by E. Nesbit
In the meantime, Orlando’s brother, Oliver, having sought to take his life, Orlando also wandered into the forest, and there met with the rightful Duke, and being kindly received, stayed with him. Now, Orlando could think of nothing but Rosalind, and he went about the forest, carving her name on trees, and writing love sonnets and hanging them on the bushes, and there Rosalind and Celia found them. One day Orlando met them, but he did not know Rosalind in her boy’s clothes, though he liked the pretty shepherd youth, because he fancied a likeness in him to her he loved.
“There is a foolish lover,” said Rosalind, “who haunts these woods and hangs sonnets on the trees. If I could find him, I would soon cure him of his folly.”
Orlando confessed that he was this foolish lover, and Rosalind said—“If you will come and see me every day, I will pretend to be Rosalind, and you shall come and court me, as you would if I were really your lady; and I will take her part, and be wayward and contrary, as is the way of women, till I make you ashamed of your folly in loving her.”
And so every day he went to her house, and took a pleasure in saying to her all the pretty things he would have said to Rosalind; and she had the fine and secret joy of knowing that all his love-words came to the right ears. Thus many days passed pleasantly away.
Rosalind met the Duke one day, and the Duke asked her what family “he came from.” And Rosalind, forgetting that she was dressed as a peasant boy, answered that she came of as good parentage as the Duke did, which made him smile.
One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man asleep on the ground, and a large serpent had would itself round his neck. Orlando came nearer, and the serpent glided away. Then he saw that there was a lioness crouching near, waiting for the man who was asleep, to wake: for they say that lions will not prey on anything that is dead or sleeping. Then Orlando looked at the man, and saw that it was his wicked brother, Oliver, who had tried to take his life. At first he thought to leave him to his fate, but the faith and honor of a gentleman withheld him from this wickedness. He fought with the lioness and killed her, and saved his brother’s life.
While Orlando was fighting the lioness, Oliver woke to see his brother, whom he had treated so badly, saving him from a wild beast at the risk of his own life. This made him repent of his wickedness, and he begged Orlando’s pardon with many tears, and from thenceforth they were dear brothers. The lioness had wounded Orlando’s arm so much, that he could not go on to see the shepherd, so he sent his brother to ask Ganymede (“whom I do call my Rosalind,” he added) to come to him.
Oliver went and told the whole story to Ganymede and Aliena, and Aliena was so charmed with his manly way of confessing his faults, that she fell in love with him at once. But when Ganymede heard of the danger Orlando had been in, she fainted; and when she came to herself, said truly enough, “I should have been a woman by right.” Oliver went back to his brother and told him all this, saying, “I love Aliena so well, that I will give up my estates to you and marry her, and live here as a shepherd.”
“Let your wedding be to-morrow,” said Orlando, “and I will ask the Duke and his friends. Go to the shepherdess—she is alone, for here comes her brother.”
And sure enough Ganymede was coming through the wood towards them. When Orlando told Ganymede how his brother was to be married on the morrow, he added: “Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.”
Then answered Rosalind, still in Ganymede’s dress and speaking with his voice—“If you do love Rosalind so near the heart, then when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her. I will set her before your eyes, human as she is, and without any danger.”
“Do you mean it?” cried Orlando.
“By my life I do,” answered Rosalind. “Therefore, put on your best array and bid your friends to come, for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall,—and to Rosalind, if you will.”
Now the next day the Duke and his followers, and Orlando, and Oliver, and Aliena, were all gathered together for the wedding.
“Do you believe, Orlando,” said the Duke, “that the boy can do all that he has promised?”
“I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not,” said Orlando.
Then Ganymede came in and said to the Duke, “If I bring in your daughter Rosalind, will you give her to Orlando here?”
“That I would,” said the Duke, “if I had all kingdoms to give with her.”
“And you say you will have her when I bring her?” she said to Orlando.
“That would I,” he answered, “were I king of all kingdoms.”
Then Rosalind and Celia went out, and Rosalind put on her pretty woman’s clothes again, and after a while came back.
She turned to her father—“I give myself to you, for I am yours.”
“If there be truth in sight,” he said, “you are my daughter.”
Then she said to Orlando, “I give myself to you, for I am yours.”
“If there be truth in sight,” he said, “you are my Rosalind.”
“I will have no father if you be not he,” she said to the Duke, and to Orlando, “I will have no husband if you be not he.”
So Orlando and Rosalind were married, and Oliver and Celia, and they lived happy ever after, returning with the Duke to the dukedom. For Frederick had been shown by a holy hermit the wickedness of his ways, and so gave back the dukedom of his brother, and himself went into a monastery to pray for forgiveness.
The wedding was a merry one, in the mossy glades of the forest, where the green leaves danced in the sun, and the birds sang their sweetest wedding hymns for the new-married folk. A shepherd and shepherdess who had been friends with Rosalind, when she was herself disguised as a shepherd, were married on the same day, and all with such pretty feastings and merry makings as could be nowhere within four walls, but only in the beautiful greenwood.
This is one of the songs which Orlando made about his Rosalind—
From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
PERICLES
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 counsellor, 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 in thus leaving his kingdom was soon made clear.
Hardly had he sailed on his voyage, when Lord Thaliard 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 and split to pieces, while of all on board only Pericles was saved, and he in sorry plight indeed. 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 bade 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 moreo’er, puddings and flapjacks, and thou shalt be welcome.”
Pericles, touched by their kindness, took heart of grace, and the love of life came back to him. They told him that on the morrow many princes and knights were going to the King’s Court, there to joust and tourney for the love of his daughter, the beautiful Princess Thaisa.
“
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. The device on his shield was a withered branch that was only green on the top, and the motto “In hac spe vivo” (In this hope I live).
“A pretty moral,” said Simonides to his daughter. “From the dejected state wherein he is, he hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish.”
In the tournament none bore himself so well as Pericles, and he won the wreath of 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 Thaisa 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, when she told him she would marry the stranger knight or die.
Thus Fortune was kind and gracious to Pericles, and he 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 tourney 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 Helicanus was loyal to his sovereign, and for all their urging 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 messages 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 Thaisa 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 Thaisa—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.
Pericles, though he despised their superstitious fears, was obliged to yield to them. So Thaisa 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 e’er this coffin drive a-land)
I, King Pericles, have lost
This Queen worth 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 require 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 Cerimon. He at once ordered it to be opened, and when he saw what it held, and how lovely Thaisa 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 into the sea as dead, came back to life. But feeling sure that she would never see her husband again, Thaisa 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, where his people received him with hearty welcome.
Now Dionyza, 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, Dionyza 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 Mitylene, where they sold her as a slave. Yet such were her goodness, her grace, and her beauty, that she soon became honored there, and Lysimachus, 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 Dionyza 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, his only joy in life, 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, curtained from the sight of all, and for three months he spoke word to none.
At last it chanced that his ship came into the port of Mitylene, and Lysimachus, the Governor, went on board to enquire whence the vessel came. When he heard the story of Pericles’ 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 if both were justly weighed, and that, though she was a slave, she came from ancestors that stood equivalent with 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 Dionyza. 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 Heavens, bless my girl!”
Then 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 sea didst lose thy wife.”
Pericles obeyed the goddess and told his tale before her altar. Hardly had he made an end, when the chief priestess, 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 Thaisa!” exclaimed the King in wonder.
“That Thaisa am I,” she said, and looking at her, he saw that she spoke the very truth, and he called to her—
“O come, be buried a second time in these arms!”
Thus Pericles and Thaisa, 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, not onl
y in being restored to her dear parents; for she married Lysimachus, and became a princess in the land where she had been sold as a slave.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
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 favor when last we met, that I feel sure I should win her away from all 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 Jew and 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. For 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 market place, and wherever he can, he denounces the rate of interest I charge, and—worse than that—he lends out money freely.”
