by Charles
Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the duke for justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver up her lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her real husband and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came before the duke to demand justice, complaining that his wife had confined him on a false charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner he had broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of his keepers, Adriana was strangely surprised to see her husband, when she thought he had been within the convent.
Aegeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him to go in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure that his dear son would readily pay the money demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke to Antipholus in words of fatherly affection, with joyful hope that he should now be released. But to the utter astonishment of Aegeon, his son denied all knowledge of him, as well he might, for this Antipholus had never seen his father since they were separated in the storm in his infancy; but while the poor old Aegeon was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowledge him, thinking surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had so strangely altered him that his son did not know him, or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery; in the midst of this perplexity, the lady abbess and the other Antipholus and Dromio came out and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios standing before her.
And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, were clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholuses and the two Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of these seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story Aegeon had told him in the morning; and he said, these men must be the two sons of Aegeon and their twin slaves.
But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of Aegeon; and the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence of death, before the setting sun went down was brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself known to be the long-lost wife of Aegeon, and the fond mother of the two Antipholuses.
When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholus and Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct, she was at length made lady abbess of this convent, and in discharging the rites of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had unknowingly protected her own son.
Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these long separated parents and their children made them for a while forget that Aegeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they were become a little calm, Antipholus of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom money for his father’s life; but the duke freely pardoned Aegeon, and would not take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and her newly found husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes. And the two Dromios’ humble joy must not be forgotten; they had their congratulations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) show so handsome in his brother.
Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of her husband.
Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his brother’s wife; and the good old Aegeon, with his wife and sons, lived at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these perplexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, but that sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blunders would happen, and the one Antipholus, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for the other, making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors.
Measure for Measure
In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild and gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with impunity; and there was in particular one law, the existence of which was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man to the punishment of death, who should live with a woman that was not his wife; and this law, through the lenity of the duke, being utterly disregarded, the holy institution of marriage became neglected, and complaints were every day made to the duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that their daughters had been seduced from their protection, and were living as the companions of single men.
The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among his subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from the indulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict severity requisite to check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved him) consider him as a tyrant; therefore he determined to absent himself a while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of his power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put in effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own person.
Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for his strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to undertake this important change; and when the duke imparted his design to lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said: ‘If any man in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, it is lord Angelo.’ And now the duke departed from Vienna under pretence of making a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the lord deputy in his absence; but the duke’s absence was only a feigned one, for he privately returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent to watch unseen the conduct of the saintly seeming Angelo.
It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady from her parents; and for this offence, by command of the new lord deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, and by virtue of the old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great interest was made for the pardon of young Claudio, and the good old lord Escalus himself interceded for him. ‘Alas,’ said he, ‘this gentleman whom I would save had an honourable father, for whose sake I pray you pardon the young man’s transgression.’ But Angelo replied: ‘We must not make a scare-crow of the law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it harmless, makes it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must die.’
Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and Claudio said to him: ‘I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent of Saint Clare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore her that she make friends with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. I have great hopes in that; for she can discourse with prosperous art, and well she can persuade; besides, there is a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow, such as moves men.’
Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent, after passing through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house, said: ‘Peace be in this place!’ ‘Who is it that speaks?’ said Isabel. ‘It is a man’s voice,’ replied the nun: ‘Gentle Isabel, go to him, and learn his business; you may, I may not. When you have taken the veil, you must not speak with men but in the presence of the prioress; then if you speak you must not show your face, or if you show your face, you must not speak.’ ‘And have you nuns no further privileges?’ said Isabel. ‘Are not these large enough?’ replied the nun. ‘Yes, truly,’ said Isabel: ‘I speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.’ Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said: ‘He calls again. I pray you answer him.’ Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in answer to his salutation, said: ‘Peace and Prosperity! Who is it that calls?’ Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said: ‘Hail, virgin, if such you be, as the roses on your cheeks proclaim you are no less! can you
bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother Claudio?’ ‘Why her unhappy brother?’ said Isabel, ‘let me ask! for I am that Isabel, and his sister.’ ‘Fair and gentle lady,’ he replied, ‘your brother kindly greets you by me; he is in prison.’ ‘Woe is me! for what?’ said Isabel. Lucio then told her, Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. ‘Ah,’ said she, ‘I fear it is my cousin Juliet.’ Juliet and Isabel were not related, but they called each other cousin in remembrance of their school days’ friendship; and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for him into this transgression. ‘She it is,’ replied Lucio. ‘Why then, let my brother marry Juliet,’ said Isabel. Lucio replied that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his offence; ‘Unless,’ said he, ‘you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business between you and your poor brother.’ ‘Alas!’ said Isabel, ‘what poor ability is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no power to move Angelo.’ ‘Our doubts are traitors,’ said Lucio, ‘and make us lose the good we might often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods.’ ‘I will see what I can do,’ said Isabel: ‘I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother: soon at night I will send him word of my success.’
Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees before Angelo, saying: ‘I am a woeful suitor to your honour, if it will please your honour to hear me.’ ‘Well, what is your suit?’ said Angelo. She then made her petition in the most moving terms for her brother’s life. But Angelo said: ‘Maiden, there is no remedy; your brother is sentenced, and he must die.’ ‘O just, but severe law,’ said Isabel: ‘I had a brother then – Heaven keep your honour!’ and she was about to depart. But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said: ‘Give it not over so; return to him again, entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon his gown. You are too cold; if you should need a pin, you could not with a more tame tongue desire it.’ Then again Isabel on her knees implored for mercy. ‘He is sentenced,’ said Angelo: ‘it is too late.’ ‘Too late!’ said Isabel: ‘Why, no: I that do speak a word may call it back again. Believe this, my lord, no ceremony that to great ones belongs, not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe, becomes them with one half so good a grace as mercy does.’ ‘Pray you begone,’ said Angelo. But still Isabel entreated; and she said: ‘If my brother had been as you, and you as he, you might have slipped like him, but he, like you, would not have been so stern. I would to heaven I had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then be thus? No, I would tell you what it were to be a judge, and what a prisoner.’ ‘Be content, fair maid!’ said Angelo: ‘it is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother, or my son, it should be thus with him. He must die to-morrow.’ ‘To-morrow?’ said Isabel; ‘Oh, that is sudden: spare him, spare him; he is not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens we kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than we minister to our gross selves? Good, good, my lord, bethink you, none have died for my brother’s offence, though many have committed it. So you would be the first that gives this sentence, and he the first that suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock there, and ask your heart what it does know that is like my brother’s fault; if it confess a natural guiltiness such as his is, let it not sound a thought against my brother’s life!’ Her last words more moved Angelo than all she had before said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonourable love, such as Claudio’s crime had been; and the conflict in his mind made him to turn away from Isabel; but she called him back, saying: ‘Gentle my lord, turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my lord, turn back!’ ‘How, bribe me!’ said Angelo, astonished that she should think of offering him a bribe. ‘Ay,’ said Isabel, ‘with such gifts that Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden treasures, or those glittering stones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven before sunrise – prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids whose minds are dedicated to nothing temporal.’ ‘Well, come to me to-morrow,’ said Angelo. And for this short respite of her brother’s life, and for this permission that she might be heard again, she left him with the joyful hope that she should at last prevail over his stern nature: and as she went away she said: ‘Heaven keep your honour safe! Heaven save your honour!’ Which when Angelo heard, he said within his heart: ‘Amen, I would be saved from thee and from thy virtues’: and then, affrighted at his own evil thoughts, he said: ‘What is this? What is this? Do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to catch a saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never could an immodest woman once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman subdues me quite. Even till now, when men were fond, I smiled and wondered at them.’
In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night than the prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison Claudio was visited by the good duke, who, in his friar’s habit, taught the young man the way to heaven, preaching to him the words of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of irresolute guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts prevailed; and he who had so lately started at the offer of a bribe, resolved to tempt this maiden with so high a bribe, as she might not be able to resist, even with the precious gift of her dear brother’s life.
When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admitted alone to his presence: and being there, he said to her, if she would yield to him her virgin honour and transgress even as Juliet had done with Claudio, he would give her her brother’s life; ‘For,’ said he, ‘I love you, Isabel.’ ‘My brother,’ said Isabel, ‘did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it.’ ‘But,’ said Angelo, ‘Claudio shall not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father’s house at night to come to Claudio.’ Isabel, in amazement at his words, that he should tempt her to the same fault for which he passed sentence upon her brother, said: ‘I would do as much for my poor brother as for myself; that is, were I under sentence of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my death as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere I would yield myself up to this shame.’ And then she told him, she hoped he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he said: ‘Believe me, on my honour, my words express my purpose.’ Isabel, angered to the heart to hear him use the word Honour to express such dishonourable purposes, said: ‘Ha! little honour to be much believed; and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for it! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world aloud what man thou art!’ ‘Who will believe you, Isabel?’ said Angelo; ‘my unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, my false will overweigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow.’
‘To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?’ said Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison where her brother was confined. When she arrived there, her brother was in pious conversation with the duke, who in his friar’s habit had also visited Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse confessed that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that she willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations.
As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said: ‘Peace be here, grace, and good company!’ ‘Who is there?’ said the disguised du
ke; ‘come in; the wish deserves a welcome.’ ‘My business is a word or two with Claudio,’ said Isabel. Then the duke left them together, and desired the provost, who had the charge of the prisoners, to place him where he might overhear their conversation.
‘Now, sister, what is the comfort?’ said Claudio. Isabel told him he must prepare for death on the morrow. ‘Is there no remedy?’ said Claudio. ‘Yes, brother,’ replied Isabel, ‘there is, but such a one, as if you consented to it would strip your honour from you, and leave you naked.’ ‘Let me know the point,’ said Claudio. ‘O, I do fear you, Claudio!’ replied his sister; ‘and I quake, lest you should wish to live, and more respect the trifling term of six or seven winters added to your life, than your perpetual honour! Do you dare to die? The sense of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread upon, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies.’ ‘Why do you give me this shame?’ said Claudio. ‘Think you I can fetch a resolution from flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in my arms.’ ‘There spoke my brother,’ said Isabel; ‘there my father’s grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must die; yet would you think it, Claudio! this outward sainted deputy, if I would yield to him my virgin honour, would grant your life. O, were it but my life, I would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly as a pin!’ ‘Thanks, dear Isabel,’ said Claudio. ‘Be ready to die to-morrow,’ said Isabel. ‘Death is a fearful thing,’ said Claudio. ‘And shamed life a hateful,’ replied his sister. But the thoughts of death now overcame the constancy of Claudio’s temper, and terrors, such as the guilty only at their deaths do know, assailing him, he cried out: ‘Sweet sister, let me live! The sin you do to save a brother’s life, nature dispenses with the deed so far, that it becomes a virtue.’ ‘O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!’ said Isabel; ‘would you preserve your life by your sister’s shame? O fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, you had in you such a mind of honour, that had you twenty heads to render up on twenty blocks, you would have yielded them up all, before your sister should stoop to such dishonour.’ ‘Nay, hear me, Isabel!’ said Claudio. But what he would have said in defence of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour of his virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance of the duke; who said: ‘Claudio, I have overheard what has passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; what he said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. She having the truth of honour in her, has given him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. There is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass your hours in prayer, and make ready for death.’ Then Claudio repented of his weakness, and said: ‘Let me ask my sister’s pardon! I am so out of love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it.’ And Claudio retired, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.
