# Stories from Old English Poetry/The Story of Perdita

THE STORY OF PERDITA.
A WINTER NIGHT’S TALE.
(FROM SHAKESPEARE.)
THERE had been much feasting and merry-making in the palace at Sicily for several months, while the king of Bohemia had been a guest there. Leontes, the king of the Sicilian dominions, and Polixenes of Bohemia, had for many years been fast friends, and loved each other very dearly. When they were young princes, unused to the cares that wait upon a crown, they had been reared together in the same palace; had hunted and fished and played games together like any school-boys of ignoble blood; and when years passed away, and each became ruler over distant kingdoms, they had not forgotten their boyish love, but kept a place in their hearts still fresh and green with the memory of the old friendship.
Only a few years before, Leontes had visited his friend in Bohemia; and now Polixenes had come to be entertained in Sicily. Polixenes had left behind him in his palace his wife, and his ​young prince Florizel, whom report spoke of as a promising boy. Leontes had for wife the most refined and beautiful princess of all Europe, and she had borne him one child, Mamillius, a precocious boy, to whom the hearts of both parent clung in doting fondness.
Leontes was a man of hasty temper and strong passions, quick in his judgments, and prone to make mistakes, for which he was bitterly accused by his conscience. He loved his queen with all the strength of his uneven and fitful nature. And Hermione—this was the queen—was so gentle and so yielding, that the sway of imperious Leontes seemed light and easy to her, and she loved him with her whole tender heart. She shared her husband’s interest in the coming of his royal friend, and had striven, since his arrival, to entertain him by her sweetness and grace of conversation; by the beauty of her singing, which was reputed marvelous; and by all the sweet womanly charms she could use as hostess and queen. So Polixenes found the time pass most pleasantly in the Sicilian palace.
But there were also affairs in Bohemia to be looked after. Merry-making is delightful, but even kings are slaves to their business, and Polixenes began to feel uneasy at tarrying, and announced to Leontes the day of his intended leave-taking. But with even more than wonted ​vehemence he pressed his guest to stay longer. Polixenes refused firmly. He must indeed, within a day or two, set out for Bohemia.
Now, in the ill-balanced brain of Leontes, a fearful thought had been growing up,—a thought at first rejected, with contempt for himself in imagining so base a thing, bet which, having once come into his mind, would constantly come creeping back again. He had feared that his wife—his good and true Hermione—was too fond of Polixenes, and that he also had begun to return her feeling. So he urged Polixenes thus ardently to prolong his visit, that he might see if he had any ground for his suspicions. When he found that the Bohemian king would not be persuaded to stay, he called in Hermione to second his entreaties, and bade her ask his friend to remain. The queen came, and ready to give her husband pleasure, since she thought he had no motive but the gratification of his friendship, she urged Polixenes so prettily to stay, she plead so volubly when he tried to make excuses for his departure, that all his farewells were drowned in her persuasions, and at last he was forced to be silent from sheer breathlessness, and in default of words, to stay another week at Sicily.
But Leontes,—miserable Leontes! In his wife’s innocent desire to please him, he had imagined he saw a reluctance to let Polixenes go ​away from her; and cherishing those suspicions, all that was good in him was turned to gall and bitterness, and his heart was torn by jealousy and rage.
In this state of feeling he left the company of his friend and Hermione, and sought out Camillo,—one of his nobles,—whom he had appointed chief cup-bearer to Polixenes while he was his guest. Camillo was a man of probity and honor, very discreet and wise in judgment,—the very antipodes of the easily moved and tumultuous Leontes. ‘To him the king unfolded his suspicions, and while he listened, dumb with grief and wonder, he desired him to poison the wine of Polixenes, that he might die of his first draught.
Camillo knew the king well enough to know that it was useless to stem the current of his madness, and he contented himself with asking him to dissemble his feelings for a short time, and promised him to undertake the murder of the king of Bohemia. ‘Then Leontes left him, a little calmed and satisfied.
Camillo felt a momentary struggle between his loyalty to the king his master and his sense of honor and humanity. On the one side was his personal safety, his ambition, all the motives that selfishness could urge; on the other hand, if he yielded to humanity, and spared Polixenes ​he knew not but the anger of Leontes might fall on him to such an extent as to strip him of his possessions, his title, or even take his life. But the hesitation of Camillo was brief, and he hastened to Polixenes to warn him of the king’s intention against him.
The king of Bohemia was horrified that Leontes could suspect him of such baseness as to endeavor to win the affections of his wife, and wounded to the heart when he heard how Camillo had been instructed by his friend to have him foully poisoned. Flight seemed to him the only possible escape from the anger of the king, who he knew was unreasonable in his passions. Besides, in his absence he thought the wrath of Leontes would cool, and he would soon be convinced of the folly of his suspicions. The good Camillo offered to go back with him to Bohemia, since he did not care to stay and breast the king’s wrath; and Polixenes, in gratitude, gladly accepted his attendance, and promised to reward him for his fidelity.
They set out immediately as secretly as possible. Polixenes had almost as much influence in the city as the king himself, and all the gates were opened for him without any demur, so that he got out with all his attendants, embarked in his ships, and was out at sea before Leontes discovered it. When he did hear of his friend’s ​departure, and seeking out Camillo, found he also had gone, the fury of Leontes burst all bounds. For he thought he saw, in their hurried departure, proof that Polixenes had been guilty, and that Camillo had been all the time in his confidence.
He instantly went, all inflamed with rage, to the apartment of queen Hermione, tore her child, the prince Mamillius, from her embrace, and ordered her to be cast into prison. The poor lady could hardly speak a word of defense, she was so Overcome with sorrow and astonishment, but what she did say was full of dignity and mild reproach.
Every one in the whole court was in sympathy with Hermione. The lords and ladies all believed in her goodness and virtue, and some of them did not scruple to tell Leontes he had done wrong. The king never heard so much plain speaking in all his life as in the first two or three days after her imprisonment.
After Hermione had been a few days in prison, a beautiful little daughter was born to her,—a sweet babe, which filled the dull old prison where she lay with light and beauty. Poor Hermione could only weep over the dear little creature, and did not feel much consolation from its angelic presence, since her husband had taken his favor from her.
​ One of the ladies of Hermione—her name was Paulina—who was very fearless and outspoken, declared she would take the babe to Leontes to see if the sight of it would not move his heart to pity. So, with the infant in her arms, she pushed her way through the attendants who surrounded the king, and knelt at his feet, holding up the child. Leontes looked wonder-struck at her audacity, and told Antigonus, the husband of Paulina, who was among the lookers-on, to take his wife away. But Antigonus, though a brave man and a soldier, dared not oppose his wife when she was doing what she thought right, and he did not move even at the king’s orders. Paulina, having the king at her mercy, rated him with a sharp tongue, and told him to take up his innocent child and let his wronged wife be set free. All this time the baby lay smiling up in its father’s face, while the lords around listened to Paulina, secretly glad of the way in which she talked to the king.
Leontes only grew more angry, and said the child should die. When every one plead for its life, however, he changed his purpose, and said, since Antigonus was so interested in the child, he should take it away from his dominions, to some remote or desert place, and leave it there, exposed to chance or the mercy of the elements. So Antigonus bade farewell to Paulina, and ​taking the infant, which was furnished with a purse of gold, some jewels of her mother’s, and a supply of rich clothing, he took a ship and set sail from Sicily.
Leontes then resolved to send a messenger to the oracle at Delphi, to ask about Hermione, and if Polixenes had loved her, and promised he would abide by the decision of the oracle. Some messengers were accordingly dispatched for Delphi. All this while Hermione was languishing in prison. When the day arrived on which the answer was expected, Leontes had a court assembled, over which he sat in judgment in his regal robes. Poor Hermione, weak and pale from recent illness, was brought before him in the state of a prisoner. She never showed to better advantage than in her patient endurance of her wrongs, and the hearts of all the spectators went out to her. Then the messengers, who had travelled with great speed, came into court with the sealed answer of Apollo. The officer of the court opened it, and read these words:—
“Hermione is chaste; Polizenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; the innocent babe truly begotten, and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost is not found.”
At this every one was overjoyed. Never had an oracle spoken more plainly or more to the ​purpose. But mad Leontes, angry even with the gods for baffling him, rose, declaring that the oracle was false. At this moment a servant rushed into the court with the news of the death of Mamillius. The young prince had been pining ever since his mother’s imprisonment, and had suddenly died. When Hermione heard this, the woman overpowered the queen. Her fortitude gave way, and uttering one cry, she fell prostrate in the midst of her guards. Thus, in an hour, the madness of Leontes had deprived himself of wife and children. Then too late his eyes were opened; he saw his gross injustice; he recognized the truth of the oracle; he believed the curse of Apollo had fallen on him forever. His remorse was as violent as his unjust jealousy, and he tore his robes and his hair in a frenzy of passionate sorrow. Paulina only could console him, and as she was a woman of tender heart as well as of strong mind, she was a genuine comforter. With her own hands, too, she prepared the body of Hermione for the grave; watched with it while it lay in state before the funeral, and superintended all the obsequies of her dear queen and mistress.
In all this time Antigonus was sailing rapidly away from the kingdom of Leontes with the innocent babe, on whom the king’s wrath had fallen. After a tempestuous voyage, his ship ​touched land at a coast in Bohemia. The night before they reached this shore, Antigonus had seen in his sleep a vision, which warned him of his approaching death, and instructed him to call the child Perdita (meaning lost), and leave her on the nearest shore. Accordingly, he placed the infant in a box with the rich clothing, the gold, and the jewels he had brought with him, and writing on a slip, which he pinned to her garments, the name by which she was to be called, and some of the circumstances of her birth, he landed, and placed her on the shore, which was a very lonely and desolate one.
As soon as he had done this, a terrible storm arose, which obscured all the day. And as Antigonus went over the beach towards his ship, he was seized by a ferocious wild beast, which tore him in pieces. After the storm had abated, an old peasant passing that way found the child in its casket, unharmed by the beasts or the elements, and his son, a simple country youth, also saw the wretched Antigonus, who was just uttering his dying groans. These two took up the child, and carrying her to their cottage, agreed to call her Perdita, and rear her as a shepherdess.
Sixteen years passed on after the death of Hermione, and Leontes, chastened by grief, had become a grave and somewhat melancholy man ​a little past middle age, a just ruler, and much more beloved by his people than in the days of his youthful reign. He had never ceased to mourn for his beloved Hermione; and Paulina, who also mourned the loss of her husband, remained his trusted friend and confidant.
In the kingdom of Polixenes strange events were shaping themselves. Perdita had grown up under the roof of the rude peasants who had fostered her, a beautiful maiden, fair and pure as a lily, with a delicate refinement in all her looks and words, a grace in all her motions, which made the peasants look upon her with admiration, and regard her almost as a queen, She ruled them with a gentle sway, and at all their rustic festivals her wish was law. So it happened that the fame of her loveliness and goodness spread through all the country round.
Prince Florizel, who was the heir and only son of Polixenes, was a romantic youth of twenty, who spent much of his time in wandering about the woods and fields of his father’s kingdom. It was not strange that he should hear of the radiant beauty of this peasant maid, who was called Perdita, and whose birth was so enveloped in mystery. It was not strange that the youth should seek to see her, to prove for himself if report had spoken truly. Having once seen her, it was the most natural thing in the world that ​Florizel should lose his heart at once to the beautiful girl who walked the fields like the goddess Flora, who was as modest as Diana, and as fair as Cytherea. To all these goddesses he compared her in his thoughts.
It was not long before the prince gained admission to her foster-father’s cottage, and became at home among the shepherd youths. He joined them in their games, and was present at all the feast-days and merry-makings. He kept his rank secret from all but Perdita. To her he avowed his noble parentage, and told her of the love he bore her. Perdita could not withhold her heart from this royal wooer, who was so superior to all the rustic swains, who only dared worship her at a distance; but the lovers dreaded the displeasure of Polixenes, and neither could divine what would be the end of their love. So they gave themselves up to the happiness of the present, and made no plan for the future. Florizel daily sought the cottage and the society of Perdita. His studies were neglected, he was rarely seen at court, and all the royal attendants wondered at his distraught manner, and his frequent absences.
Of course Polixenes could not help noticing all these things, and at length, by the help of some spies whom he set to watch Florizel’s habits, he got very near the truth. And he ​determined to see for himself what peasant girl it was of whom they declared Florizel to be enamored. So one day he set out with Camillo (who was still loved and honored by him before any one in his whole kingdom) for the place where Perdita dwelt.
It happened that there was a rustic feast on the day Polixenes had chosen for his visit. He attended the feast with Camillo, both of them disguised as merchants. They could scarcely have seen Perdita to better advantage. She shone like a queen among the coarse-featured rustics in the midst of whom she lived. At her side, following her constantly with his eyes—whispering in her attentive ear—calling blushes to her cheek with his tender flatteries—Polixenes beheld his recreant son,—the heir to his proud kingdom.
The beauty of the maid almost disarmed the king himself at first. He joined their revels for a while. The pretty hands of Perdita dealt to Camillo and himself a part of the flowers, of which she gave appropriate nosegays to each guest. Her bright lips and shifting blushes bade the strangers welcome to their simple pastimes. But Polixenes could not long endure with patience the spectacle of his son at the feet of a peasant girl, and throwing oft his disguise before them all, he bitterly reproached Florizel, and ​threatened to have both Perdita and her father punished for the share they had had in leading his son from his duty. After this the king marched off in great rage, leaving the poor young lovers quite overwhelmed with astonishment and fear. Camillo lingered behind, and to him Florizel told his immediate resolve, which was to take Perdita and fly with her from the shores of Bohemia, to some far-off land, where love was not treason.
Camillo heard him attentively, and seeing he was resolved on flight, he debated within his mind how he might best serve the king, the prince, and his own wishes, all at once. He hit on this plan. He would advise Florizel to go to Sicily to visit the court of Leontes, who was now so repentant for his conduct to Polixenes, that he would gladly welcome his son. Then Camillo thought, after the departure of Florizel, he would tell Polixenes of his son’s whereabouts, and the king, whose anger would have cooled by this time, could go after Florizel, bring him back, and they would be reconciled: while he, Camillo, could accompany the monarch in his journey to Sicily, and thus behold again his native country, for which he had always secretly pined. It must be confessed that Camillo did not think much about Perdita in the affair, and did not much care whether Polixenes was reconciled to ​her or not. But he furnished the young couple with money, and helped them to get on board a vessel bound for Sicily. They set sail, taking with them the foster-father and brother of Perdita, and with favoring winds were soon in the dominions of Leontes.
As soon as they landed, they went straight to the court of that sovereign, who received them with much favor. Florizel represented Perdita to be the daughter of a Libyan king, his new-made princess, and invented some plausible excuse for the scarcity of their attendants. While Leontes was making welcome the prince and his beautiful bride, news was brought to the palace that Polixenes had landed, with the old courtier, Camillo, in search of his lost son. The first persons the king of Bohemia encountered on the shores of Sicily were the old shepherd and his son; these he instantly seized, and took with him to the court.
His appearance turned everything into confusion. Florizel was pale but resolute; the maiden wept; Leontes was divided between pity for the prince and his beautiful bride, and sympathy with the parental woes of his old friend Polixenes, when suddenly the frightened old shepherd found a tongue, and piteously implored them not to punish him for the misdeeds of a girl who was not of his blood, and declaring ​he was only the adopted father of Perdita, he produced the proofs of her birth. He pulled out, from their concealment in his garments, the mantle in which the infant had been wrapped, the jewels she wore, and the slip of paper on which Antigonus had left directions for her name, and instructions that she was of noble birth, and should be tenderly reared. In an instant all was changed: Leontes clasped Perdita in his arms, crying out that she was his lost daughter; Paulina listened to the account of her husband’s death with tears of grief, which were softened by her joy in seeing the oracle fulfilled; Camillo was dumb with amazement, and Florizel scarcely knew whether he waked or dreamed. There were laughter and tears, and explanations and rejoicings, till the whole court of Sicily seemed to have gone quite mad.
Of course there was now no bar to the marriage of Florizel and Perdita, and their hands were plighted and the wedding-day fixed. Now the court gave themselves up to merry-making and rejoicings, which were only marred to Leontes by the memory of his lost Hermione. When Paulina saw that his face often wore a shadow, and that many a sigh escaped him which only her quick ear heard, she could no longer keep secret a surprise she had been ​reserving for him. This was a life-sized statue of Hermione, so wonderfully done by a very famous artist, that it looked like the living, breathing image of the dead queen. Indeed, Paulina declared the painter had done his work so well, that he had not reproduced the Hermione, of sixteen years ago, but the queen as she would have looked on the day her daughter was found.
After hearing of this wonderful piece of art, all were impatient to see it. Paulina invited all the royal party to one of her houses, a little removed from the royal palace, where she had been in the habit of spending much of her time. Here, in one of the largest apartments, they all beheld a raised platform, in front of which a curtain fell in concealing folds. Presently, to the sound of music, the curtain was withdrawn, and on a low pedestal, clad in sweeping draperies of white, stood the statue of the queen. It was indeed as Paulina had said. The face and figure was not that of the girlish queen who had sunk under the unjust anger of Leontes. It was that of a noble, dignified woman, adding to the loveliness of youth the serene and chastened beauty of ripened womanhood. All present cried out with amazement, and Leontes would have rushed forward to clasp the image in his arms, if Paulina had not restrained him. She ​told him he would mar the statue; that the color was not yet dry; the material, that which would not endure rude touch. But Leontes, almost beside himself, besought her to make the statue live. It seemed, in its life-like aspect, to move and breathe: might it not also speak to him? The miracle was wrought when the statue was formed; it would be adding nothing to the wonder of it, to give it voice and utterance.
With a sudden gesture of command, Paulina made them all draw back a little. Since Leontes wished it, the clay should live. She bade the music sound, and while a choir of concealed musiclans sang in soft accord, she invoked Hermione to come down from her pedestal. Then the white bosom of the statue heaved; the clasped hands stretched eagerly forward; in another moment the image became a woman, and Hermione was weeping on the bosom of her husband and in the arms of her daughter.
When Paulina’s voice could be heard, she was ready to explain the mystery. It was no miracle that she had wrought. She had discovered, on the night before the burial of the queen, that she was only in a trance,—not dead—and by much nursing had brought back her life. Hermione had refused, however, to let ​her recovery be made known, till her child that was lost could be found. The faithful Paulina had been her only attendant, and for sixteen years she had awaited this happy moment which she believed the oracle predicted.
All this being told, between happy tears, the nuptials of Florizel and Perdita were celebrated, and all the trials of Leontes ended in wondrous happiness.