court carefully gathered up the fragments of the torn-up sacred scroll. He found HERMIONE IS—and searched for CHASTE, which he found, much trampled upon. Then a larger piece caught his eye. THE KING SHALL LIVE WITHOUT AN HEIR IF THAT WHICH IS LOST BE NOT FOUND.

  He sighed and shook his head.

  Far, far away, on the wild sea-coast of Bohemia, under a dreadful sky, two figures staggered ashore from a vessel that heaved at anchor nearby. One was a sailor, bearing a chest; the other was Antigonus. He had kept his oath of obedience to his king, even though the command had been harsh and unnatural. Under his cloak he bore Hermione’s babe. Reaching the shelter of some rocks, Antigonus and his companion huddled down together. “Go, get aboard,” Antigonus bade the man. “I’ll not be long . . .” The sailor nodded and, warning Antigonus of the worsening weather, and of the wild beasts that roamed thereabouts, he stumbled back to the vessel.

  Antigonus watched him out of sight; then, opening his cloak, he laid the sleeping babe tenderly beside the chest. “Blossom, speed thee well,” he whispered, and made a little pillow for it, of a bundle of clothing to which was fastened a jewel of its mother’s, and its name, by which it had come most strangely.

  Antigonus had dreamed that the ghost of Hermione had visited him on board the ship and, weeping, had begged him bear her child to Bohemia. “And for the babe is counted lost for ever,” the poor ghost had wailed, “Perdita, I prithee call’t . . .” So ‘Perdita’ it was.

  He looked up. The sky was black, and sharp lightnings had begun to race across it. The storm was almost upon them. Hastily he wrapped up the child as best he could; then, bidding it a last farewell, he rose to go.

  But something was waiting for him. A huge darkness. A sudden glare lit up the sky and land, and Antigonus shrieked in terror! Rearing above him, with savage claws outstretched, was a monstrous bear! “I am gone for ever!” he howled as he fled away with the bear pursuing him. Then the storm, or the bear, or both together, swallowed him up.

  The infant Perdita was not the only lost one on the wild sea-coast of Bohemia that day. Two sheep, frightened by huntsmen, had strayed away, and their shepherd was searching and calling, and cursing the young fools who had cost him so dear. “I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest,” he grumbled as he trudged along. “Would any but these boiled brains, hunt this weather?”

  He came to some rocks. He peered among them. He saw a chest; he saw a bundle. Inquisitively he poked it with his crook. A tiny wail broke forth. He grunted in surprise. He knelt down; he opened the bundle. “Mercy on’s!” he cried aloud, “a bairn, a very pretty bairn!” and he gave the infant his little finger to suck, to stop its noise.

  He scratched his head; then, noting the fineness of the cloth in which the babe was wrapped, he nodded knowingly. “I can read waiting gentlewoman in the scape,” he murmured. “They were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here.” Gently he lifted the babe and sheltered it under his cloak. Then he called out for his son, who was still searching for their sheep.

  Quickly the boy came. He was all wet and wild with amazement. He had just seen two fearful sights. At sea, he had seen a ship being swallowed up by the waves, and on land he had seen a gentleman being swallowed up by a bear!

  “Name of mercy, when was this, boy?”

  “Now, now!” cried the son. “The men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman: he’s at it now!” and he told his father how the bear’s dinner had cried out that his name was Antigonus and that he was a nobleman.

  “Heavy matters! heavy matters!” sighed the shepherd. “But look thee here, boy!” He opened his cloak. “Now bless thyself! Thou met’st with things dying, I with things new-born!”

  The father and son stared at one another; then the shepherd remembered that it had once been prophesied that the fairies would make him rich. He nodded towards the chest. “Open’t!” he breathed. The boy hesitated; then, very cautiously, he lifted the lid. “What’s within, boy?” The boy looked up. His face was a moon of wonderment. “You’re a made old man!” he whispered. “Gold, all gold!”

  “This is fairy gold,” declared the shepherd solemnly; and, while his son went off to bury whatever the bear had left of the gentleman, he set about carrying his wonderful gifts back to his cottage, leaving his lost sheep to find for themselves. “ ’Tis a lucky day, boy,” he puffed, dividing his labours between the fairy gold and the fairy babe, “and we’ll do good deeds on’t!”

  All this was in a wintertime, long, long ago; but now it was a summer’s day in Bohemia, and two elderly gentlemen were talking together in th
e royal palace. They had been friends for sixteen years; and though their backs were not as straight as they once had been, nor their beards as crisp and black, a kindly eye would still have known them for Camillo and King Polixenes.

  Their talk was of Prince Florizel, Polixenes’ son, who had been absent from the court for many days. It was rumoured that he spent his time at the house of a humble shepherd who, sixteen years before, had become mysteriously rich. But it was not the shepherd’s gold that drew the Prince: the old man had another treasure, richer by far. He had a daughter, the fame of whose beauty had spread far beyond the humble cottage where she dwelt.

  Polixenes was troubled. Both as a father and a king, he must go and see for himself how matters stood between his son and the lowly maid. He begged Camillo to accompany him. Camillo sighed. He longed to return to Sicilia and to his old master, who, from all accounts, had become a most gentle and saintly king. But he could not refuse his friend. “My best Camillo!” cried Polixenes gratefully. “We must disguise ourselves!”

  There was a song in the air. Along the lane it floated, like a melodious breeze:

  “When the daffodils begin to peer,

  With a heigh, the doxy over the dale—”

  The singer was a merry fellow, with a skip in his step and a roving twinkle in his eye. His clothes were ragged and poor, but he wore them with an air; indeed, in places, he seemed to be wearing more air than clothes. He had once been a courtier who had fallen, like a rotten apple, on hard times. But he had bounced. A man must live, so he had become, as he modestly put it, “a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.” His name, like the famous thief of old, was Autolycus . . .

  Suddenly his song died on his lips. Hastily he skipped out of the lane and crouched down in the ditch. His eyes were sharp as pins: someone was coming—

  The shepherd’s son marched along on his way to market. Sixteen years had filled out every part of him, except for his head. He had been a little fool; now he was a big one. “Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants,” he chanted, his nose in a list of good things his sister had given him to bring back for their sheep-shearing feast; “rice—what will this sister of mine do with rice?”

  But before he could unravel this mystery, an extraordinary thing happened. A poor ragged wretch rose up from the ditch and, staggering, fell at his feet! “O that ever I was born!” groaned the wretch. “O! help me, help me!” and, beating the ground with despairing hands, poured out a tale of such cruel beatings and heartless robbery that the shepherd’s son was overcome with pity.

  “Alack, poor soul!” he cried; “lend me thy hand; I’ll help thee!” and, bending down, he offered a sturdy arm.

  “Softly, good sir,” moaned the poor soul, “I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.”

  “Canst stand?” tenderly inquired the shepherd’s son, and tried to help him to his feet.

  “Softly, dear sir,” murmured Autolycus, and, with quick, darting fingers, emptied his helper’s pocket. “You ha’ done me a charitable office.”

  “Dost lack any money?”

  “No, good sweet sir!” protested Autolycus, quickly preventing the fool’s hand from discovering his loss. “Offer me no money, I pray you! That kills my heart!” and he explained that he had a kinsman nearby who would gladly supply all his needs.

  “Then fare thee well,” said the shepherd’s son, “I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing,” and off he went.

  Autolycus watched him go. “I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing too!” he murmured, and his nimble fingers itched at the prospect of fleecing all the shearers.

  The old shepherd stood at the gate of his cottage and contemplated, with beaming satisfaction, the holiday throng of lads and lasses who had come to his sheep-shearing feast to enjoy themselves. Time had dealt kindly with him, and prosperity had lent his weathered countenance an air of happy importance, which increased as he watched Perdita, the daughter he had come by so strangely, long ago. Every day she grew in grace and beauty, and now she stood, Queen of the Feast, and outshining the summer’s day!

  But she was neglecting her duty. Two new guests, old gentlemen with long white beards and hats pulled down to shelter their eyes, had arrived and were standing by. Where was the Queen of the Feast to bid them welcome and give them herbs and flowers? As always, she was with Doricles, the lad who seemed to have set up home in their cottage and in the lass’s heart.

  “Fie, daughter,” reproached the old shepherd, beckoning her to his side, “when my old wife lived, upon this day, she was both pander, butler, cook, both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all. You are retired, as if you were a feasted one and not the hostess of the meeting. Come on, and bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing!”

  She blushed, and curtsied to the strangers. “Reverend sirs,” she said, giving them posies from her basket, “for you, there’s rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savour all the winter long: grace and remembrance be to you both, and welcome to our shearing!”

  “Shepherdess,” said one, a trifle sadly, “well you fit our ages with flowers of winter.”

  At once she made amends: “Here’s flowers for you!” she cried, ransacking her basket. “Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, the marigold that goes to bed wi’ the sun, and with him rises weeping: these are flowers of middle summer, and I think they are given to men of middle age! Y’are very welcome!” Then, with another curtsey, off she went, hand in hand with her lad, to join in the dancing that had just begun.

  The strangers gazed after her. “This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward!” murmured the taller of the pair, admiringly; and the other agreed. “Good sooth, she is the queen of curds and cream!” and the old shepherd’s heart swelled with pleasure and pride in the lass the fairies had brought him.

  “Pray, good shepherd,” asked the tall one, “what fair swain is this which dances with your daughter?”

  “They call him Doricles,” replied the shepherd, pleased to hear the lad praised, for he and Perdita made a handsome pair. “He says he loves my daughter; I think so too; and to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose who loves another best!”

  The tall one sighed, as if he wished he was young again, and continued to gaze at the dancers from under his low-brimmed hat.

  Presently the dancing ended and a merry voice came swinging along:

  “Will you buy any tape,

  Or lace for your cape,

  My dainty duck, my dear-a?”

  A pedlar had come, a ragged fellow with a bright red beard and pin-bright eyes. He was hung all over with baskets and boxes, brimming over with everything a lass’s heart could wish for.

  “Any silk, any thread,

  Any toys for your head,

  Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a?”

  In a moment, all the lads and lasses were after him, all save Perdita and her Doricles. It was plain they saw more treasures in each other than in the pedlar’s wares. Nonetheless, the strangers were surprised. “When I was young,” said the tall one to Doricles, who was still flushed and breathless from dancing, “I was wont to load my she with knacks. I would have ransacked the pedlar’s silken treasury, and have poured it to her acceptance; you have let him go.”

  “Old sir,” answered the lad, with his arm round Perdita’s waist, “I know she prizes not such trifles as these are. The gifts she looks from me are packed and locked up in my heart, which I have given already . . .”

  “This shows a sound affection,” observed the shorter of the strangers; and the old shepherd agreed. But love should not be all on one side.

  “Say you the like to him?” he asked his daughter.

  She looked up into her lad’s eyes. “I cannot speak so well,” she said gravely, “nothing so well; no, nor mean better; by th’ pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out the purity of his.”

  “Take hands; a bargain!” cried the shepherd; “and, friends unknown, you shall be witness to’t: I give my daughter
to him, and will make her portion equal his!”

  “O, that must be i’ th’ virtue of your daughter!” declared the lad, gallantly. “One being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet! But come on, contract us ’fore these witnesses!”

  “Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you. Have you a father?” It was the tall stranger who spoke. His voice trembled.

  “I have; but what of him?”

  “Knows he of this?”

  “He neither does, nor shall,” said the lad, impatiently.

  “Methinks a father,” said the stranger, “is at the nuptial of his son a guest that best becomes the table. Let him know it.”

  “Let him, my son,” urged the shepherd. “He shall not need to grieve at knowing of thy choice.”

  But the lad was determined that his father should know nothing of his betrothal. He took Perdita by the hand and together they knelt before the old shepherd. “Mark our contract!” he begged.

  Then a terrible thing happened. The tall stranger shouted out, in a voice of thunder, “Mark your divorce, young sir!” He tore off his hat, and clawed away his false white beard. It was the King!

  He was mad with rage; for he was the very father whose rights had just been so impudently denied! Doricles was not Doricles. He was Prince Florizel, the King’s son! And worse! It was plain that Perdita had known all along! She had deceived her father, and ruined him!

  Furiously, the King cursed the old shepherd and his daughter for daring to ensnare the Prince. Then, swearing he’d cast off his son for ever if he dared lay eyes on his low-born lass again, he stormed away, shouting for the Prince to follow.

  To do the lad justice, he stayed by his lass; and to do the lass justice, she bore herself bravely. “I was not much afeared,” she said, “for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly the self-same sun that shines upon his court, hides not his visage from our cottage, but looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone?” she begged the Prince. “I told you what would come of this. This dream of mine, being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther, but milk my ewes and weep.”