Chapter XI: Part 11

“I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel.”

“Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morning; or Tuesday noon, or night; or Wednesday morning. I prithee, name the time, but let it not exceed three days,” coaxed Desdemona with playful persistency. And she went on pleading for Cassio with such winning sweetness that Othello could resist no longer.

“Prithee, no more; let him come when he will. I can deny thee nothing,” he exclaimed; and when Desdemona withdrew, happy at the promise she had extorted, he cried, with a sudden return to all his trust and affection, “Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! And when I love thee not, chaos is come again.”

All might now have been well if Iago had not been at hand to pour his poison into Othello’s ear. With diabolical cunning--a hint suggested here, a half-retracted phrase there, an affectation of honesty that seemed always checking itself for fear of speaking too openly--Iago contrived to fix the basest suspicions on Cassio. With subtle craft he made it appear as though everything he said were reluctantly dragged from him, and, as on the night before, while making a great parade of trying to shield Cassio, he succeeded in blackening him with unfounded calumny.

Not content with this, he next, in a serpent-like manner, began to insinuate suspicions against Desdemona, declaring that he would not on any account let Othello know what was in his thought, and beseeching him in the most meaning tone to beware of jealousy. Those who were jealous, he said, lived a life of torture--doating, yet doubting; mistrusting, yet loving.

“Good Heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend me from jealousy!” he ended fervently.

“Why--why is this?” demanded Othello, firing up, just as Iago had hoped he would do. “Do you think I would lead a life of jealousy, to follow still the changes of the moon with fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt is once to be resolved.... No, Iago; I’ll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; and on the proof there is no more but this--away at once with love, and--_jealousy_.”

Iago remarked he was glad of that, for now he could show the love and duty he bore Othello more frankly. Then he advised Othello to watch his wife closely, and note her behaviour with Cassio, afterwards pretending to draw back, and urging Othello to go no further into the matter, but to leave it to time. So, having succeeded in making Othello thoroughly unhappy, Iago took his leave.

“This fellow’s of exceeding honesty, and knows all qualities of human dealings most skilfully,” thought the poor deceived Othello; and then, as Desdemona herself came in sight, innocence and candour enthroned on her brow, for a moment all mistrust melted. “If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I’ll not believe it.”

Desdemona had come to remind her husband that dinner was served, and that the islanders invited as guests were waiting. Othello, who had been greatly upset by his conversation with Iago, replied in such a faint voice that Desdemona asked if he were ill.

“I have a pain upon my forehead here,” answered Othello.

“That’s with watching. Let me but bind it hard; within this hour it will be well,” said Desdemona, holding out a handkerchief beautifully embroidered with strawberries.

“Your napkin is too little,” said Othello, putting the handkerchief from him, where it dropped, unheeded, to the ground. “Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you.”

“I am very sorry that you are not well,” said Desdemona with the simple wistfulness of a child.

When they had gone, the handkerchief was picked up by Emilia, wife of Iago, who was very glad to find it, for her husband had often begged her to steal it for him. But Desdemona so loved the token--for it was the first remembrance Othello had given her, and he had begged her never to part with it--that she always kept it carefully about her, to kiss and talk to.

“I’ll have the work taken out, and give it to Iago,” said Emilia to herself. “What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I; I only do it to please his whim.”

But Emilia was already half repenting of what she had done, before she gave the handkerchief to Iago, and she might possibly have refused to part with it at all if Iago had not put an end to the matter by cunningly snatching it from her with one hand, while he pretended to caress her with the other. Directly it was safely in his possession he dropped the amiable tone he had assumed, and harshly ordered away his wife.

Iago was delighted to have got this handkerchief, for he meant to make a wicked use of it. He was going to lose it in Cassio’s lodgings, and let the young lieutenant find it, when he would take care that Othello should think it was a present from Desdemona. Iago knew that “Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ,” and seeing Othello approach, he marked with fiendish satisfaction the cloud of gloom and trouble that rested on his brow.

“Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou owned yesterday,” he said to himself maliciously.

Othello’s peace of mind was, indeed, gone for ever, and all joy and interest in life were over.

“Oh, now, for ever, farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars that make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.”

“Is it possible, my lord?” murmured Iago, with feigned sympathy.

Othello turned on him with sudden fury, and gripped him by the throat.

“Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue! Be sure of it!” he cried, shaking him violently.

Iago pretended to be deeply aggrieved by Othello’s distrust, and said if necessary he could bring proofs of what he said.

“Tell me but this,” he went on: “have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief, spotted with strawberries, in your wife’s hand?”

“I gave her such a one; it was my first gift.”

Iago said he did not know about that, but such a handkerchief he had seen in Cassio’s possession that very day.

Naturally, after that, Othello could not fail to believe that Desdemona had given away his cherished gift to Cassio. He took the first opportunity to ask her for it, when, of course, she was unable to produce it. She had already been greatly distressed at the loss of her treasure, and now was so alarmed by the violent way in which Othello kept demanding it, that she dared not own it was lost, and only said she had it not about her at that moment.

“That is a fault,” said Othello, frowning darkly. “That handkerchief was given to my mother by an Egyptian. She was a charmer, and could almost read the thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and her husband would love her; but if she lost it, or made a gift of it, her husband would get to loathe her. She, dying, gave it me, and bade me, when my fate would have me marry, to give it to my wife. I did so; and take heed of it! Hold it most precious; to lose it or give it away were such calamity as nothing else could match.”

“Is it possible?” faltered Desdemona.

“’Tis true; there’s magic in the web of it: a sibyl, who numbered in the world two hundred years, sewed the work; the worms were hallowed that spun the silk, and it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful conserved of maidens’ hearts.”

“Indeed! Is it true?” said Desdemona, getting more and more alarmed.

“Most true. Therefore look to it well,” said Othello in a threatening manner.

Desdemona still persisted that the handkerchief was not lost, and remembering her promise to Cassio, she most unwisely chose this ill-starred moment again to urge her suit. Her innocent good-nature was the final stroke to Othello’s jealous wrath, and harshly repeating, “The handkerchief! the handkerchief!” he strode away in ungovernable fury.

Worked up to madness by the diabolical arts of Iago, he saw in his young wife’s apparent simplicity and candour nothing but the most clever deceit, and he determined to punish her supposed insincerity in the most terrible manner.

No Way but This

Though Othello had come to the terrible conclusion that Desdemona must die, he could not prevent his thoughts dwelling again and again on all the charm and loveliness of his dear young wife. This did not suit Iago’s purpose, for he was afraid lest Othello should relent before his revenge was accomplished. So he did his utmost in every way to incite Othello still more against Desdemona. He cunningly reminded him of Brabantio’s parting words, and said if Desdemona had deceived her father in concealing her affection for Othello, why should she not equally deceive her husband in concealing her affection for someone else?

“She shall not live--no, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand,” said Othello. Then, “O, the world hath not a sweeter creature!”

“Nay, that’s not your way,” said Iago, ill-pleased.

“I do but say what she is,” returned Othello. “So delicate with her needle; an admirable musician--O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear; of so high and plenteous wit and invention----”

“She’s the worse for all this,” said Iago.

“O, a thousand, thousand times,” agreed Othello; then he added wistfully: “And, then, of so gentle a condition!”

“Ay, too gentle,” sneered Iago.

“Nay, that’s certain;--but, yet, the pity of it, Iago! O, Iago, the pity of it, Iago!”

But one might better have appealed for compassion to a tiger in sight of his prey. Iago knew nothing of pity. He had only one aim in view--to gratify his revenge. If Othello would kill Desdemona, he said, he would undertake Cassio.

Emilia, Iago’s wife, was a sharp-tongued, outspoken woman, devoted to her young mistress, and when she saw how jealous and violent Othello was becoming, she did not scruple to tell him plainly that he was utterly wrong in his distrust. But Othello, urged on by Iago’s cunning, was now past all reason. By this time he was firmly convinced that Desdemona’s simple sweetness of manner was nothing but the most skilful hypocrisy, and that it was his duty to put her out of the world, so that she should betray no more people.

When he spoke to his wife that day after his interview with Iago, his words were so strange and menacing that Desdemona was quite frightened.

“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?” she cried piteously. “I understand a fury in your words, but not the words.”

Othello answered with a torrent of angry accusations, which utterly bewildered Desdemona, and then he abruptly left her, while Emilia vainly tried to soothe and comfort her. This good woman was not slow to express her indignation at Othello’s shameful behaviour, and loudly announced her opinion that he was being deceived by “some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow!”

“Oh, heaven, that thou would’st make such people known, and put in every honest hand a whip to lash the rascals naked through the world, even from the east to the west!” she cried, with flashing eyes.

This was not very pleasant hearing for Iago, who was standing by, and he harshly told Emilia she was a fool, and bade her be silent. Then, when Desdemona appealed to him, asking what she should do to win her lord again, Iago pretended to think it was only a little ill-temper on Othello’s part, that business of the State had offended him, and consequently he was out of humour with Desdemona.

There was some colour for this suggestion, for a special commission had just arrived from Venice, commanding Othello to return home, and deputing Cassio as Governor of Cyprus in his place.

Iago saw that, if he wanted to dispose of Cassio, there was no time to be lost, for Iago himself would be obliged to leave the island in Othello’s suite. He therefore contrived to incite his feeble-minded tool Roderigo to set upon Cassio in the dark that very night and murder him. The attempt, however, was not successful. Roderigo only managed to wound Cassio, and was himself badly injured in return. Some passers-by--the messengers from Venice--hearing groans in the street, stopped to give help, but it was too dark to distinguish the sufferers. The next person to arrive on the scene was Iago himself, with a light, and coming across the wounded Roderigo, and fearing he would betray his share in the plot, he treacherously stabbed him to death. Cassio was then carefully conveyed away for his wounds to be dressed.

* * * * *

That night, when Desdemona was preparing for bed, a strange melancholy seemed to take possession of her. Emilia, who was in attendance, tried to divert her mind by getting her to join in a little idle talk, but Desdemona’s thoughts were running on sad themes.

“My mother had a maid called Barbara,” she said musingly. “She was in love, and he she loved proved mad, and did forsake her. She had a song of ‘willow’: an old thing it was, but it expressed her fortune, and she died singing it; that song to-night will not go from my mind.”

And presently, as Emilia helped her to disrobe, Desdemona began singing in a sweet, plaintive key:

“The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow!
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones;--
Sing willow, willow, willow.

“Sing all a green willow must be my garland;
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve.

“Nay, that’s not next. Hark! Who is it that knocks?”

“It’s the wind,” said Emilia.

Desdemona listened for a moment, then went on with her song.

“I called my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow;”

Desdemona’s voice faltered and stopped. Emilia’s duties were done, and, bidding her good-night, Desdemona let her depart, and presently closed her sorrowful eyes in sleep.

Now had come the moment that Othello had chosen for his dark deed. As he drew near and saw his beautiful young wife lying in all the calm repose of innocent slumber, for an instant his soul melted with pity and love, and, bending over her, he kissed her tenderly. But once more he hardened his heart by thinking of the cause that had led him to decide on such an act, and a fresh wave of jealous fury suddenly taking possession of him, he seized the pillows, and held them over Desdemona until life seemed extinct.

There came a furious knocking at the door. Emilia’s voice was heard outside, demanding admittance. Othello paused to consider.

“What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O, heavy hour!”

And Othello with a heavy groan hid his face in his hands.

Again came the knocking.

“I do beseech you that I may speak with you, O good my lord.”

Othello drew the curtains of the bed, and unlocked the door. Emilia, in great excitement, had come to bring the news of Roderigo’s death. As she was speaking, a strange sort of moan caught her attention. She knew her lady’s voice, and, rushing to the bed, tore aside the curtains.

“Help! help, ho! Help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!”

“A guiltless death I die,” murmured Desdemona.

“O, who hath done this deed?”

“Nobody; I myself. Farewell! Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!” And with a little sigh the gentle spirit passed away.

Othello immediately declared that Desdemona had spoken falsely; it was he who had killed her. Emilia turned on him with bitterest rage and contempt, whereupon he began to explain his reasons for what he had done, saying that it was Iago who had revealed everything to him. Emilia could scarcely believe such a thing. She shouted lustily to rouse the alarm, and when, among others, Iago himself hurried in, she taxed him with what Othello had said.

“I told him what I thought, and told no more than what he found himself was apt and true,” said Iago, brazenly.

“You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; upon my soul a lie, a wicked lie,” cried the distracted Emilia, and it was vain for Iago to try to silence his wife; before everyone she proclaimed him for the villain he was.

Alas, poor Othello, he began to see he had been tricked. But one point he still clung to--the handkerchief. Desdemona had certainly given away his cherished gift to Cassio.

“O, thou dull Moor!” cried Emilia. “The handkerchief thou speakest of, I found by chance and gave my husband, for often with solemn earnestness he begged of me to steal it.... She give it Cassio? No, alas! I found it, and I gave it to my husband.”

“Thou liest!” said Iago.

“By heaven, I do not--I do not, gentlemen!”

Furious against his wife, Iago had already tried once to stab her, but she had evaded him, and the other men in the room had protected her. He now made another attempt, which was more successful, and Emilia fell to the ground.

“O, lay me by my mistress’s side!” she begged.

And there, a few minutes later, she died, with Desdemona’s song of “Willow, willow, willow” on her lips, and protesting with her dying breath the innocence of her dear lady.

Now, indeed, the end had come for Othello, and all the anguish of unavailing remorse racked his soul.

“O, Desdemona, Desdemona! Dead!” his heart-broken wail rang through the room.

But it was all in vain now--vain his agony of love and sorrow; vain his pleading; vain his scalding tears; vain the bitter scorn with which he lashed his guilty spirit.

Cold, cold, pale and still, lay his beautiful young wife, her ears deaf to all voices of earth, and frozen on her silent lips the smile with which she had died.

Othello’s power and command were taken away, and Cassio ruled in Cyprus. But little cared Othello for this; all worldly ambition was over. As the gentlemen and officers were about to leave the chamber of death, taking Iago with them as their prisoner, Othello, with a dignified gesture, stayed them.

“Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the State some service, and they know it. No more of that. I pray you in your letters, when you shall relate these unlucky deeds, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then you must speak of one that loved not wisely but too well; of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand, like the base Indian, threw a pearl away richer than all his tribe.... Set you down this; and say besides, that in Aleppo once, where a malignant and a turbaned Turk beat a Venetian and traduced the State, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him--thus.” And at the last word Othello plunged a dagger into his heart.

With failing strength he dragged his steps to the bed, and fell on the dead body of Desdemona.

“I kissed thee ere I killed thee,” came his dying whisper. “No way but this: killing myself, to die upon a kiss.”

Cymbeline

A Princess of Britain

Daughter of Cymbeline, King of Britain, and his acknowledged heir, Imogen had fallen into deep disgrace at Court, and incurred her father’s severest displeasure. Cymbeline had lately married a second wife, a widow with one son, and it had occurred to both the King and Queen that it would be an excellent plan for Imogen to marry this youth. But Cloten was a clownish, ill-conditioned lout, and Imogen had chosen to prefer as her husband a poor but worthy gentleman. Posthumus Leonatus had been her playfellow from childhood, for his parents dying when he was an infant, he had been adopted by Cymbeline, who brought him up almost as his own son. Though the King, Queen, and Cloten himself were enraged at the choice Imogen had made, and the courtiers were forced to appear as if they followed the royal example, not one of the latter but was glad at heart at the thing he pretended to scowl at. For while Cloten was, as one gentleman expressed it, “a thing too bad for bad report,” Leonatus was a man endowed with such outward personal grace, and such inward nobility of soul, that it would be difficult to find his equal through all the world. Even as a boy, most praised, most loved, he had come unharmed through the trying ordeal of being a Court favourite, drinking in all branches of learning as lightly as others do air; and the proof of his excellence was evident in the fact that so peerless a lady as Imogen had chosen him for her husband.

But Cymbeline, untouched by his merits, was indignant that his daughter had married “a beggar” when she might have had the only son of the Queen. He pronounced the sentence of banishment on Leonatus, and commanded that Imogen should be imprisoned at Court, under the custody of her step-mother.

The new Queen was a crafty, designing woman, whose chief aim at present was to secure the future throne for her boorish son. Cymbeline, it is true, had had two sons of his own, but they were both stolen when they were little more than babies, the eldest being only three, and the youngest, two years old. From the day of their disappearance no trace of them had ever been found. The Princess Imogen was now the only child, and as Cymbeline’s heir, the Queen was anxious to entice her into a marriage with her son. When this attempt failed, the Queen did not scruple to plan other and darker means to accomplish her purpose. She had some knowledge of medicine, and took pleasure in making perfumes and preserves from all sorts of herbs and simples. Under pretence of perfecting her knowledge, she begged from a physician, Cornelius--who had helped her with her studies--some most poisonous compounds, which would produce a languishing death. She said she did not intend to use them on human beings, but only on animals, to try their power, and apply the antidote, in order to discover their respective virtues and effects.

The good physician did not at all approve of such cruel experiments. He knew the Queen’s evil nature, and would not trust one of such malice with drugs of so deadly a kind. While, therefore, pretending to comply with the Queen’s request, he really gave her some harmless compounds which would only stupefy and dull the senses for awhile, but do no ultimate injury.

It was well that Cornelius acted so discreetly, for the Queen lost no time in putting her wicked schemes into practice.

When Leonatus, on his banishment, departed for Rome, he left behind him a most faithful, devoted servant, called Pisanio, who was to watch over and attend his dear wife. The crafty Queen tried to win over Pisanio to her interests, promising him large bribes if he would influence Imogen on behalf of her son. But Pisanio’s steadfast fidelity was not to be shaken. Seeing that all her fawning friendliness was not likely to achieve her aim, the Queen tried another method to remove Leonatus from her path. While talking with Pisanio, she cunningly let fall, as if by accident, the little box of drugs which she had obtained from Cornelius. When Pisanio picked it up, and would have returned it to her, she insisted on his keeping it, as an earnest of future good which she intended to bestow on him, explaining that it was a wonderful cordial by which she had five times redeemed the King from death. The Queen hoped that Pisanio, wishing to do his master good, would give him some of this cordial, which would certainly prove fatal. After the death of Leonatus, if Imogen still persisted in refusing to marry Cloten, the Queen determined that she, too, should have a taste of the poison, when the way would be clear for Cloten to ascend the throne.

* * * * *

While these things were happening in Britain, Leonatus had reached Rome. Here, at the house of a friend, Philario, he happened to meet some acquaintances that he had known in younger days--one a Frenchman, and another an Italian called Iachimo. The Frenchman reminded him of a quarrel which they had had on the occasion of their former meeting, which, he said, was of a slight and trivial nature. But Leonatus, with his ripened judgment, would not admit that the cause of the quarrel was altogether slight.

“Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?” inquired Iachimo.

The Frenchman replied that a dispute had arisen as to which of the ladies, whom each loved in his own country, was to be most praised; and that Leonatus had asserted that his, in Britain, was the fairest, most virtuous, wise, and constant; and that her favour was less easily to be won than the rarest of the ladies in France.

“That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion is by this time worn out,” laughed Iachimo.

“She holds her virtue still, and I my mind,” returned Leonatus.

“You must not so far prefer her before our ladies of Italy,” said Iachimo, still in the same jesting way.

But Leonatus was in earnest, and, in spite of the good-natured bantering of the others, he persisted in extolling the charms and excellence of Imogen.

At their parting in Britain Imogen had given her husband as a remembrance a diamond ring, which had been her mother’s, and which she held very precious; and Leonatus, on his part, had clasped on her arm a bracelet.

Iachimo now said laughingly that if only he had the chance of a few minutes’ conversation with Imogen he would soon win her affection,--in fact, he was ready to wager the half of his estate against Leonatus’s ring that there was no lady in the world of whom he could not say the same.

Leonatus began to get annoyed, and Philario begged them to let the subject drop. But Iachimo would not give in. He now said he wished he had wagered his whole estate. He would lay ten thousand ducats against Leonatus’s ring that if he went to the Court of Britain he would bring back evidence that Imogen’s favour was by no means so hard to win as Leonatus imagined.

Leonatus, stung by Iachimo’s remarks, and longing to prove the falsity of his assertions, and to punish him for his impertinence, said he would accept the wager. But he would wager gold against Iachimo’s gold; the ring he held as dear as his finger--it was part of it.

Iachimo accused him of fearing to lose the wager, and said he was wise in declining to risk his ring, which so irritated Leonatus that he accepted the challenge.

“I dare you to this match; here’s my ring,” he exclaimed.

“I will not have this wager,” said Philario.

But both Leonatus and Iachimo declared it should go on, and proceeded to settle the conditions, and to have them lawfully recorded. Only Leonatus further determined that, if Iachimo succeeded in winning his wager owing to Imogen’s fault or weakness, Leonatus would cast off his wife utterly; she was not worth debate. If, on the other hand, Iachimo’s advances were repulsed with the contempt they deserved, Iachimo should answer with his sword for his impertinence.

To this Iachimo agreed, and without delay he started for Britain.

Arrived at the Court of Cymbeline, he was introduced to Imogen as the bearer of letters from Leonatus. She received him with charming frankness and cordiality, delighted to welcome one of whom her husband wrote as bestowing much kindness on him. In accordance with a plan Iachimo had thought out, he replied in answer to Imogen’s eager questions concerning Leonatus that he was quite well, exceedingly pleasant, and very merry and gamesome--in fact, he was called “the Briton reveller.”

Imogen was somewhat surprised and a little hurt to hear this, for at home Leonatus was, if anything, of a grave and melancholy disposition.

“_I_ never saw him sad,” protested Iachimo; and further he added, Leonatus always laughed loudly when one of his companions, a Frenchman, seemed sorrowful because he had left behind him in his own country a lady whom he loved. “Fancy a man sighing for the bondage of any woman!” Leonatus had said.

It pained Imogen to think that Leonatus cared so little about her, as Iachimo’s words implied; but when this smooth-tongued Italian gentleman went on to pity her for the way in which her husband seemed to have forgotten her, and counselled her to take revenge, she began to be on her guard.

“Revenge?” she said. “How should I be revenged? If this be true, how should I be revenged?”

Iachimo replied that if Leonatus cared so little about her as to be able to amuse himself happily with all the most riotous companions in Rome, why, then, let Imogen waste no longer any thought on him, but bestow her affection on one who was ready to be her devoted friend and servant. _He_--Iachimo--would never neglect her as Leonatus had done.

Imogen interrupted these silky speeches with indignant scorn, and ordered Iachimo to leave her presence instantly. “What ho, Pisanio!“ she cried, to summon her faithful attendant, for she would not listen to another word from this insulting stranger.

Then, with supple guile, Iachimo suddenly changed his tactics, and burst into the most glowing praise of Leonatus. He implored Imogen’s pardon, and declared that all he had said was quite false, and only to test her love. Leonatus was one of the best and truest of men--“he sits among men like a descended god; he hath a kind of honour sets him off, more than mortal seeming.”

Iachimo’s present words made amends to Imogen for his unworthy artifice, and she pardoned him, and resumed all her former gracious charm of manner.

“I had almost forgotten to entreat your grace in a small request,” said Iachimo, as he was taking his leave. “And yet of moment, too, for it concerns your lord; myself and other noble friends are partners in the business.”

“Pray, what is it?” asked Imogen.

Iachimo answered that Leonatus and about a dozen of his friends in Rome had joined together to buy a present for the Emperor. He, as their agent, had purchased this in France; it was plate of rare device, and jewels of rich and exquisite form. They were of great value, and being a stranger in Britain, Iachimo was anxious to have them in safe keeping. Might he beg of Imogen to take them under her protection?

“Willingly; and I will pledge mine honour for their safety,” responded Imogen. “Since my lord hath interest in them, I will keep them under my own protection, in my bedchamber.”

“They are in a trunk, attended by my men,” said Iachimo. “I will make bold to send them to you, only for this night. I must leave to-morrow. Therefore, if you please to greet your lord with writing, do it to-night.”

“I will write,” said Imogen. “Send your trunk to me; it shall be safely kept and faithfully yielded to you. You are very welcome.”

How Iachimo won his Wager

The trunk sent by Iachimo was duly placed for security in Imogen’s chamber, but it was no plate or jewels that it contained. That night, when the Princess slept, a lighted taper still burning in the room, and near at hand the book she had been reading ere she fell asleep, the lid of the trunk was lifted, and a man stepped out. It was Iachimo. With rapid glance he surveyed the room, carefully studying every detail, what pictures there were, where the window was placed, what was the adornment of the bed, the arras, the figures and the story represented. But even this was not sufficient for his purpose. He stealthily approached the bed, and while Imogen lay wrapt in deep sleep, he slipped from her arm the bracelet which Leonatus had given her, noting at the same time, on the pure whiteness of her skin, a little mole with five spots, like the crimson spots in the bottom of a cowslip. Next he took up the book she had been reading, looked carefully at the title, and observed the exact passage in the tale where she had left off. Then, satisfied with his ignoble work, he went back into the trunk. The lid shut with a spring, and once more there was apparently nothing in the room to disturb the innocent serenity of the sleeping Princess.

In the morning early came an unwelcome suitor. Cloten, the Queen’s son, had been advised to try the effects of music on the hard-hearted lady, who unceasingly repulsed his advances. He therefore ordered some musicians to attend outside her chamber window, and sing a charming little “aubade”--that is, a song of the nature of a serenade, but sung at dawn to waken the sleeper instead of during the night. The song chosen was an especially pretty one, with a wonderfully sweet air, and Cloten hoped it would not fail to touch Imogen’s heart.

“Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!”

Imogen liked the pretty music, but she was sorry not to be able to thank Cloten properly for his trouble, for she disliked him as heartily as ever, and, vexed by his importunity, was forced to tell him so. Cloten tried to persuade her to give up her husband, saying that the contract which she pretended with that “base wretch, one bred of alms, and fostered with cold dishes, with scraps of the Court,” was no contract, and that the marriage could easily be dissolved.

Imogen, furious that this contemptible creature should thus dare to insult the noble Leonatus, indignantly heaped scorn on Cloten, telling him that he was too base even to be her husband’s groom; that he would be too much honoured, and be worthy of envy, if he were styled the under hangman of his kingdom. In short, she ended, the meanest garment that Leonatus had ever worn was dearer in her eyes than a hundred thousand men such as Cloten.

Imogen had already had cause that morning for grave distress, for she had discovered the loss of her bracelet, and was greatly upset about it. Leaving her clownish wooer to brood sullenly over this unusual plain-speaking (for all the gentlemen at Court flattered and fawned on Cloten to his face, though they roundly abused him behind his back), Imogen now called her faithful Pisanio, and bade him tell her waiting-woman to make the most careful search for the missing jewel.

“It was thy master’s; I would not lose it for a revenue of any King’s in Europe. I _think_ I saw it this morning; I am confident last night it was on my arm; I kissed it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord that I kiss aught but him,” she ended, with a melancholy attempt at a little jest.

Alas, poor Imogen, if she had only known how fatally near the truth came her lightly-spoken words!

At that same moment Iachimo was speeding back to Rome with his unwelcome tidings. At first Leonatus took for granted that Iachimo must have lost his wager; he had an answer ready for everything that the latter could say; but little by little the wily Italian contrived to make it appear that Imogen had been far too generous in the favours and friendliness she had lavished on this stranger. He had seen her chamber, he said, and forthwith he described all the tapestry of silk and silver with which it was hung. The chimney was south of the room, and the story of the huntress Diana was wonderfully carved as the subject of the chimney-piece. The roof of the chamber was fretted with golden cherubs; the andirons on the hearth were two winking Cupids of silver, each standing on one foot.

Leonatus was forced to admit that all this was true; but still, he said, it did not prove that Iachimo had won his wager.

Then, with a self-assured air of triumph, Iachimo produced the bracelet, which he declared Imogen had taken from her arm to give him.

Leonatus, with one last effort to preserve his belief in Imogen’s love and fidelity, suggested that perhaps she had taken off the bracelet to send it to him.

“She writes so to you, doth she?” asked Iachimo cunningly. But alas, Imogen’s letter, which he had himself conveyed, made no mention of such a fact.

“O, no, no, no! It’s true. Here, take this too!” cried Leonatus, handing Iachimo the ring which he had wagered. And he broke out into a torrent of despairing scorn for the utter falsehood and inconstancy of all women.

“Have patience, sir, and take your ring again,” counselled Philario, who all through this interview had keenly distrusted the plausible Iachimo. “It is not yet won. Probably Imogen lost the bracelet; or who knows if one of her women, being bribed, has not stolen it from her?”

“Very true, and so I hope he came by it,” said Leonatus. “Return me my ring, and give me some stronger proof than this, for the bracelet was stolen.”

Then Iachimo told of the little mole which he had noticed on the white skin of Imogen, and Leonatus could no longer refuse to admit that he had lost his wager.

He had loved Imogen so deeply, so tenderly, he had placed such absolute trust in her perfect goodness and truth, that the shock of discovering her falsehood and inconstancy was a terrible one. All women were alike, he thought bitterly; there was no fault in man that woman did not have in greater measure--lying, flattery, deceit, revenge, ambition, self-indulgence, covetousness, pride, disdain, luxury, slander, fickleness--every fault that could be named, was found more abundantly in woman than in man.

So, maddened by the supposed treachery of his peerless wife, the unhappy Leonatus began to brood thoughts of dark revenge.

The Cave of Belarius

About this time there came to the Court of Cymbeline emissaries from the Roman Emperor, demanding the annual tribute of three thousand pounds which Julius Cæsar had exacted from the conquered Britons, and which latterly Cymbeline had neglected to pay to his successor, Augustus Cæsar.

On hearing the demand brought by Caius Lucius, the Ambassador, the Queen at once took it upon herself to urge Cymbeline not to pay the tribute, and Cloten, in his foolish manner, chimed in with silly defiance and childish insults. With more dignity, Cymbeline confirmed the words of the Queen, and declined to pay, whereupon Caius Lucius pronounced a declaration of war against Britain in the name of his master Augustus Cæsar.

His unwelcome duty done, he was then ready to enjoy the hospitality which Cymbeline courteously offered to him during the remaining day or two of his visit to the Court, after which the King sent him with a safe conduct and an honourable escort to Milford Haven, and forthwith began his preparations for war.

In the meantime other messages had also come from Rome--letters to Pisanio and to Imogen. The one to Pisanio contained a terrible command. The one to Imogen filled her heart with joy. She was bidden to set off at once to Milford Haven, where Leonatus stated he was at that time, and where he wished his wife to join him. Imogen was all excitement and eagerness to be off; she begged Pisanio with pretty impatience to tell her how quickly they could get to Milford Haven, and chid him for the slowness of his reckoning. Her quick wit at once devised a scheme whereby she could escape unnoticed, and in the guise of her waiting-woman she contrived to slip out of the palace to where Pisanio was ready to conduct her on her journey.

But alas, poor lady, on the road to Milford Haven a terrible awakening awaited her. Pisanio showed her the letter he had received from Leonatus, and there she read of the crime of which he accused her, and that Pisanio had orders to put her to death. Knowing herself blameless, Imogen was nearly killed by the cruel words, and in heart-broken accents she begged Pisanio to strike at once, and obey his master’s bidding. But Pisanio indignantly flung his sword away, refusing to stain his hand with such a deed. He had only brought her thus far, he said, to think out what was best to be done. His master must certainly have been deceived; some villain, peculiarly skilful in his art, had done this injury. Pisanio said he would give notice to Leonatus that Imogen was dead, sending some token of the fact as he had been commanded. Imogen would be missed at Court, and that would confirm his words.

“Why, good fellow, what shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?” asked poor Imogen. “Or what comfort shall I take in life when I am dead to my husband?”

Pisanio asked if she would like to return to Court, but Imogen declared she would have no more of Court, or father, or the clownish Cloten, who had so pestered her with his love suit. Pisanio said that if she would not stay at Court she could not remain in Britain, whereupon Imogen asked were there not other places in the world than Britain where the sun shone? In the volume of the world, the little isle of Britain was no more than a swan’s nest in a great pool.

Pisanio was glad she was willing to think of other places, and went on to suggest a scheme, daring indeed, but which Imogen was only too glad to accept. This was nothing less than that Imogen should disguise herself as a page, and seek service with the Roman Ambassador, Lucius; then she could go with him to Rome, where she would be living near Leonatus, and, even if she did not see him, she could hear hourly reports of his doings. Pisanio, with this end in view, had taken care to provide himself with the dress of a page, which he now handed over to Imogen. Lucius was to arrive on the following day at Milford Haven, and Pisanio advised Imogen to go there to meet him, and offer her services, which he would probably accept. Pisanio himself must now return to the palace, in case his absence should give rise to suspicion, but from the mountain-top where they stood he pointed out Milford Haven, and it seemed within easy distance. Finally, before taking leave, he gave Imogen the little box of drugs which the Queen had presented to him, telling her that it contained some precious cordial that would cure her if ever she were ill. So the faithful servant bade farewell to his dearly loved mistress.

Poor Imogen set out with a brave heart on her perilous adventure, but the town that had looked so near seemed to recede as she walked towards it. For two days and nights she wandered on, almost spent with hunger, and making the ground her bed. At last she came to an opening in the side of the mountain, which looked as if it were used for some kind of habitation, for a path led to the low entrance. Imogen found it was a cave, evidently furnished for use. At first she was afraid to enter, not knowing what danger might lurk inside, but hunger made her valiant. She called, but no one answered.

“Ho! Who’s there? If anything that’s civil, speak. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy but fear the sword as I do, he’ll scarcely look at it. Grant such a foe, kind heaven!”

So, timid and quavering, in her boy’s tunic, with her short, broad-bladed sword gripped in her trembling hand, Imogen pushed aside the brushwood and entered the cave.

She had not long disappeared when the real owners of the cave approached. These were an elderly man of commanding presence and two noble-looking youths of twenty-two and twenty-three years old. In spite of their rustic and almost savage garb of hunters, there was an air of unmistakable distinction about all three; to the frank brow and free step of the mountaineer the lads joined a princely grace of bearing which told of high birth and noble breeding.

Their appearance did not belie them, for these boys were no other than the two sons of Cymbeline, stolen in their infancy by a banished lord in revenge for an act of great injustice. Belarius had been a gallant soldier, first among the best, and much beloved by Cymbeline, by whose side he had often fought the Romans. But at the very height of his renown he was suddenly reduced to the deepest disgrace, not for any fault of his own, but because two villains, whose false oaths prevailed before his perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline that he was confederate with the Romans. Then followed his banishment and his theft of the two young Princes; and so for twenty years he had lived this wild life among the Welsh mountains, bringing up the boys as if they had been his own sons, and training them in all sorts of manly exercises. In this new existence Belarius called himself “Morgan”; Cymbeline’s eldest son Guiderius went by the name of “Polydore”; and the younger, Arviragus, was known as “Cadwal.”

Weary and hungry with a long day’s hunting, and looking forward to a good meal from the spoils of the chase, these three were about to enter their cave, when a sudden sign from Belarius stopped the other two.

“Stay; come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think here were a fairy,” said Belarius.

“What’s the matter, sir?” asked Guiderius, the elder boy.

“By Jupiter, an angel! Or, if not, an earthly paragon! Behold divineness no elder than a boy!” cried Belarius, as Imogen, alarmed by the sound of voices, came to the entrance of the cave.

Terrified at the sight of these newcomers, who, for their part, stood gazing in bewilderment at this strange intruder, she began a hasty apology.

“Good masters, harm me not. Before I entered here, I called, and thought to have begged or bought what I have taken. Good troth, I have stolen nothing, and would not, though I had found gold strewed on the floor. Here’s money for my meat; I would have left it on the board as soon as I had made my meal, and parted with prayers for the provider.”

“Money, youth?” exclaimed the elder Prince disdainfully.

“All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!” added the second.

“I see you are angry,” said Imogen piteously. “Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should have died if I had not made it.”

“Whither bound?” asked Belarius.

“To Milford Haven.”

“What’s your name?”

“Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who is bound for Italy; he embarked at Milford, to whom being on my way, almost spent with hunger, I am fallen into this offence.”

“Prithee, fair youth, think us no churls, nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in,” said Belarius kindly. “Well encountered! ’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome.”

At Belarius’s words the two young Princes stepped forward, and with the most courteous grace did their best to comfort the timid wayfarer, trying with gentle words to put him at his ease, and saying affectionately they would love and welcome him like a brother.

And so, cheered and comforted, and led by the younger lad’s arm thrown protectingly around her, the poor wanderer entered the rude cave, which love and courtesy made so fair an abiding-place.

Fidele

The absence of Imogen was not long in being discovered at Court. The Queen secretly rejoiced, for she hoped that Imogen had either killed herself in despair, or gone to rejoin her husband, in which latter case she would be too deeply dishonoured ever to return. Either of these would forward the Queen’s aim, for Imogen being disposed of, she would have the placing of the British crown.

Cymbeline was so enraged at his daughter’s disappearance that no one dared go near him. But Cloten, meeting Pisanio as he returned to the palace, forced from him the letter which Leonatus had written to Imogen, telling her to meet him at Milford Haven. This put into Cloten’s boorish head a brilliant scheme of revenge. He had not forgotten Imogen’s disdainful taunt that she held in more respect “the meanest garment” of Leonatus than the noble person of Cloten, together with the adornment of his qualities. Cloten now procured from Pisanio a suit of clothes that had belonged to Leonatus. He intended to dress himself in these, and to go in pursuit of Imogen. He reckoned on finding her at Milford Haven with her husband, where he promised himself the pleasure of slaying Leonatus in front of her eyes, in the very garments she had seen fit to honour so much, after which he intended to drive Imogen back to Court with the roughest and most insulting treatment he could devise.

Such was the alluring plan which presented itself to the brain of this amiable creature, but the reality did not happen quite in accordance with the design he had sketched.

Following in the track of Imogen, he managed to trace her to the cave which now sheltered her. There, happening to fall in with Belarius and the two young Princes, Cloten at once began his usual style of bullying insult. Recognising him for the Queen’s son, and fearing some ambush which threatened danger to them, Belarius and Arviragus started to search for any enemies that might be hidden near, leaving the elder lad to deal with the intruder. The haughty spirit of Guiderius was certainly not framed to brook the uncalled-for insolence of this blusterer, and when Cloten addressed him as “a robber, a law breaker, a villain,” and bade him “Yield thee, thief!” Guiderius retorted with equal scorn.

“Hence,” he said disdainfully, “thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee.”

“Thou injurious thief, hear but my name, and tremble,” cried the silly youth.

“What’s thy name?”

“Cloten, thou villain.”

“Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it,” said Guiderius contemptuously. “Were it Toad, or Adder, or Spider, it would move me sooner.”

“To thy further fear--nay, to thy utter confusion--thou shalt know I am son to the Queen,” said Cloten braggingly.

“I am sorry for it, not seeming so worthy as thy birth.”

“Art not afraid?” demanded Cloten.

“Those that I reverence, those I fear--the wise,” answered Guiderius. “At fools I laugh, not fear them.”

“Die the death!” cried Cloten, springing at him. “When I have slain thee with my own hand, I’ll follow those that even now fled hence, and on the gates of Lud’s town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer.”

But the “rustic mountaineer” had no intention of yielding, and it was the head of the foolish Cloten that presently paid the penalty for its owner’s blustering insolence.

* * * * *

Safe in the love and protection of her unknown brothers, Imogen had lived for some few days in their cave, making bright the rude dwelling with little womanly graces. Her new friends had taken her straight to their hearts, and in especial Arviragus, the younger Prince, felt for this stranger a deep attachment which he was unable to explain. But all united in praise of Fidele. Belarius noted his noble bearing and gracious manners, which spoke of good breeding. “How angel-like he sings!” put in Arviragus; and Guiderius commended the daintiness of his cooking, which served dishes fit for the banquet of some goddess.